University of Virginia Library

ALONZO AND MELISSA,
A TALE.

In the time of the late revolution, two young
gentlemen of Connecticut, who had formed
an indissoluble friendship, graduated at Yale college
in New Haven; their names were Edgar
and Alonzo; Edgar was the son of a respectable
farmer, Alonzo's father was an eminent merchant
— Edgar was designed for the desk, Alonzo for
the bar; but as they were allowed some vacant
time after their graduation before they entered
upon their professional studies, they improved
this interim in mutual, friendly visits, mingling
with select parties in the amusement of the day,
and in travelling through some parts of the United
States.

Edgar had a sister who, for some time had resided
with her cousin at New-London. She was
now about to return, and it was designed that
Edgar should go and attend her home: previous
to the day on which he was to set out, he was
unfortunately thrown from his horse, which so
much injured him as to prevent his prosecuting
his intended journey; he therefore invited Alonzo
to supply his place, which invitation he readily
accepted, and on the day appointed set out for
New London, where he arrived, delivered his
introductory letters to Edgar's cousin, and was
received with the most friendly politeness.

Melissa, the sister of Edgar, was about sixteen
years of age. She was not what is esteemed a
striking beauty, but her appearance was pleasingly
interesting. Her figure was elegant; her aspect
was attempered with a pensive mildness,
which in her cheerful moments would light up
into sprightliness and vivacity. Though on
first impression, her countenance was marked by
a sweet and thoughtful serenity, yet she eminently
possessed the power to

Her mind was adorned with those delicate graces
which are the first ornaments of female excellence.
Her manners were graceful without affectation,
and her taste had been properly directed
by a suitable education.

Alonzo was about twenty one years old; he
had been esteemed an excellent student. His
appearance was manly, open and free—His eye
indicated a nobleness of soul; although his aspect
was tinged with melancholy, yet he was
naturally cheerful. His disposition was of the
romantic cast;

It was evening when Alonzo arrived at the
house of Edgar's cousin. Melissa was at a ball
which had been given on a matrimonial occasion
in the town. Her cousin waited on Alonzo to
the ball, and introduced him to Melissa, who received
him with politeness. She was dressed in
white embroidered and spangled with rich silver
Iace; a silk girdle, enwrought and tasseled with
gold, surrounded her waist; her hair was unadorned
except by a wreath of artificial flowers,
studded by a single diamond.

After the ball closed, they returned to the
house of Edgar's cousin. Melissa's partner at
the ball was the son of a gentleman of independent
fortune in New-London. He was a gay
young man, aged about twenty five. His address
was easy, his manners rather voluptuous
than refined; confident but not ungraceful. He
led the ton in fashionable circles; gave taste its
zest, and was quite a favorite with the ladies generally.
His name was Beauman.

Edgar's cousin proposed to detain Alonzo and
Melissa a few days, during which time they passed
in visiting select friends and social parties.
Beauman was an assiduous attendant upon Melissa;
he came one afternoon to invite her to ride
out; she was indisposed and excused herself; at
evening she proposed walking out with her cousin
and his lady. But they were prevented from
atending her, by unexpected company. Alonzo
offered to accompany her. It was one of those
beautiful evenings in the month of June, when

nature in those parts of America is arrayed in
her richest dress. They left the town and walked
thro' fields adjoining the harbor. The moon
shone in full lustre, her white beams trembling
upon the glassy main, where skiffs and sails of
various description were passing and repassing.
The shores of Long-Island and the other islands
in the harbour, appeared dimly to float among
the waves. The air was adorned with the fragrance
of surrounding flowers; the sound of instrumental
music wafted from the town, rendered
sweeter by distance, while the whipperwill's
sprightly song echoed along the adjacent groves.
Far in the eastern horizon hung a pile of brazen
clouds, which had passed from the north, over
which, the crinkling red lightning momentarily
darted, and at times, long peals of thunder were
faintly heard. They walked to a point of the
beach, where stood a large rock whose base was
washed by every tide. On this rock they seated
themselves, and enjoyed a while the splendors of
the scene—the drapery of nature. “To this
place (said Melissa) have I taken many a solitary
walk, on such an evening as this, and seated on
this rock, have I experienced more pleasing sensations
than I ever received in the most splendid
ball-room.” The idea impressed the mind of
Alonzo; it was congenial with the feelings of
his soul.

They returned at a late hour, and the next day
set out for home. Beauman handed Melissa into
the carriage, and he, with Edgar's cousin and

his lady, attended them on their first day's journey.
they put up at night at the house of an acquaintance
in Branford. The next morning
they parted; Melissa's cousin, his lady and
Beauman returned to New London; Alonzo
and Melissa pursued their journey, and at evening
arrived at her father's house, which was in
the westerly part of the state.

Melissa was received with joyful tenderness by
her friends. Edgar soon recovered from his
fall, and cheerfulness again assumed its most
pleasing aspect in the family. Edgar's father was
a plain Connecticut farmer. He was rich and
his riches had been acquired by his diligent attention
to business. He had loaned money, and
taken mortgages on lands and houses for securities,
and as payment frequently failed he often
had opportunities of purchasing the involved
premises at his own price. He well knew the
worth of a shilling and how to apply it to its best
use; and in casting interest, he was sure never
to lose a farthing. He had no other children except
Edgar and Melissa, on whom he doated.—
Destitute of literature himself, he had provided
the means of obtaining it for his son, and as he
was a rigid presbyterian, he considered that Edgar
could no where figure so well or gain more
eminence, than in the sacred dest.

The time now arrived when Edgar and Alonzo
were to part. The former repaired to New-York,
where he was to enter upon his professional
studies, The latter entered in the office of an

eminent attorney in his native town, which was
about twenty miles distant from the village
in which lived the family of Edgar and Melissa.
Alonzo was the frequent guest of this
family; for though Edgar was absent, there was
still a charm which attracted him hither. If he
had admired the manly virtues of the brother,
could he fail to adore the sublimer graces of the
sister. If all the sympathies of the most ardent
friendship had been drawn forth towards the former,
must not the most tender passions of the
soul be attracted by the milder and more refined
excellencies of the other?

Beauman had become the suitor of Melissa;
but the distance of residence rendered it inconvenient
to visit her often. He came regularly once
in two or three months, of course Alonzo and he
sometimes met Beauman had made no serious
pretensions, but his particularity indicated something
more than fashionable politeness.

His manners his independent situation, his
family, entitled him to respect. “It is not probable
therefore, that he will be objectionable to
Melissa's friends, or to Melissa herself,” said
Alonzo, with an involuntary sigh.

But as Beauman's visits to Melissa became
more frequent, an increasing anxiety took place
in Alonzo's bosom. He wished her to remain
single; the idea of losing her by marriage, gave
him inexpressible regret. What substitute could
supply the happy hours he had passed in her
company? What charm could wing the lingering

moments when she was gone? In the recess
of his studies, he could, in a few hours, be at the
seat of her father—There his cares were dissipated
and the troubles of life, real or imaginary, on
light pinions fleeted away. How different would
be the scene when debarred from the unreserved
friendship and conversation of Melissa! And unreserved
it could not be, were she not exclusively
mistress of herself. But was there not something
of a more refined texture than friendship
in his predilection for the company of Melissa?
If so, why not avow it? His prospects, his family,
and of course his pretensions might not be inferior
to those of Beauman. But perhaps Beauman
was prefered—His opportunities had been
greater—He had formed an acquaintance with
her. Distance proved no barrier to his addresses.
His visits became more and more frequent.
Was it not then highly probable that he had secured
her affections? Thus reasoned Alonzo,
but the reasoning tended not to allay the tempest
which was gathering in his bosom. He ordered
his horse and was in a short time at the seat of
Melissa's father.

It was summer, and towards evening when he
arrived, Melissa was sitting by the window when
he entered the hall. She arose and received him
with a smile. “I have just been thinking of an
evening's walk, (said she) but had no one to attend
me, and you have come just in time to perform
that office. I will order tea immediately,
while you rest from the fatigues of your journey.”

When tea was served up a servant entered the
room with a letter which he had found in the
yard Melissa received it.—“ 'Tis a letter (said
she) which I sent by Beauman, to a lady in New-London,
and the careless man has lost it.” Turning
to Alonzo, “I forgot to tell you that your
friend Beauman has been with us a few days;
he left us this morning.” “My friend!” replied
Alonzo hastily. “Is he not your friend?”
enquired Melissa. “I beg pardon madam (answered
he) my mind was absent.” He requested
us to present his respect to his friend Alonzo,”
said she—Alonzo bowed and turned the conversation.

They walked out and took a winding path
which led along pleasant fields by a gliding stream
through a little grove, and up a sloping eminence,
which commanded an extensive prospect of the
surrounding country, Long Island and the sound
between that and the main land, and the opening
there off to the distant ocean.

A soft and silent shower had descended; a
thousand transitory gems trembled upon the
foliage glittering to the western ray. A bright
rainbow sat upon a southern cloud; the light
gales whispered among the the branches, agitated
the young harvest to billowy motion, or waved
the tops of the distant, deep green forest with
majestic grandeur. Flocks, herds and cottages
were scattered over the variegated landscape.

Hills piled on hills, receding faded from the
pursuing eye mingling with the blue mist which

hovered around the extreme verge of the horizon.
“This is a most beautiful scene,” said
Melissa.

It is indeed (replied Alonzo,) can New London
boast so charming a prospect? Melissa—No
—yes indeed I can hardly say. You know Alonzo,
how I am charmed with the rock at the point
of the beach.

Alonzo—you told me of the happy hours you
had passed at that place. Perhaps the company
which attended you there, gave the scenery its
highest embellishment.

Melissa. I know not how it happened; but
you are the only person who ever attended me
there.

Al. That is a little surprising.

Mel. Why surprising?

Al. Where was Beauman?

Mel. Perhaps he was not fond of solitude. Besides
he was not always my Beau-man.

Al. Some times.

Mel. Yes some times.

Al. And now always.

Mel. Not this evening.

Al. He formally addresses you.

Mel. Well.

Al. And will soon claim the exclusive privilege
so to do.

Mel. That does not follow of course.

Al. Of course, if his intentions are sincere.
and the wishes of another should accord there
with.

Mel. Who am I to understand by another?

Al. Melissa. (A pause ensued.)

Mel. See that ship. Alonzo, coming up the
sound; how she ploughs through the white foam,
while the breezes flutter among the sails, varying
with the beams of the sun.

Al. Yes, it is almost down.

Mel. What is almost down?

Al. The sun. Was not you speaking of the
sun, madam?

Mel. Your mind is absent, Alonzo; I was
speaking of yonder ship.

Al. I beg pardon madam. O yes—the ship—
it—it bounds with rapid motion over the waves.
A pause ensued. They walked leisurely around
the hill, and moved toward home. The sun sunk
behind the western hills. Twilight arose in the
east, and floated along the air. Darkness began
to hover around the woodlands and vallies. The
beauties of the landscape slowly receded “This
reminds me of our walk at New-London,” said
Melissa Do you remember it? enquired Alonzo—certainly
I do (she replied) I shall never
forget the sweet pensive scenery of my favorite
rock. “Nor I neither,” said Alonzo, with a
deep drawn sigh.

The next day Alonzo returned to his studies;
but different from his former visits to Melissa,
instead of exhilarating his spirits, this had tended
to depress them. He doubted whether Melissa
was not already engaged to Beauman His
hopes would persuade him that this was not the
case; but his fears declared otherwise.

It was some time before Alonzo renewed his

visit. In the interim he received a letter from a
friend in the neighbourhood of Melissa's father;
an extract from which, follows:

“We are soon to have a wedding here; you
are acquainted with the parties—Melissa D.—
and Beauman. Such at least is our opinion from
appearances, as Beauman is now here more than
half his time. You will undoubtedly be a guest.
We had expected that you would have put in
your claims, from your particular attention to the
lady. She is a fine girl, Alonzo.”

“I shall never be a guest at Melissa's wedding,”
said Alonzo as he hastily passed the
room, “but I must once again see her before
that event takes place, when I lose her forever.”
The next day he repaired to her father's. He
enquired for Melissa she was gone with a party
to the shores of the sound attended by Beauman.
At evening they returned. Beauman and Alonzo
addressed each other with much seeming cordiality.
“You have deceived us, Alonzo (said
Melissa)—We concluded you had forgotten
the road to this place.” “Was not that a hasty
conclusion, madam?” replied Alonzo. “I think
not, she answered, if your long absence should
be construed into neglect. But we will hear your
excuse (said she smiling) by and by, and perhaps
pardon you.” He thanked her for her condescension.

The next morning Beauman set out for New-London;
Alonzo observed that he took a tender
leave of Melissa, telling her in a low voice that

he should have the happiness of seeing her again
within two or three weeks. After he was gone,
as Melissa and Alonzo were sitting in a room alone,
“well, sir, (said she) am I to hear your excuses?

Alonzo. For what, madam?

Melissa. For neglecting your friends.

Al. I hope it is not so considered, madam.

Mel. Seriously, then, why have you stayed
away so long? Has this place no charms in the
absence of my brother?

Al. Would my presence have added to your
felicities, Melissa?

Mel. You never came an unwelcome visitor
here.

Al. Perhaps I might be sometimes intrusive.

Mel. What times?

Al. When Beauman is your guest.

Mel. I have supposed you were on friendly
terms.

Al. We are.

Mel. Why then intrusive?

Al. There are seasons when friendship must
yield its pretensions to a superior claim.

Mel. Perhaps I do not rightly comprehend
the force of that remark.

Al. Was Beauman here, my position might
be demonstrated.

Mel. I think I understand you.

Al. And acknowledge my observation to be
just;

Mel. (hesitating) Yes—I believe—I must.

Al. And appropriate?

Melissa was silent.

Al. You hesitate, Melissa.

She was still silent.

Al. Will you, Melissa, answer me one question?

Mel. (confused) If it be a proper one you are
entitled to candor.

Al. Are you engaged to Beauman?

Mel. [blushing]. He has asked me the same
question concerning you.

Al. Do you prefer him to any other?

Mel. [deeply blushing, her eyes cast upon the
floor] He has made the same enquiry respecting
you.

Al. Has he asked your father's permission to
address you?

Mel. That I have not suffered him yet to do.

Al. Yet!

Mel. I assure you I have not.

Al. [Taking her hand with anxiety] Melissa,
I beg you will deal candidly. I am entitled to
no claims, but you know what my heart would
ask. I will bow to your decision. Beauman or
Alonzo must relinquish their pretensions. We
cannot share the blessing.

Mel. [Her cheeks suffused with a varying
glow, her lips pale, her voice tremulous, her eyes
still cast down.] My parents have informed me
that it is improper to receive the particular address
of more than one. I am conscious of my
inadvertency, and that the reproof is just. One

therefore must be dismissed. But—[she hesitated.]

A considerable pause ensued. At length Alonzo
arose—“I will not press you farther, [said
he] I know the delicacy of your feeling, I know
your sincerity; I will not therefore insist on your
performing the painful task of deciding against
me. Your conduct, in every point of view, has
been discreet. I could have no just claims, or if
I had, your heart must sanction them or they
would be unhallowed and unjustifiable.—I shall
ever pray for your felicity. Our affections are not
under our direction; our happiness depends on
our obedience to their mandates. Whatever,
then, may be my sufferings, you are unblamable
and irreproachable.” He took his hat in extreme
agitation, and prepared to take his leave.

Melissa had recovered in some degree from
her embarrassment, and collected her scattered
spirits. “Your conduct, Alonzo, (said she)
is generous and noble. Will you give yourself
the trouble, and do me the honor to see me once
more?” “I will, [said he] at any time you
shall appoint.” Four weeks, then, [she said]
from this day, honor me with a visit, and you
shall have my decision, and receive my final answer.”
“I will be punctual to the day,” he replied,
and bade her adieu.

Alonzo's hours now winged heavily away. His
wonted cheerfulness fled; he wooed the silent
and solitary haunts of “musing, moping melancholy.”
He loved to wander through lonely

fields, or along the verge of some lingering
stream, “when dewy twilight rob'd the evening
mild,” or “to trace the forest glen, thro' which
the moon darted his silvery intercepted ray.”

He was fondly indulging a tender passion,
which prayed upon his peace, and deeply disturbed
his repose. He looked anxiously to the
hour when Melissa was to make her decision.
He wished, yet dreaded the event. In that he
foresaw, or thought he foresaw, a withering blight
to his budding hopes, and a final consummation
to his foreboding fears. He had pressed Melissa,
perhaps too urgently, to a declaration. Had
her predilection been in his favor, would she
have hesitated to avow it? Her parents had advised
her to relinquish and had permitted her to
retain one suitor, nor had they attempted to influence
or direct her choice. Was it not evident,
then, from her confused hesitation and embarrassment,
when solicited to discriminate upon
the subject, that her ultimate decision would
be in favor of Beauman?

While Alonzo's mind was thus agitated, he
received a second letter from his friend in the
neighborhood of Melissa. He read the following
clause therein with emotion more easily to be
conceived than expressed:—

“And why have I ever doubted this event?
[said Alonzo.] What infatuation hath thus led
me on the pursuit of fantastic and unreal bliss?
I have had, it is true, no positive assurance that
Melissa would favor my addresses. But why
did she ever recieve them? Why did she enchantingly
smile upon me? Why fascinate the
tender powers of my soul by that winning mildness,
and the favorable display of those complicated
and superior attractions which she must
have known were irresistible? Why did she not
spurn me from her confidence, and plainly tell
me that my attentions were untimely and improper?—And
now she would have me dance attendance
to her decision, in favor of Beauman—
Insulting!—Let Beauman and she make, as they
have formed, this farcical decision; I absolutely
will never attend it.—But stop:—I have engaged
to see her at an appointed time; my honor
is therefore pledged for an interview; it must
take place. I shall support it with becoming dignity,
and I will convince Melissa and Beauman
that I am not the dupe of their caprices. But let
me consider—What has Melissa done to deserve
consure or reproach? Her brother was my early

friend—she has treated me as a friend to her
brother She was unconscious of the flame which
her charms had kindled in my bosom. Her evident
embarrassment and confusion on receiving
my declaration, witnessed her surprise and prior
attachment. What could she do? To save
herself the pain of a direct denial she has appointed
a day when her refusal may come in a more
delicate and formal manner—and I must meet
it.”

At the appointed day, Alonzo proceeded to the
house of Melissa's father, where he arrived late
in the afternoon. Melissa had retired to a little
summer house at the end of the garden; a servant
conducted Alonzo thither. She was dressed
in a flowing robe of white muslin, embroidered
with a deep fringe lace. Her hair hung
loosely upon her shoulders—she was contemplating
a bouquet of flowers which she held in her
hand. Alonzo fancied she never appeared so
lovely. She arose to receive him. “We have
been expecting you some time, [said Melissa,]
we were anxious to inform you, that we have just
received a letter from my brother, in which he desires
us to present you his most friendly respects,
and complains of your not writing to him lately
so frequently as usual.” Alonzo thanked her
for the information—said that business had prevented
him—he esteemed him as his most valued
friend, and would be more particular in future.

“We have been thronged with company for several

days, [said Melissa]—once a year my father
celebrates his birth day, when we are honored
with so numerous a company of uncles, aunts,
cousins, nephews and nieces, that were you present,
you would suppose we were connected
with half the families in Connecticut.—The last
of this company took their departure yesterday,
and I have only to regret that I have for nearly a
week, been prevented from visiting my favorite
hill, to which you attended me when you was last
here. It is much improved since then, I have
had a little arbor built under the large tree on its
summit: you will have no objection to view it,
Alonzo?” He assured her he accepted the invitation
with pleasure, and towards evening they
resorted to the place and seated themselves in the
arbor.

It was the beginning of autumn, and a yellow
hue was spread over the fading charms of nature.
The withering forest began to shed its decaying
foliage, which the light gales pursued along the
russet fields.—The low sun extended the lengthening
shadows; curling smoke ascended from
the surrounding cottages. A thick fog crept along
the vallies, a grey mist hovered over the
tops of the mountains. The glassy surface of
the Sound glittered to the sun's departing ray.
The solemn herds lowed in monotonous symphony.—The
autumnal insects in sympathetic
waftings, plaintively predicted their approaching
fate.—“The scene is changed since we last visited
this place, [said Melissa;] the gay charms

of summer are beginning to decay, and must soon
yield their splendors to the rude despoiling hand
of winter.”

“That will be the case, (said Alonzo) before I
shall have the pleasure of your company here again.”

Mel. That probably may be, though it is nearly
two months yet to winter

Al. Great changes may take place within that
time.

Mel. Yes, changes must take place; but nothing,
I hope, to embitter present prospects.

Al. (Peevishly) As it respects yourself, I trust
not, madam.

Mel. (Tenderly) And I sincerely hope not, as
it respects you, Alonzo.

Al. That wish—I believe—is vain.

Mel. Why so ominous a prediction?

Al. The premises from which it is drawn are
correct.

Mel. Your feelings accord with the season,
Alonzo; you are melancholy. Shall we return?

Al. I ask your pardon, madam; I know I am
unsociable. You speak of returning—You know
the occasion of my being here.

Mel. For the purpose of visiting your friends
I presume?

Al. And no other?

(She made no reply.)

Al. You cannot have forgotten your own appointment,
and consequent engagement?

(She made no answer.)

Al. I know, Melissa, that you are incapable of
duplicity or evasion. I have promised and now
repeat the declaration, that I will silently submit
to your decision. This you have engaged to
make, and this is the time you have appointed.
The pains of present suspense can scarcely be
surpassed by the pangs of disappointment. On
your part you have nothing to fear. I trust you
have candidly determined, and will decide explicitly.

Mel. (sighing) I am placed in an exceedingly
delicate situation.

Al. I know you are,—but your own honor,
your own peace, require that you should extricate
yourself from the perplexing embarrassment.

Mel. I am sensible they do. It must—it shall
be done.

Al. And the sooner it is done the better.

Mel. That I am convinced of. I now know
that I have been inadvertently indiscreet. I have
admitted the addresses of Beauman and yourself,
without calculating or expecting the consequences.
You have both treated me honorably, and
with respect. You are both on equal grounds
as to your character and standing in life. With
Beauman I became first acquainted. As it relates
to him, some new arrangements have taken
place since you were here, which—

Al. (interrupting her, with emotion) Of those
arrangements I am acquainted.

Mel. (surprised) By what means were you informed
thereof?

Al. I received it from a friend in your neighbourhood.

(A considerable pause ensued.)

Al. You see, Melissa, I am prepared for the
event.

(She was silent.)

Al. I have mentioned before, that, whatever
be your decision, no impropriety can attach to
you. I might not, indeed, from various circumstances,
and from the information I possess, I
perhaps should not, have given you farther trouble
on the occasion, had it not been from your
own direction and appointment. And I am now
willing to retire without further explanation,
without giving you the pain of an express decision,
if you think the measure expedient. Your
declaration can only be a matter of form, the consequence
of which I know, and my proposition
may save your feelings.

Mel. No, Alonzo; my reputation depends on
my adherence to my first determination; justice
to yourself and to Beauman, also demand it. After
what has passed, I should be considered as
acting capriciously and inconsistently should I
depart from it. Beauman will be here to-morrow,
and—

Al. To-morrow, madam?

Mel. He will be here to-morrow, and you
must consent to stay with us until that time;
the matter shall then be decided.

Al. I—yes—it shall be as you say, madam.
Make your arrangements as you please.

Evening had now spread her dusky mantle over
the face of nature. The stars glistened in
the sky. The breeze's rustling wing was in the
tree. The “slitty sound” of the low murmuring
brook, and the far off water fall, were faintly
heard. The twinkling fire fly arose from the
surrounding verdure and illuminated the air with
thousand transient gleams. The mingling discordance
of curs and watch-dogs echoed in the
distant village, from whence the frequent lights
darted their palely lustre through the gloom.—
The solitary whipperwills stationed themselves along
the woody glens, the groves and rocky pastures,
and sung a requiem to departed summer.
A dark cloud was rising in the west, across
whose gloomy front the vivid lightning bent its
forky spires.

Alonzo and Melissa moved slowly to the village;
she appeared enraptured with the melancholy
splendors of the evening, but the other subject
engaged the mental attention of Alonzo.

Beauman arrived the next day. He gave his
hand to Alonzo with seeming warmth of friendship.
If it was reciprocated, it must have been
affected. There was no alteration in the manners
and conversation of Melissa; her conversation
as usual, was sprightly and interesting. After
dinner she retired, and her father requested
Alonzo and Beauman to withdraw with him to a

private room. After they were seated the old
gentleman thus addressed them:—

“I have called you here gentlemen, to perform
my duty as a parent to my daughter, and as
a friend to you. You are both suitors to Melissa;
while your addresses were merely formal,
they were innocent; but when they become serious
they were dangerous. Your pretensions I
consider equal, and between honorable pretenders,
who are worthy of my daughter, I shall not
attempt to influence her choice. That choice,
however, can rest only on one: she has engaged
to decide between you. I am come, to make
in her name, this decision.—The following are
my terms: No quarrel or difficulty shall arise
between you, gentlemen, in consequence of her
determination. Nothing shall go abroad respecting
the affair; it shall be ended under my
roof. As soon as I have pronounced her declaration,
you shall both depart and absent my
house, for, at least, two weeks, as it would be
improper for my daughter to see either of you at
present—after that period I shall be happy to receive
your visits.” Alonzo and Beauman pledged
their honor to abide explicitly by these injunctions.
Her father then observed—“This, gentlemen,
is all I require. I have observed that I
considered your pretensions equal—so has my
daughter treated them. You have both made
professions to her: she has appointed a time to
answer you. That time has now arrived, and I
now inform you that she has decided in favor of
—Alonzo.”

The declaration of Melissa's father burst upon
the mental powers of Beauman, like a sudden and
tremendous clap of thunder on the deep and solemn
silence of night. Unaccustomed to disappointment,
he had calculated on success. His
addresses to the ladies had ever been honorably
received.

Melissa was the first whose charms were capable
of rendering them sincere. He was not
ignorant of Alonzo's attention to her; it gave
him however but little uneasiness. He believed
that his superior qualifications would eclipse the
pretensions of his rival. He considered himself
a connoisseur in character, especially in the character
of the ladies. He conformed to their taste;
he flattered their foibles and obsequiously bowed
to the minutia of female volatility. He considered
himself skilled in the language of the heart;
and he trusted that from his pre-eminent powers
in the science of affection, he had only to see, to
sue and to conquer. He had frankly offered his
hand to Melissa, and pressed her for a decisive
answer. This from time to time she suspended,
and finally appointed a day to give him and Alonzo
a determinate answer, though neither knew
the arrangements made with the other.

Finding, however, the dilemma in which she
was placed, she had previously consulted her
parents. Her father had no objection to her
choosing between two persons of equal claims to
affluence and reputation; this choice she had

made, and her father was considered the most
proper person to pronounce it.

When Beauman had urged his suit to Melissa,
he supposed that her hesitations, delays and
suspensions, were only the effects of maiden diffidence
and timidity He had no suspicions of
her ultimately rejecting it; and when she finally
named the day of decision, he was confident
she would decide in his favor. These sentiments
he had communicated to the person who
had written to Alonzo, intimating that Melissa
had fixed a time which was to crown his happiest
wishes.

He had listened, therefore, attentively to the
words of Melissa's father, momentarily expecting
to hear himself declared the favorite choice of
the fair.

What then must have been his disappointment
when the name of Alonzo was pronounced instead
of his own! The highly finished scene of
pleasure and future prosperity which his ardent
imagination had depicted, had vanished in a moment.
The rain-bow glories which gilded his
youthful horizon, had faded in an instant—the
bright sun of his early hopes, had set in mournful
darkness. The summons of death would not
have been more unexpected, or more shocking
to his imagination.

Very different were the sensations which inspired
the bosom of Alonzo. He had not even
calculated on a decision in his own favor. He
believed that Beauman would be the choice of

Melissa. She had told him that the form of decision
was necessary to save appearances—with
this form he complied, because she desired it,
not because he expected the result would be in
his favor. He had not therefore attended to the
words of Melissa's father with that eagerness
which favorable anticipations commonly produce.
But when his name was mentioned—when he
found he was the choice—the happy favorite of
Melissa's affection—every tender passion of his
soul became interested, and was suddenly aroused
to the refinements of sensibility. Like an electric
shock, it reanimated his whole frame, and
vibrated every nerve of his heart. The glooms
which hung about his mind were dissipated, and
the bright morning of joy broke in upon his soul.

Thus were the expectations of Alonzo and
Beauman disappointed—how differently the sequel
has shewn.

Melissa's father retired immediately after pronouncing
the declaration; the two young gentlemen,
also, soon after withdrew. Alonzo saw
the tempest which tore the bosom of his rival,
and he pitied him from his heart.

A fortnight passed, and Alonzo felt all that
anxiety and impatience which a separation from
a beloved object can produce. He framed a thousand
excuses to visit Melissa, yet he feared a visit
might be premature. He was, however, necessitated
to make a journey to a distant part of
the country, after which he resolved to see Melissa.
He performed his business, and was returning.

It was toward evening, and the day
had been uncommonly sultry for the autumnal
season. A rising shower blackened the western
hemisphere; the dark vapor ascended in folding
ridges, and the thunder rolled at a distance. Alonzo
saw he should be overtaken. He discovered
an elegant seat about one hundred yards distant
from the road; thither he hastened to gain
shelter from the approaching storm. The owner
of the mansion met him at the door, politely
invited him to alight and walk in, while a servant
stood ready to take his horse. He was ushered
into a large room neatly furnished, where the
family and several young ladies were sitting. As
Alonzo glanced his eyes hastily around the room,
he thought he recognized a familiar countenance.
A hurried succession of confused ideas for a moment,
crossed his recollection.—In a moment he
discovered that it was Melissa. By this unexpected
meeting they were both completely embarrassed.
Melissa, however, arose, and in rather
a confused manner, introduced Alonzo, as the
classmate of her brother, to the family of Mr.
Simpson, and the company.

The rain continued most part of the afternoon.
Alonzo was invited, and consented to stay all
night. A moon light evening succeeded the
shower, which invited the young people to walk
in an adjoining garden. Melissa told Alonzo
that Mr. Simpson was a distant relative of her
father; his family consisted of his wife, two amiable
daughters, not far from Melissa's age, and

one son, named William, about seventeen years
old. She had been invited there to pass a week
and expected to return within two days. And
she added, smiling, perhaps, Alonzo, we may
have an opportunity once more to visit the bower
on my prospect hill, before winter entirely destroys
the remaining beauties of the summer”
Alonzo felt all the force of the remark. He recollected
the conversation when they were last
at the place she mentioned; and he well remembered
his feelings on that occasion.

“Great changes, indeed, (he replied) have taken
place since we were last there; that they are
productive of unexpected and unexampled happiness
to me, is due, Melissa, to you alone.”—
Alonzo departed the next morning, appointing
the next week to visit Melissa at her father's
house.

Thus were the obstacles removed which presented
a barrier to the united wishes of Alonzo
and Melissa. They had not, it is true, been separated
by wide seas, unfeeling parents, or the
rigorous laws of war; but troubles, vexations,
doubts and difficulties, had thus far attended
them, which had now disappeared and they calculated
on no unpropitious event which might
thwart their future union. All the time that Alonzo
could spare from his studies was devoted
to Melissa, and their parents began to calculate
on joining their hands as soon as Alonzo's professional
term of study was completed.

The troubles which gave rise to the disseveration

of England from America had already commenced,
which broke out the ensuing spring into
actual hostilities, by the battle at Lexington,
followed soon after by the battle at Bunker Hill.
The panic and general bustle which took place
in America on these events, is yet well remembered
by many. They were not calculated to
impress the mind of Melissa with the most pleasing
sensations. She foresaw that the burden of
the war must rest on the American youth, and
she trembled in anticipation for the fate of Alonzo.
He, with others, should the war continue,
must take the field, in defence of his country.
The effects of such a separation were dubious
and gloomy. Alonzo and she frequently discoursed,
and they agreed to form the mystic union
previous to any wide separation.

One event tended to hasten this resolution.
The attorney in whose office Alonzo was clerk,
received a commission in the new raised American
army, and marched to the lines near Boston.
His business was therefore suspended, and Alonzo
returned to the house of his father. He considered
that he could not long remain a mere
spectator of the contest, and that it might soon
be his duty to take the field; he therefore concluded
it best to hasten his marriage with Melissa.
She consented to the proposition, and their
parents made the necessary arrangements for the
event. They had even fixed upon the place
which was to be the future residence of this happy
couple. It was a pleasantly situated village,

surrounded by rugged elevations, which gave an
air of serenity and seclusion to the valley they
encircled. On the south arose a spacious hill,
which was ascended by a gradual acclivity; its
sides and summit interspersed with orchards, arbors
and cultivated fields. On the west, forests
unevenly lifted their rude heads, with here and
there a solitary field, newly cleared, and thinly
scattered with cottages. To the east, the eye
extended over a soil, at one time swelling into
craggy elevations, and at another spreading itself
into vales of the most enchanting verdure.
To the north it extended over a vast succession
of mountains, wooded to their summits, and
throwing their shadows over intervales of equal
wilderness, till at length it was arrested in its excursions
by the blue mists which hovered over
mountains more grand, majestic and lofty.[1] —A
rivulet which rushed from the hills, formed a little
lake on the borders of the village, which beautifully
reflected the cottages from its transparent
bosom. Amidst a cluster of locusts and weeping
willows, rose the spire of the church, in the
ungarnished decency of Sunday neatness. Fields,
gardens, meadows and pastures were spread around
the valley, and on the sides of the declivities,
yielding in their season the rich flowers,
fruits and foliage of spring, summer and autumn.
The inhabitants of this modern Avernum were
mostly farmers. They were mild, sociable, moral
and diligent. The produce of their own flocks
and fields gave them most of their food and clothing.
To dissipation they were strangers, and
the luxuries of their tables were few.

Such was the place for the residence of Alonzo
and Melissa. They had visited the spot, and
were enraptured with its pensive, romantic beauties.
A site was marked out whereon to erect
their family mansion. It was on a little eminence
which sloped gradually to the lake, in the most
pleasant part of the village. “Here, (said Alonzo,
one day to Melissa) will we pass our days in
all that felicity of mind which the chequered
scenes of life admit. In the spring we will rove
among the flowers. In summer we will gather
strawberries in yonder fields, or whortleberries
from the adjacent shrubbery. The breezes of
fragrant morning, and the sighs of the evening
gale, will be mingled with the songs of the thousand
various birds which frequent the surrounding
groves. We will gather the bending fruits
of autumn, and we will listen to the hoarse voice
of winter, its whistling winds, its driving snow,
and rattling hail, with delight.”

The bright gems of joy glistened in the eyes
of Melissa. With Alonzo she anticipated approaching
happiness, and her bosom beat in rapturous
unison.

Winter came on; it rapidly passed away—
Spring advanced, and the marriage day was appointed.

The spring opened with the din of preparation

throughout America for defensive war. It
now was found that vigorous measures must be
pursued to oppose the torrent which was preparing
to overwhelm the Colonies, which had now
been dissevered from the British empire, by the
declaration of independence. The continental
army was now raising, and great numbers of American
youth volunteered in the service of their
country. A large army of reinforcement was
soon expected from England, to land on our
shores, and “the confused noise of the warriors
and garments rolled in blood,” were already anticipated.

Alonzo had received a commission in a regiment
of militia, and was pressed by several young
gentlemen of his acquaintance, who had entered
the army, to join it also. He had an excuse—
His father was a man in extensive business, was
considerably past the prime of life, had a number
of agents and clerks under him, but began to
grow unable to attend to the various and burthensome
duties and demands of a mercantile life.

Alonzo was his only son; his assistance therefore
became necessary until, at least, his father
could bring his business to a close, which he was
now about to effect. Alonzo stated these facts
to his friends; told them that on every occasion
he should be ready to fly to the post of danger
when his country was invaded, and that as soon
as his father's affairs should be settled, he would,
if necessary, willingly join the army.

The day now rapidly approached when Alonzo

was to make Melissa his own. Preparations
for the hymeneal ceremony were making, and
invitations had already gone abroad. Edgar, the
brother of Melissa, had entered the army in the
capacity of chaplain. He was soon expected
home, where he intended to tarry until the consummation
of the nuptials, before he set out for
the camp. Letters recently received from him,
informed that he expected to be at his father's in
three or four days.

About three weeks previous to the appointed
marriage day, Alonzo and Melissa one afternoon
rode out to the village which had been chosen
for their future residence. Their carriage stopt
at the only inn in the place, and from thence they
walked around this modern Vacluse, charmed
with the secluded beauties of its situation. They
passed a little time at the spot selected for their
habitation; they projected the structure of the
buildings, planned the gardens, the artificial
groves, the walks, the mead, the fountains and
the green retreat of the summer house, and they
already saw, in anticipation, the various domestic
blessings and felicities with which they were
to be surrounded.

They took tea at the inn, and prepared to return.
It was the latter end of the month of May,
and nature was adorned in the bridal ornaments
of spring; the sun was sunk behind the groves,
which cast their sombre shades over the valley,
while the retiring beams of day adorned the distant
eastern eminences with yellow lustre. The

birds sung melodiously in the groves, the air was
freshened by light western breezes, bearing upon
their wings all the entrancing odors of the season.
Around the horizon, electric clouds raised their
brazen summits, bassed in the black vapor of approaching
night.

They slowly ascended the hill south of the
town, where they paused a few moments to enjoy
the splendors of the evening scene. This
hill, which commanded a prospect of all the surrounding
country, the distant Sound, and the adjacent
towns and villages presented to the eye,
on a single view, perhaps one of the most picturesque
draperies painted by nature. Alonzo attended
Melissa to her father's, and the next day
returned home.

His father had been absent for three or four
days to one of the commercial seaports, on business
with some merchants with whom he was
connected in trade. He returned the next day
after Alonzo got home;—his aspect and his conversation
were marked with an assumed and unmeaning
cheerfulness. At supper he ate nothing,
discoursed much, but in an unconnected and
hurried manner, interrupted by long pauses, in
which he appeared to be buried in contemplation.

After supper he asked Alonzo if it were not
possible that his marriage with Melissa could be
consummated within a few days. Alonzo, startled
at so unexpected a question, replied, that
such a proposal would be considered extraordinary,

perhaps improper; besides, when Melissa
had fixed the day, she mentioned that she had an
uncle who lived near Charleston, in South Carolina,
whose daughter was to pass the summer
with Melissa, and was expected to arrive before
the appointed day. It would, he said, be a delicate
point for him to request her to anticipate the
nuptials, unless he could give some cogent reasons
for so doing, and at present he was not apprised
that any such existed. His father, after a
few moments hesitation, answered, “I have reasons,
which, when told”—here he stopped, suddenly
arose, hastily walked the room in much
visible agony of mind, and then retired to his
chamber.

Alonzo and his mother were much amazed at
so strange a proceeding. They could form no
conjecture of its cause or its consequence. Alonzo
passed a sleepless night. His father's
slumbers were interrupted. He would frequently
start up in the bed, then sink in restless sleep,
with incoherent mutterings, and plaintive moans.
In the morning, when he appeared at breakfast,
his countenance wore the marks of dejection and
anguish.

He scarcely spoke a word, and after the table
was removed, he ordered all to withdraw except
his wife and Alonzo, when, with emotions that
spoke the painful feelings of his bosom, he thus
addressed them:

“For more than forty years I have toiled early
and late to acquire independence and ease for

myself and my family. To accomplish this. I
became connected with some English importing
merchants in a seaport town, and went largely
into the English trade. Success crowned our
endeavors; on balancing our accounts two years
ago, we found that our expectations were answered,
and that we were now sufficiently wealthy
to close business, which some proposed to
do; it was, however, agreed to make one effort
more, as some favorable circumstances appeared
to offer, in which we adventured very largely, on
a fair calculation of liberal and extensive proceeds.

“Before returns could be made, the war came
on, embarrassments ensued, and by indubitable
intelligence lately received, we find that our property
in England has been sequestered; five of
our ships, laden with English goods, lying in
English harbors, and just ready to sail for America,
have been seized as lawful prizes. Added
to this, three vessels from the lndies, laden with
Island produce, have been taken on their homeward
bound voyage, and one lost on her return
from Holland. This wreck of fortune I might
have survived, had I to sustain only my equal
dividend of the loss; but of the merchants with
whom I have been connected, not one remains to
share the fate of the event; all have absconded
or secreted themselves. To attempt to compound
with my creditors would be of little avail,
my whole fortune will not pay one fourth of the
debts, so that compound or not, the consequence
to me is inevitable ruin.

“To abscond would not secure me, as most
of my remaining property is vested in real estate.
And even if it would, I could not consent to it;
I could not consent to banish myself from my
country; to flee like a felon, to skulk from society
with the base view of defrauding my creditors.
No, I have lived honestly, and honestly will I
die. By fair application and long industry my
wealth has been obtained, and it shall never justly
be said, that the reputation of my latter days
was stained with acts of baseness and meanness.
—I have notified and procured a meeting of the
creditors, and have laid the matters before them.
Some appeared favorable to me; others insinuated
that we were all connected in fraudulent designs,
to swindle our creditors. This I repelled
with becoming spirit, and was in consequence
threatened with immediate prosecution. Whatever
may be the event, I had some hopes that
your happiness, Alonzo, might yet be secured.—
Hence I proposed your union with Melissa, before
our misfortunes should be promulgated.—
Your parents are old; a little will serve the residue
of their days. With your acquirements you
may make your way in life. I shall have no property
to give you, but I would still wish you to
secure that which you prize far above, and without
which, both honors and emoluments are unimportant
and worthless.”

At this moment a loud rap at the door interrupted
the discourse, and three men were ushered
in, which proved to be the sheriff and his attendants,

sent by the more inexorable creditors
of Alonzo's father and company, to level on the
property of the former, which orders they faithfully
executed, by seizing the lands, tenements
and furniture, and finally arresting the body of
the old gentleman, which was soon released by
his friendly neighbors becoming bail for his appearance;
but the property was soon after sold
at public vendue, at less than half its value, and
Alonzo's father and mother were compelled to abandon
the premises, and take shelter in a little
hut, belonging to a neighboring farmer, illy and
temporarily furnished by the gratuitous liberality
of a few friends.

We will not stop the reader to moralize on this
disastrous event. The feelings of the family can
better be conceived than detailed. Hurled in a
moment from the lofty summit of affluence to the
low and barren vale of poverty! Philosophy came
to the aid of the parents, but who can realize the
feelings of the son! Thus suddenly cut short of
his prospects, not only of future independence,
but even of support, what would be the event of
his suit to Melissa, and stipulated marriage?
Was it not probable that her father would now
cancel the contract? Could she consent to be
his wife in his present penurious situation? And
indeed, could he himself, consent to make her his
wife, to make her miserable?

In this agitated frame of mind he received a
letter from his friend in Melissa's neighborhood,
requesting him to come immediately to his house,

whither he repaired the following day. This
person had ever been the unchanging friend of
Alonzo; he had heard of the misfortunes of his
family, and he deeply sympathized in his distress.
He had lately married and settled in life;—his
name was Vincent.

When Alonzo arrived at the house of his
friend, he was received with the same disinterested
ardor he ever had been in the day of his
most unbounded prosperity. After being seated,
Vincent told him that the occasion of his sending
for him was to propose the adoption of certain
measures which he doubted not might be
considered highly beneficial as it respected his future
peace and happiness. “Your family misfortunes
(continued Vincent) have reached the
ears of Melissa's father. I know the old gentleman
too well to believe he will consent to receive
you as his son-in-law, under your present embarrassments.
Money is the God to which he
implicitly bows. The case is difficult, but not
insurmountable. You must first see Melissa;
she is now in the next room; I will introduce
you in; converse with her, after which I will lay
my plan before you.”

Alonzo entered the room; Melissa was sitting
by a window which looked into a pleasant garden,
and over verdant meadows, whose tall grass
waved to the evening breeze. Farther on, low
vallies spread their umbrageous thickets, where
the dusky shadows of night had begun to assemble.
On high hills beyond, the tops of lofty forests,

majestically moved by the billowy gales,
caught the sun's last ray. Fleecy summer clouds
hovered around the verge of the western horizon,
spangled with silvery tints or fringed with the
gold of even.

A mournfully murmuring rivulet purled at a
little distance from the garden, on the borders of
a small grove, from whence the American wild
dove wafted her sympathetic moaning to the ear
of Melissa. She sat leaning on a small table by
the window, which was thrown up. Her attention
was fixed. She did not perceive Vincent
and Alonzo as they entered. They advanced towards
her. She turned, started, and arose. With
a melancholy smile, and tremulous voice, “I supposed
(she said) that it was Mrs. Vincent who
was approaching, as she has just left the room.”
Her countenance appeared dejected, which on
seeing Alonzo, lighted up into a languid sprightliness.
It was evident she had been weeping.

Vincent retired and Alonzo and Melissa seated
themselves by the window. “I have broken
in upon your solitude, perhaps, too unseasonably
(said Alonzo); it is, however, the fault of
Vincent, he invited me to walk into the room,
but did not inform me that you were alone.”—
“Your presence was sudden and unexpected,
but not unseasonable, (replied Melissa.) I hope
that you did not consider any formality necessary
in your visits, Alonzo?”

Alonzo. I once did not think so. Now I
know not what to think—I know not how to act.

You have heard of the misfortunes of my father's
family, Melissa?

Melissa. Yes. I have heard the circumstances
attending that event, an event in which no
one could be more deeply interested, except the
immediate sufferers, than myself.

Al. Your father is also acquainted with my
present situation?

Mel. He is.

Al. How did he receive the intelligence?

Mel. With deep regret.

Al. And forbade you to admit my addresses
any longer?

Mel. No. Not absolutely.

Al. If even an unqualified or indirect manner,
it is proper I should know it.

Mel. It certainly is. Soon after we received
the intelligence of your family misfortunes, my
father came into the room where I was sitting,
`Melissa, (said he) your conduct has ever been
that of a dutiful child; mine of an indulgent parent.
My first, my ultimate wish, is to see my
children, when settled in life, happy and honorably
respected. For this purpose, I have bestowed
on them a proper education, and design suitably
to apportion my property between them. On
their part, it is expected they will act prudently
and discreetly, especially in those things which
concern their future peace and welfare; the principal
requisite to ensure this is a proper connexion
in marriage.” Here my father paused a considerable
time, and then continued, “I know,

my child, that your situation is a very delicate
one. Your marriage day is appointed; it was
appointed under the fairest prospects; by the
failure of Alonzo's father, those prospects have
become deeply darkened, if not totally obliterated.

“To commit your fortune through life, to a
person unable to support you, would be hazardous
in the extreme. The marriage day can at
least be suspended; perhaps something more favorable
may appear. At any rate, I have too
much confidence in your discretion, to suppose
that you will, by any rash act, bring either poverty
or reproach upon yourself or your connexions.”
Thus spake my father, and immediately
withdrew.

In our present dilemma, (said Alonzo) what
is proper to be done?

It is difficult to determine, (replied Melissa)
Should my father expressly forbid our union, he
will go all lengths to carry his commands into effect.
Although a tender parent, he is violent in
his prejudices, and resolute in his purposes. I
would advise you to call at my father's house tomorrow,
with your usual freedom. Whatever
may be the event, I shall deal sincerely with you.
Mr. and Mrs. Vincent are now my only confidents.
From them you will be enabled to obtain
information, should I be debarred from seeing
you. I am frequently here; they told me
they expected you, but at what day was not
known. Mrs. Vincent has been my friend and

associate from my earliest years. Vincent you
know. In them we can place the utmost confidence.
My reliance on Providence, I trust, will
never be shaken, but my future prospects, at present,
are dark and gloomy.

Let us not despair, (answered Alonzo) perhaps
those gloomy clouds which now hover around us,
will yet be dissipated by the bright beams of joy.
Innocence and virtue are the cares of Heaven.
There lies my hope. To-morrow, as you propose,
I will call at your father's.

Melissa now prepared to return home; a
whipperwill tuned its nightly song at a little distance;
but the sound, late so cheerful and
sprightly, now passed heavily over their hearts.

When Alonzo returned, Vincent unfolded the
plan he had projected. “No sooner (said he)
was I informed of your misfortunes, than I was
convinced that Melissa's father would endeavor
to dissolve your intended union with his daughter.
I have known him many years, and however
he may dote on his children, or value their happiness,
he will not hesitate to sacrifice his other
feelings to the acquirement of riches. It appeared
that you had but one resource left. You and
Melissa are now united by the most solemn ties
—by every rite except those which are merely
ceremonial. These I would advise you to enter
into, and trust to the consequences. Mrs. Vincent
has proposed the scheme to Melissa, but
implicitly accustomed to filial obedience, she
shudders at the idea of a clandestine marriage.

But when her father shall proceed to rigorous
measures, she will, I think, consent to the alternative.
And this measure, once adopted, her
father must consent also; or if not, you secure
your own happiness, and what you esteem more,
that of Melissa.”

“But you must be sensible of my inability to
support her as she deserves, (replied Alonzo) even
should she consent to it.”

“The world is before you, (answered Vincent)
you have friends, you have acquirements which
will not fail you. In a country like this, you can
hardly fail of obtaining a competency, which,
with the other requisites, will ensure your independence
and felicity.”

Alonzo informed Vincent what had been agreed
upon between Melissa and himself, respecting
his visiting her on the morrow; “after
which (he said) we will discourse further on
the subject.”

The next day Alonzo repaired to the house of
Melissa's father. As he approached he saw Melissa
sitting in a shady recess at one end of the
garden near which the road passed. She was
leaning with her head upon her hand, in a penaive
posture; a deep dejection was depicted upon
her features, which enlivened into a transient
glow as soon as she saw Alonzo. She arose,
met him, and invited him into the house

Alonzo was received with a cool reserve by all
except Melissa. Her father saluted him with a
distant and retiring bow, as he passed with Melissa

to her room. As soon as they were seated,
a maiden aunt, who had doubled her teens, out-lived
many of her suitors, and who had lately
come to reside with the family, entered, and seated
herself by the window, alternately humming
a tune, and impudently staring at Alonzo, without
speaking a word, except snappishly, to contradict
Melissa in any thing she advanced, which
the latter passed off with only a faint smile.

This interruption was not of long continuance.
Melissa's father entered, and requested the two
ladies to withdraw, which was instantly done. He
then addressed Alonzo as follows: “When I
gave consent for you to marry my daughter, it
was on the conviction that your future resources
would be adequate to support her honorably and
independently. Circumstances have since taken
place, which render this point extremely doubtful.
Parental duty and affection demand that I
should know your means and prospects before I
sanction a proceeding which may reduce my child
to penury and to want.” He paused for a reply,
but Alonzo was silent. He continued—“You
yourself must acknowledge, that to burthen yourself
with the expense of a family; to transfer a
woman from affluence to poverty without even
an object in view to provide for either, would be
the height of folly and extravagance.” Again he
paused, but Alonzo was still silent. He proceeded—“Could
you, Alonzo, suffer life, when you
see the wife of your bosom, probably your infant
children, pining in misery for want of bread?

And what else have you to expect if you marry
in your present situation? You have friends and
well wishers; but which of them will advance
you four or five thousand pounds, as a gratuity?
My daughter must be supported according to her
rank and stantling in life. Are you enabled to
do this? If not, you cannot reasonably suppose
that I shall consent to your marrying her. You
may say that your acquirements, your prudence,
and your industry will procure you a handsome
support. This well may do in single life, but to
depend on these for the future exigences of a
family, is hazarding peace, honor and reputation,
at a single game of chance. If, therefore, you
have no resources or expectation but such as
these, your own judgment will teach you the necessity
of immediately relinquishing all pretensions
to the hand of Melissa”—and immediately
left the room.

Why was Alonzo speechless thro' the whole
of this discourse?—What reply could he have
made? what were the prospects before him but
penury, want, misery and woe! Where, indeed,
were the means by which Melissa was to be
shielded from poverty, if connected with his fortunes.
The idea was not new, but it come upon
him with redoubled anguish. He arose and
looked around for Melissa, but she was not to be
seen. He left the house, and walked slowly towards
Vincent's. At a little distance he met
Melissa, who had been strolling in an adjoining
avenue. He informed her of all that had passed;

it was no more than they both expected, yet it
was a shock their fortitude could scarcely sustain.
Disappointment seldom finds her votaries
prepared to receive her.

Melissa told Alonzo, that her father's determinations
were unchangeable; that his sister [the
before mentioned maiden lady] held a considerable
influence over him and dictated the concerns
of the family, and that from her, there was
nothing to hope in their favor. Her mother, she
said, was her friend, but could not contradict the
will of her father. Her brother would be at home
in a few days; how he would act on this occasion
she was unable to say: but were he even
their friend he would have but feeble influence
with her father and aunt. “What is to be the
end of these troubles [continued Melissa] it is
impossible to foresee; let us trust in the mercy
of heaven and submit to its dispensations.

Alonzo and Melissa, in their happier days had,
when absent, corresponded by letters. This
method it was now thought best to relinquish.—
It was agreed that Alonzo should come frequently
to Vincent's, where Melissa would meet him
as she could find opportunities. Having concluded
on this, Melissa returned home, and Alonzo
to the house of his friend.

Vincent, after Alonzo had related the manner
of his reception at Melissa's father's, urged the
plain he had projected of a private marriage.—
Alonzo replied that even should Melissa consent
to it, which he much doubted, it must be a measure

of the last resort, and adopted only when all
others became fruitless.

The next morning Alonzo returned to the hut
where his aged parents now dwelt. His bosom
throbbed with keen anguish. His own fate, unconnected
with that of Melissa, he considered of
little consequence. But their united situation
tortured his soul. What was to become of Melissa,
what of himself, what of his parents!—
“Alas, [said Alonzo] I now perceive what it is
to want the good things of this life!”

Alonzo's father was absent when he arrived,
but returned soon after. A beam of joy gleamed
upon his withered countenance as he entered
the house. “Were it not, Alonzo, for your unhappy
situation, [said he] we should once more
be restored to peace and comfort. A few persons
who were indebted to me, finding that I was
to be sacrificed by my unfeeling creditors, reserved
those debts in their hands, and have now
paid me, amounting to something more than five
hundred pounds. With this I have purchased a
small, but well cultivated farm, with convenient
tenements. I have enough left to purchase what
stock and other materials I need, and to spare
some for your present exigencies, Alonzo.”

Alonzo thanked his father for his kindness;
but told him that from his former liberality he
had yet sufficient for his wants, and that he should
soon find business which would amply support
him. “But your affair with Melissa, [asked his
father] how is that likely to terminate?” “Favorable,

I hope, sir,” answered Alonzo. He
could not consent to disturb the tranquility of his
parents by reciting his own wretchedness.

A week passed away. Alonzo saw his parents
removed to their little farm, which was to
be managed by his father and a hired man. He
saw them comfortably seated; he saw them serenely
blest in the calm pleasures of returning
peace, and a ray of joy illuminated his troubled
bosom.

He thought of Melissa, from whom he had
heard nothing since he last saw her. He thought
of the difficulties which surrounded him. He
thought of the barriers which were opposed to his
happiness and the felicity of Melissa, and he set
out for the house of Vincent.

Alonzo arrived at the residence of Vincent
near the close of the day. Vincent and his lady
were at tea with several young ladies who had
passed the afternoon with Mrs. Vincent. Alonzo
cast an active glance around the company, in
hopes to find Melissa, but she was not there. He
was invited and accepted a seat at table. After
tea Vincent led him into an adjoining room.—
“You have come in good time, [said he] something
must speedily be done, or you lose Melissa

forever. The day after you were here, her
father received a letter from Beauman, in which,
after mentioning the circumstance of your father's
insolvency, he hinted that the consequence would
probably be a failure of her proposed marriage
with you, which might essentially injure the reputation
of a lady of her standing in life; to prevent
which, and to place her beyond the reach of
calumny, he offered to marry her at any appointed
day, provided he had her free consent.

“As Beauman, by the recent death of his father,
had been put in possession of a splendid fortune,
the proposition allured her father, who
wrote him a complaisant answer, with an invitation
to his house. He then strove to extort a
promise from Melissa, that she would break off
all connexion with you, see you no more, and admit
the addresses of Beauman.

“To this she could not consent. She urged
that by the consent of her parents she was engaged
to you by the most sacred ties. That to
her father's will she had hitherto yielded implicit
obedience, but that hastily to break the most
solemn obligation formed and sanctioned by his
approbation and direction, was what her conscience
would not permit her to do. Were he
to command her to live single, life might be endured;
but to give her hand to any except you,
would be to perjure those principles of truth and
justice which he himself had ever taught her to
hold most inviolable. Her father grew outrageous;
charged her with disobedience, with a blind

inconsiderate perverseness, by which she would
bring ruin upon herself, and indelible disgrace
upon her family. She answered only with her
tears. Her mother interposed, and endeavored
to appease his anger, but he spurned her from
him, and rushed out of the room, uttering a
threat that force should succeed persuasion, if
his commands were not obeyed. To add to Melissa's
distress, Beauman arrived at her father's
yesterday; and I hope, in some measure to alleviate
it, Edgar her brother come this morning.—
Mrs. Vincent has dispatched a message to inform
Melissa of your arrival, and to desire her to come
here immediately. She will undoubtedly comply
with the invitation, if not prevented by something
extraordinary. I should have written you
had I not hourly expected you.”

Mrs Vincent now come to the door of the
room and beckoned to her husband, who went
out, but immediately returned leading in Melissa
after which he retired. “Oh, Alonzo!” was all
she could say, and burst into tears. Alonzo led
her to a seat, gently pressed her hand, and mingled
his tears with hers but was unable to speak.
Recovering at length he begged her to moderate
her grief. “Where is your fortitude and your
firmnes (said he) Melissa, which I have so often
seen triumphing over affliction?” Her extreme
anguish prevented a reply. Deeply affected and
alarmed at the storm of distress which raged in
her bosom, he endeavoured to consolate her, tho'
consolation was a stranger to his own breast.—

“Let us not Melissa (said he) increase our flood
of affliction by a tide of useless sorrow: perhaps
more prosperous days are yet in reserve for us:
happiness may yet be ours—never, never! (she
exclaimed) Oh what will become of me! Heaven
cannot desert you (said Alonzo) as well might it
desert its angels. This thorny and gloomy
path may lead to fair fields of light and verdure.
Tempests are succeeded by calms, wars end in
peace; the splendors of the brightest morning
arise on the wings of blackest midnight.

Troubles will not always last. Life at most is
short; Death comes to the relief of the virtuous
wretched, and transports them to another and
better world, where sighing and sorrows cease,
and the tempestuous passions of life are known
no more.”

The rage of grief which had overwhelmed Melissa,
began now to subside as the waves of the
ocean gradually cease their tumultuous commotion,
after the turbulent winds are laid asleep.
Deep sobs and long drawn sighs succeeded to a
suffocation of tears. The irritation of her feelings
had caused a more than usual glow upon her
cheek, which faded away as she became composed,
until a livid paleness spread itself over her
features. Alonzo feared that the delicacy of her
constitution would fall a sacrifice to the sorrow
which preyed upon her heart, if not speedily alleviated;
but alas, where were the means of alleviation?

She informed him that her father had that evening

ordered her to become the wife of Beauman.
He told her that her disobedience was no
longer to be borne. “No longer (said he) will
I tamper with your perverseness; you are determined
to be poor, wretched and contemptible.
I will compel you to be rich, happy and respected.
You suffer the Jack-a-Lantern fancy to lead
you into swamps and quagmires, when, did you
but follow the fair light of reason, it would conduct
you to honor and real felicity. There are
happiness and misery at your choice.

“Marry Beauman, and you will roll in your
coach, flaunt in your silks, your furniture and
your equippage are splendid, your associates are
of the first character, and your father rejoices in
your prosperity.

“Marry Alonzo, you sink into obscurity, are
condemned to drudgery, poorly fed, worse clothed,
and your relations and acquaintances shun
and despise you. The comparison I have here
drawn between Beauman and Alonzo is a correct
one; for even the wardrobe of the former is of
more value than the whole fortune of the latter.

“I give you now two days to consider the matter;
at the end of that time I shall expect your
decision, and hope you will decide discreetly.—
But remember, that you become the wife of
Beauman, or you are no longer acknowledged
as my daughter” “Thus (said Melissa) did
my father pronounce his determination, which
shook my frame, and chilled with horror every
nerve of my heart, and immediately left me.

“My aunt added her taunts to his severities,
and Beauman interfered with his ill timed consolation.
My mother and Edgar ardently strove to
allay the fever of my soul, and mitigate my distress.
But the stroke was almost too severe for
my nature. Habituated only to the smiles of
my father, how could I support his frowns? Accustomed
to receive his blessings alone, how
could I endure his sudden malediction?”

Description would fail in painting the sensations
of Alonzo's bosom, at this recital of woe.
But he endeavored to mitigate her sorrows by
the consolation of more cheering prospects and
happier hours.

Vincent and his lady now came into the room.
They strenuously urged the propriety and the
necessity of Alonzo and Melissa's entering into
the bands of wedlock immediately. “The measure
would be hazardous,” remarked Melissa.
“My circumstances”—said Alonzo. “Not on
that account, (interrupted Melissa) but my father's
displeasure”—“Will be the same, whether
you marry Alonzo, or refuse to marry Beauman,”
replied Vincent. Her resolution appeared to be
staggered. “Come here, Melissa, to morrow
evening (said Mrs. Vincent); mean time you
will consider the matter, and then determine.”—
To this Melissa assented, and prepared to return
home.

Alonzo walked with her to the gate which opened
into the yard surrounding her father's
house. It was dangerous for him to go farther.

Should he be discovered with Melissa, even by
a domestic of the family, it must increase the
persecutions against her. They parted. Alonzo
stood at the gate, gazing anxiously after Melissa
as she walked up the long winding avenue,
bordered with the odor-flowing lilac, and lofty
elm, her white robes now invisible, now dimly
seen, as she turned the angles of the walk, until
they were totally obscured, mingling with the
gloom and darkness of the night. “Thus, (said
Alonzo) thus fades the angel of peace from the
visionary eyes of the war-worn soldier, when it
ascends in the dusky clouds of early morning,
while he slumbers on the field of recent battle.”

With mournful forebodings he returned to the
house of Vincent. He arose after a sleepless
night, and walked into an adjoining field. He
stood leaning in deep contemplation against a
tree, when he heard quick footsteps behind him.
He turned, and saw Edgar approaching; in a
moment they were in each other's arms, and mingled
tears. They returned to Vincent's and conversed
largely on present affairs. “I have discoursed
with my father on the subject, (said Edgar)
I have urged him with every possible argument
to relinquish his determination; I fear,
however, he is inflexible.

“To assuage the tempest of grief which rent
Melissa's bosom was my next object, and in this
I trust I have not been unsuccessful. You will
see her this evening, and will find her more calm
and resigned. You, Alonzo, must exert your

fortitude. The ways of Heaven are inscrutable,
but they are right.

“We must acquiesce in its dealings. We
cannot alter its decrees. Resignation to its will,
whether merciful or afflictive, is one of those eminent
virtues which adorn the good man's character,
and ever find a brilliant reward in the regions
of unsullied splendor, far beyond trouble
and the tomb.”

Edgar told Alonzo that circumstances compelled
him that day to depart for the army. “I
would advise you, (said he) to remain here until
your affair comes to some final issue. It must,
I think, ere long, be terminated. Perhaps you
and my sister may yet be happy.”

Alonzo feelingly expressed his gratitude to
Edgar. He found in him that disinterested friendship,
which his early youth had experienced.—
Edgar the same day departed for the army.

In the afternoon Alonzo received a note from
Melissa's father, requesting his immediate attendance
Surprised at the incident, he repaired
there immediately. The servant introduced him
into a room where Melissa's father and aunt were
sitting. “Hearing you were in the neighborhood,
(said her father) I have sent for you, to
make a proposition, which, after what has taken
place, I think you cannot hesitate to comply with.
The occurrence of previous circumstances may
lead you to suppose that my daughter is under
obligations to you, which may render it improper
for her to form marriage connections with any

other. Whatever embarrassments your addresses
to her may have produced, it is in your power
to remove them, and if you are a man of honor
you will remove them. You cannot wish to involve
Melissa in your present penurious condition,
unless you wish to make her wretched. It
therefore only remains for you to give me a writing,
voluntarily resigning all pretensions to the
hand of my daughter; and if you wish her to be
happy, honorable and respected in this life, this I
say you will not hesitate to do.”

A considerable pause ensued, Alonzo at length
replied, “I cannot perceive any particular advantage
that can accrue from such a measure. It
will neither add nor diminish the power you possess
to command obedience to your will, if you
are determined to command it, either from your
daughter, or your servant”—“There brother,
[bawled the old maid, half squeaking through
her nose, which was well charged with rappee]
did'nt I tell you so? I knew the fellow would
not come to terms, no more than will your refractory
daughter. This love fairly bewitches
such foolish, crack-brained youngsters. But say
Mr. —, what's your name, [addressing herself
to Alonzo] will love heat the oven? Will love
boil the pot? Will love clothe the back? Will
love”—“You will not, [interrupted Melissa's
father, speaking to Alonzo] it seems, consent to
my proposition? I have, then, one demand to
make, which of right you cannot deny. Promise
me that you will never see my daughter again,

unless by my permission.” “At the present
moment I shall promise you nothing,” replied
Alonzo, with some warmth. “There again,
[said the old maid] just so Melissa told
you this morning, when you requested her to see
him no more. The fellow has fairly betwattled
her. I wish I had him to deal with. Things
was'nt so when I was a girl; I kept the rogues
at a distance, I'll warrant you. I always told
you, brother, what would come of your indulgence
to your daughter. And I shoud'nt wonder
if you should soon find the girl had eloped,
and your desk robbed in the bargain.” Alonzo
hastily arose; “I suppose [said he] my presence
can be dispensed with.” “Well, young
man, [said Melissa's father] since you will not
comply with any overtures I make; since you
will not accede to any terms I propose, remember,
sir, I now warn you to break off all communication
and correspondence with my daughter,
and to relinquish all expectations concerning her.
I shall never consent to marry my daughter to a
beggar.” `Beggar!” involuntarily exclaimed
Alonzo, and his eyes flashed in resentment. But
he recollected that it was the father of Melissa
who had thus insulted him, and he suppressed
his anger. He rushed out of the house, and returned
to Vincent's. He had neither heard nor
seen any thing of Melissa or Beauman.

Night came on, and he ardently and impatiently
expected Melissa. He anticipated the consolation
her presence would bestow. Edgar had

told him she was more composed. He doubted
whether it were proper to excite anew her distress
by relating his interview with her father,
unless she was apprised of it. The evening passed
on, but Melissa came not. Alonzo grew
restless and uneasy. He looked out, then at his
watch. Vincent and his lady assured him that
she would soon be there. He paced his room.
Still he became more impatient. He walked out
on the way where she was expected to come.
Some times he advanced hastily; at others he
moved slowly: then stood motionless, listening
in breathless silence, momentarily expecting to
discover her white form approaching through the
gloom, or to hear the sound of her footsteps advancing
amidst the darkness. Shapeless objects,
either real or imaginary, frequently crossed his
sight, but, like the unreal phantoms of night,
they suddenly passed away, and were seen no
more. At length he perceived a dusky white
form, advancing in the distant dim obscurity. It
drew near; his heart beat in quick succession;
his fond hopes told him it was Melissa. The
object came up, and hastily passed him, with a
“good night, sir.”

It was a stranger in a white surtout. Alonzo
hesitated whether to advance or to return. It
was possible, though not probable, that Melissa
might have come some other way. He hastened
back to Vincent's. She had not arrived.—
“Something extraordinary (said Mrs. Vincent)
has prevented her coming. Perhaps she is ill.”

Alonzo shuddered at the suggestion He looked
at his watch; it was half past eleven o'clock.
Again he hastily sallied out, and took the road to
her father's.

The night was exceedingly dark, and illuminated
only by the feeble glimmering of the twinkling
stars. When he came within sight of the
house, and as he drew near, no lights were visible,
all was still and silent. He entered the yard,
walked up the avenue, and approached the door.
The familiar watch-dog, which lay near the
threshold, fawned upon him, joyfully whining
and wagging his tail. “Thou still knowest me,
Curlow, (said Alonzo) thou hast known me in
better days; I am now poor and wretched, but
thy friendship is the same.” A solemn stillness
prevailed all around, interrupted only by the discordance
of the nightly insects, and the hooting
of the moping owl, from the neighboring forest.
The dwelling was shrouded in darkness. In
Melissa's room no gleam of light appeared.—
“They are all buried in sleep, (said Alonzo,
deeply sighing) and I have only to return in disappointment.”

He turned and walked towards the street; casting
his eyes back, the blaze of a candle caught
his sight. It passed rapidly along through the
lower rooms, now gleaming, now intercepted, as
the walls or the windows intervened, and suddenly
disappeared. Alonzo gazed earnestly a
few moments, and hastily returned back. No
noise was to be heard, no new objects were discernible.

He clambered over the garden wall,
and went around to the back side of the house.
Here all was solemn and silent as in front. Immediately
a faint light appeared through one of
the chamber windows; it grew brighter, a candle
entered the chamber, the sash was flung up,
and Melissa seated herself at the window.

The weather was sultry, she held a fan in her
hand, her countenance, though stamped with
deep dejection, was marked with serenity, but
pale as the drooping lily of the valley. Alonzo
placed himself directly under the window, and in
a low voice called her by name. She started
wildly, looked out, and faintly cried, “who's
there?” He answered, “Alonzo.” “Good
Heavens! (she exclaimed) is it you, Alonzo?
I was disappointed in meeting you at Vincent's
this evening; my father will not suffer me to go
out without attendants. I am now constantly
watched and guarded.” “Watched and guarded!
[replied Alonzo]—At the risque of my
life I will deliver you from the tyranny with which
you are oppressed.”—“Be calm, Alonzo, [said
she] I think it will not long last. Beauman will
soon depart, after which there will undoubtedly
be some alteration Desire Mrs. Vincent to
come here to-morrow, I believe they will trust
me to see her; I can, from time to time, inform
you of passing events, so that you may know
what changes take place. I am placed under the
care of my aunt, who suffers me not to step out
of her sight. We pass the night in an adjoining

chamber; from whence, after she had fallen asleep,
I stole out, and went down with a design
of walking in the garden, but found the doors all
locked and the keys taken out. I returned and
raised this window for fresh air.—Hark! [said
she] my aunt calls me. She has waked and misses
me. I must fly to her chamber. You shall
hear more from me to-morrow by Mrs. Vincent,
Alonzo.” So saying, she let down the window
sash, and retired.

Alonzo withdrew slowly from the place, and
repassed the way he came. As he jumped back
over the garden wall, he found a man standing at
its foot, very near him; after a moment's scrutiny
he perceived it to be Beauman. “What,
my chevalier, [said he to Alonzo] such an adept
in the amorous science already? Hast thou then
eluded the watchful eyes of Argus, and the vigilance
of the dragon!”—“Unfeeling and impertinent
intruder, [retorted Alonzo, seizing hold of
him] is it not enough that an innocent daughter
must endure a merciless parent's persecuting
hand, but must thou add to her misery by thy
disgusting interference!”—“Quit thy hold, tarquin,
[said Beauman.] Art thou determined,
after storming the fortress to murder the garrison?”—“Go,”
said Alonzo, quitting him, “go
sir; you are unworthy of my anger. Pursue
thy grovelling schemes. Strive to force to your
arms a lady who abhors you, and were it not on
one account, must ever continue to despise and
hate you.” “Alonzo,” replied Beauman, I perceive

thou knowest me not. You and I were rivals
in our pursuit—the hand of Melissa. Whether
from freak or fortune, the preference was given
to you, and I retired in silence. From coincidence
of circumstances, her father has now been
induced to give the preference to me. My belief
was that Melissa would comply with her father's
will, especially after her prospects of connecting
with you were cut off by the events which
ruined your fortune. You, Alonzo have yet, I
find, to learn the character of women. It has
been my particular study. Melissa, now ardently
impassioned by first impressions, irritated by
recent disappointment, her passions delicate and
vivid, her affections animated and unmixed, it
would be strange, if she could suddenly relinquish
primitive attachments founded on such
premises, without a struggle. But remove her
from your presence for one year, with only distant
and uncertain prospects of seeing you again,
admit me as the substitute in your absence, and
she accepts my hand as freely as she would now
receive yours. I had no design—it was never
my wish to marry her without her consent. That
I believe I shall yet obtain. Under existing circumstances
it is impossible, but that you must be
separated for some considerable time. Then—
when cool deliberation succeeds to the wild vagaries,
the electric fire of frolic fancy, she will
discover the dangerous precipice, the deadly abyss
to which her present conduct and inclinations
lead. She will see that the blandishments,
without the possessions of life, must fade and die.
She will discriminate between the shreds and the
trappings of taste. She will prefer indifference
and splendor to love and a cottage.

“At present I relinquish all further pursuit;
to-morrow I return to New London. When Melissa,
from calm deliberation and the advice of
friends, shall freely consent to yield me her hand,
I shall return to receive it. I came from my
lodgings this evening to declare these intentions
to her father, but it being later than I was aware
of, the family had gone to rest. I was about to
return, when I saw a light from the chamber
window, which soon withdrew. I stood a moment
by the garden wall, when you approached
and discovered me.” So saying, he bade Alonzo
good night, and walked hastily away.—“I
find he knows not the character of Melissa,” said
Alonzo, and returned to Vincent's.

The next day Alonzo told the Vincents of all
that had passed, and it was agreed that Mrs. Vincent
should visit at Melissa's father's that afternoon.
She went at an early hour. Alonzo's
feelings were on the wreck until she returned,
which happened much sooner than was expected,
when she gave him and Vincent the following
information:—

“When I arrived there,” said she, “I found
Melissa's father and mother alone; her mother
was in tears, which she endeavored to conceal.
Her father soon withdrew. After some conversation
I enquired for Melissa. The old lady

burst into tears, and informed me that this morning
Melissa's aunt (he old maid) had invited her
to ride out with her. A carriage was provided,
which, after a large trunk had been placed therein,
drove off with Melissa and her aunt; that
Melissa's father had just been informing her that
he had sent their daughter to a distant part of the
country, where she was to reside with a friend
until Alonzo should depart from the neighborhood.
The reason of this sudden resolution was
his being informed by Beauman, that notwithstanding
his precaution, Melissa and Alonzo had
an interview the last evening. Where she was
sent to, the old lady could not tell, but she was
convinced that Melissa was not apprised of the
design when she consented to go. Her aunt had
heretofore been living with the relatives of the
family in various parts of the state.” Alonzo
listened to Mrs. Vincent's relation with inexpressible
agitation. He sat silent a few moments;
then suddenly started up. I will find her if she
be on the earth!” said he, and in spite of Vincent's
attempts to prevent him, rushed out of the
house, flew to the road, and was soon out of
sight.

Melissa had not, indeed, the most distant suspicion
of the designs of her father and aunt. The
latter informed her that she was going to take a
morning's ride, and invited Melissa to accompany
her, to which she consented. She did not even
perceive the trunk which was fastened on
behind the carriage. They were attended by a

single servant. They drope to a neighboring
town where Melissa had frequently attended her
father or mother, to purchase articles of dress,
&c. where they alighted at a friend's house, and
lingered away the time until dinner, after which,
they prepared, as Melissa supposed to return,
but found, to her surprise, after they had entered
the carriage, that her aunt ordered the driver to
proceed a different way. She asked her aunt if
they were not going home. “Not yet,” said
she. Melissa grew uneasy; she knew she was
to see Mrs. Vincent that afternoon; she knew
the disappointment which Alonzo must experience,
if she was absent. She begged her aunt
to return, as she expected the company of some
ladies that afternoon. “Then they must be disappointed,
child,” said her aunt. Melissa knew
it was in vain to remonstrate, she supposed her
aunt was bent on visiting some of her acquaintance,
and she remained silent.

They arrived at another village, and alighted
at an inn, where Melissa and her aunt tarried
while the servant was ordered out by the latter
on some business unknown to Melissa. When
they again got into the carriage she perceived
several large packages and bundles, which had
been deposited there since they left it. She enquired
of her aunt what they contained; “Articles
for family use, child” she replied, and ordered
the driver to proceed.

They passed along winding and solitary paths,
into a bye road which led through an unfrequented

wood, that opened into a rocky part of the
country bordering on the Sound. Here they
stopped at the only house in view. It was a
miserable hut, built of logs, and boarded with
slabs. They alighted from the carriage, and Melissa's
aunt, handing the driver a large bunch of
keys, “remember to do as I have told you,”
said she, and he drove rapidly away. It was
with some difficulty they got into the hut, as a
meagre cow, with a long yoke on her neck, a
board before her eyes, and a cross piece on her
horns, stood with her head in the door. On one
side of her were four or five half starved squeaking
pigs, on the other a flock of gaggling geese.

As they entered the door, a woman who sat
carding wool jumped up, “La me! (she cried)
here is Miss D—, welcome here again. How
does madam do?” dropping a low courtesy.—
She was dressed in a linsey-woolsey short gown,
a petticoat of the same, her hair hanging about
her ears, and barefoot. Three dirty ragged children
were playing about the floor, and the furniture
was of a piece with the building. “Is my
room in order?” enquired Melissa's aunt. “It
hasn't been touch'd since madam was here,” answered
the woman, and immediately stalked away
to a little back apartment which Melissa and
her aunt entered. It was small, but neatly furnished,
and contained a single bed. This appendage
had been concealed from Melissa's view,
as it was the opposite side of the house from
whence she alighted. “Where is John?” asked

Melissa's aunt. “My husband is in the garden,
(replied the woman) I will call him,” and out she
scampered. John soon appeared, and exhibited
an exact counter part of his wife. What does
madam please to want?” said he, bowing three
or four times. “I want you, John,” she answered,
and immediately stepped into the other room,
and gave some directions in a low voice, to him
and his wife. “La me! (said the woman) madam
a'nt a going to live in that doleful place!”
Melissa could not understand her aunt's reply,
but heard her give directions to “first hang on
the tea kettle.” This done, while John and his
wife went out. Melissa's aunt prepared tea in her
own room. In about an hour John and his wife
returned, and gave the same bunch of keys to Melissa's
aunt, which she had given to the servant
who drove the carriage.

Melissa was involved in inscrutable mystery
respecting these extraordinary proceedings. She
conjectured that they boded her no good, but she
could not penetrate into her aunt's designs She
frequently looked out, hoping to see the carriage
return, but was disappointed. When tea was
made ready, she could neither eat nor drink. After
her aunt had disposed of a dozen cups of tea,
and an adequate proportion of biscuit, butter and
dried beef, she directed Melissa to prepare to
take a walk. The sun was low; they proceeded
through fields, in a foot path, over rough and
uneven ways, directly towards the Sound. They
walked about a mile, when they came to a large,

old fashioned, castle-like building, surrounded by
a high, thick wall, and almost totally concealed
on all sides from the sight, by irregular rows of
large locusts and elm trees, dry prim[2] hedges,
and green shrubbery. The gate which opened
into the yard, was made of strong hard wood,
thickly crossed on the out side with iron bars, and
filled with old iron spikes. Melissa's aunt unlocked
the gate, and they entered the yard, which
was overgrown with rank grass and rushes; the
avenue which led to the house was almost in the
same condition. The house was of real Gothic
architecture, built of rude stone, with battlements.

The doors were constructed in the same manner
as the gate at which they entered the yard.
They unlocked the door, which screaked heavily
on its hinges, and went in. They ascended a
flight of stairs, wound through several dark and
empty rooms, till they came to one which was
handsomely furnished, with a fire burning on the
hearth. Two beds were in the room, with tables
and chairs, and other conveniences for house
keeping. “Here we are safe,” said Melissa's
aunt, “as I have took care to lock all the doors
and gates after me, and here, Melissa, you are in
the mansion of your ancestors. Your great

grand father, who came over from England, built
this house in the earliest settlements of the country,
and here he resided until his death. The
reason why so high and thick a wall was built around
it, and the doors and gates so strongly fortified,
was to secure it against the Indians, who
frequently committed depredations on the early
settlers. Your grand father came in possession
of this estate after his father's death; it fell to me
by will, with the lands surrounding it. The
house has sometimes been tenanted, at others
not. It has now been vacant for a few years.
The lands are rented yearly. John, the person
from whose house we last came, is my overseer
and tenant. I had a small room built, adjoining
that hut, where I generally reside for a week
when I come to receive my rents. I have tho't
frequently of fitting up this place for my future
residence, but circumstances have hitherto hindered
my carrying the scheme into effect, and
now, perhaps, it will never take place.

Your perverseness, Melissa, in refusing to
comply with the wishes of your friends, has induced
us to adopt the method of bringing you
here where you are to remain until Alonzo leaves
your neighbourhood, at least. Notwithstanding
your father's injunctions and my vigilance, you
had a clandestine interview with him last night.
So we were told by Beauman this morning, before
he set off for New-London, who discovered
him at your window. It therefore became necessary
to remove you immediately. You will

want for nothing. John is to supply us with
whatever is needful. You will not be long here;
Alonzo will soon be gone; you will think differently;
return home, marry Beauman, and become
a Lady.”

“My God! (exclaimed Melissa,) is it possible
my father can be so cruel! Is he so unfeeling
as to banish me from his house, and confine
me within the walls of a prison, like a common
malefactor!” She flung herself on the bed in a
state little inferior to distraction. Her aunt told
her it was all owing to her own obstinacy, and
because she refused to be made happy, and went
to preparing supper.

Melissa heard none of her aunt's observations,
she lay in a stupifying agony, insensible to all
that passed. When supper was ready, her aunt
endeavoured to arouse her. She started up,
stared around her with a wild agonizing countenance,
but spoke not a word. Her aunt became
alarmed. She applied stimulants to her temples
and forehead, and persuaded her to take some
cordials. She remained seemingly insensible
through the night: just at morning, she fell into
a slumber interrupted by incoherent moanings,
convulsive startings, long drawn sighs, intermitting
sobs, and by frequent, sudden and
restless turnings from side to side. At length
she appeared to be in a calm and quiet sleep for
about an hour. About sunrise she awoke—her
aunt sat by her bed side. She gazed languidly

about the room, and burst into tears. She wept
a long time; her aunt strove to consolate her,
for she truly began to tremble, lest Melissa's distress
should produce her immediate dissolution.
Towards night, however she became more calm
and resigned, but a slight fever succeeded, which
kept her confined for several days, after which
she slowly recovered.

John came frequently to the house to receive
the commands of Melissa's aunt, and brought such things as they wanted. Her aunt also sometimes
went home with him, leaving the keys of
the house with Melissa, but locking the gate and
taking the key of that with her. She generally
returned before sunset. When Melissa was so
far recovered as to walk out, she found that the
house was situated on an eminence, about one
hundred yards from the Sound. The yard was
large and extensive. Within the enclosure was
a spacious garden, now overrun with brambles
and weeds. A few medical and odoriferous
herbs were scattered here and there, and a few
solitary flowers overtopped the tangling briars
below; but there was plenty of fruit on the
shrubbery and trees. The out buildings were
generally in a ruinous situation. The cemetery
was the most perfect, as it was built of hewn
stone and marble, and had best withstood the
ravages of time. The rooms in the house were
mostly empty and decaying: the main building
was firm and strong, as was also the extended
wall which enclosed the whole. She found that

although her aunt, when they first arrived, had
led her through several upper rooms to the chamber
they inhabited yet there was from thence a
direct passage to the hall.

The prospect was not disagreeable. West,
all was wilderness, from which a brook wound
along at a little distance from the garden wall.—
North, were the uneven grounds she had crossed
when she came there, bounded by distant groves
and hills. East, beautiful meadows and fields,
arrayed in flowery green, sloped to salt marshes
or sandy banks of the sound, or ended in
the long, white beaches which extended far into
the sea. South, was the sound of Long Island.

Melissa passed much of her time in tracing
the ruins of this antiquated place, in viewing the
white sails as they passed up and down the
sound, and in listening to the songs of the thousand
various birds which frequented the garden
and the forest. She could have been contented
here to have buried her afflictions, and forever to
retire from the world, could Alonzo but have resided
within those walls. “What will he think
has become of me,” she would say while the disconsolate
tear glittered in her eye. Her aunt
had frequently urged her to yield to her father's
injunctions, regain her liberty and marry Beauman;
and she every day become more solicitous
and impertinent. A subject so hateful to
Melissa, sometimes provoked her to tears; at
others her keen resentment. She therefore,

when the weather was fair, passed much of her
time in the garden and adjoining walks, wishing
to be as much out of her aunt's company as possible.

One day John came there early in the morning
and Melissa's aunt went home with him. The
day passed away, but she did not return. Melissa
sat up until a late hour in the night, expecting
her; she went to the gate, and found it was
fast locked, returned, locked and bolted the
doors of the house, went to bed and slept as
soundly as she had done since her residence in
the old mansion. “I have at least (she said,)
escaped the disgusting curtain-lecture about marrying
Beauman.”

The next day her aunt returned. “I was
quite concerned about you child (said she) how
did you sleep.” “Never better (she answered)
since I have been here. “I had forgotten (said
her aunt) that my rents became due this week—
I was detained until late by some of my tenants,
John was out, and I dare not return in the night
alone. I must go back to-day. It will take me
a week to settle my business. If I am obliged
to stay out again, I will send one of John's daughters
to sleep with you.” “You need not give
yourself that trouble (replied Melissa) I am under
no apprehension of staying here alone; nothing
can get into, or out of these premises!”—
Well thou hast wonderful courage, child (said
her aunt) but I shall be as frequently here as
possible, and as soon as my business is settled,

I shall be absent no more.” So saying, she bade
Melissa good morning, and set off for her residence
at the dwelling of John.

She did not return in two days. The second
night of her absence, Melissa was sitting in her
chamber, reading, when she heard a noise as of
several people trampling in the yard below.—
She arose, cautiously raised the window and
looked out. It was extremely dark, she thought
she might have been discovered.

Her aunt came the next day, and told her she
was obliged to go into the country to collect
some debts of those to whom she had rented
lands: she should be gone a few days, and as
soon as she returned should come there. The
keys of the house (said she) I shall leave with
you. The gate I shall lock, and leave that key
with John, who will come here as often as necessary,
to assist you and see if you want any thing.”
She then went off, leaving Melissa not dissatisfied
with the prospect of her absence.

Melissa amused herself in evenings by reading
in the few books her aunt had brought there,
and in the day, in walking around the yard and
garden, or in traversing the rooms of the antique
building. In some, were the remains of ancient
furniture, others were entirely empty. Cobwebs
and mouldering walls were the principal ornaments
left.

One evening as she was about retiring to rest,
she thought she heard the same trampling noise
in the yard, as on a former occasion. She steped

softly to the window, suddenly raised it, and held
out the candle. She listened and gazed with
anxious solicitude, but discovered nothing more.
All was silent; she shut the window and in a
short time went to bed.

Some time in the night she was suddenly awakened
by a sharp sound, apparently near her.
She started in a trembling panic, but endeavoured
to compose herself with the idea, that something
had fallen from the shelves. As she lay
musing upon the incident, she heard loud noises
in the rooms below, succeeded by an irregular
and confused number of voices, and presently
after, foot-steps ascending the stairs which led
to her chamber. She trembled; a cold chilly
sweat run down her face. Directly the doors
below opened and shut with a quick and violent
motion. And soon after she was convinced that
she distinctly heard a whispering in her room.
She raised herself up in the bed and cast inquisitive
eyes towards her chamber door. All was
darkness—no new object was visible—no sound
was heard, and she again lay down.

Her mind was too much agitated and alarmed
to sleep. She had evidently heard sounds, footsteps
and voices in the house, and whisperings
which appeared to be in her room. The yard
gate was locked, of which John had the key.—
She was confident that no person could ascend or
get over the wall of the enclosure. But if that
were practicable, how was it possible that any
human being could enter the house. She had

the key of every door, and they were all fast
locked, and yet she had heard them furiously
open and shut A thought darted into her mind,
was it not a plan which her aunt had contrived
in order to frighten her to a compliance with her
wishes? But then how could she enter the house
without keys? This might be done with the use
of a false key. But from whence did the whisperings
proceed which appeared close to her bed-side?
Possibly it might be conveyed through the
key hole of her chamber door. These thoughts
tended, in some degree, to allay her fears; they
were possibilities; at least, however, improbable.

As she lay thus musing, a hand cold as the
icy fingers of death, grasped her arm, which lay
on the outside of the bed clothes. She screamed
convulsively, and sprang up in the bed. Nothing
was to be seen, no noise was heard. She
had not time to reflect. She flew out of the bed,
ran to the fire and lighted a candle. Her heart
beat rapidly. She cast timid glances around the
room cautiously searching every corner, and
examining the door. All things were in the
same state she had left them when she went to
bed. Her door was locked in the same manner:
no visible being was in the room except herself.

She sat down pondering on these strange events.
Was it not probable that she was right in
her first conjectures respecting their being the
works of her aunt, and effected by her agents
and instrumentality? All were possible, except
the cold hand which had grasped her arm.—

Might not this be the effect of a terrified and
heated imagination? Or if false keys had been
made use of to enter the rooms below, might
they not also be used to enter her chamber?—
But could her room be unlocked, persons enter,
approach her bed depart and re-lock the door,
while she was awake, without her hearing them?

She knew she could not go to sleep, and she
determined not to go to bed again that night —
She took up a book, but her spirits had been too
much disordered by the past scenes to permit her
to read. She looked out of the window. The
moon had arisen and cast a pale lustre over the
landscape. She recollected the opening and
shutting of the door—perhaps they were still
open. The thought was alarming. She opened
her chamber door, and with the candle in her
hand, cautiously descended the stairs, casting an
inquisitive eye in every direction, and stopping
frequently to listen. She advanced to the door;
it was locked. She examined the others; they
were in the same situation. She turned to go
up stairs, when a loud whisper echoed through
the hall, expressing “away! away!” She flew
like lightning to her chamber, relocked the door,
and flung herself almost breathless, into a chair.

As soon as her scattered senses collected, she
concluded that whatever had been in the house
was there still. She resolved to go out no more
until day, which soon began to discolour the east
with a fainter blue; then purple streaks, intermingled
with a dusky whiteness, ascended in

pyramidial columns to the zenith; these fading
slowly away, the eastern horizon became fringed
with the golden spangles of early morn. A small
spot of ineffable brightness succeeded, and immediately
the sun burst over the verge of creation,
deluging the world in a flood of unbounded light
and glory.

As soon as the morning bad a little advanced,
Melissa ventured out. She proceeded with hesitating
steps, carefully scrutinizing every object
which met her sight. She examined every door;
they were all fast. She critically searched every
room, closet, &c. above and below. She then
took a light and descended into the cellar—here
her inquisition was the same. Thus did she
thoroughly and strictly examine and search every
part of the house from the garret to the cellar,
but could find nothing altered, changed or removed;
no outlet, no signs of there having been any
being in the house the evening before except
herself.

She then unlocked the outer door and proceeded
to the gate, which she found locked as usual.
She next examined the yard, the garden, and all
the out-houses.

Nothing could be discovered of any person
having been recently there. She next walked
around by the wall, the whole circle of the enclosure.
She was convinced that the unusual
height of the wall rendered it impossible for any
one to get over it. It was constructed of several
tier of hewed timbers, and both sides of it

were as smooth as glass. On the top, long spikes
were thickly driven in, sharpened at both ends.
It was surrounded on the outside by a deep wide
moat, which was nearly filled with water. Over
this moat was a draw-bridge, on the road leading
to the gate, which was drawn up, and John had
the key.

The events of the past night, therefore, remained
inscrutable. It must be that her aunt
was the agent who had managed this extraordinary
machinery.

She found John at the house when she returned.
“Does madam want any thing to-day?”
asked he. “Has my aunt returned?” enquired
Melissa. “Not yet” he replied. “How long
has she been gone?” she asked. “Four days,
(replied John, after counting his fingers) and she
will not be back under four or five more.”—
“Has the key of the gate been constantly in your
possession?” asked she. “The key of the
gate and draw-bridge (he replied) have not been
out of my possession for a moment since your
aunt has been gone.”—“Has any person been
to enquire for me or my aunt (she enquired)
since I have been here?”—“No madam (said
he) not a single person.” Melissa knew not
what to think, she could not give up the idea of
false keys—perhaps her aunt had returned to her
father's.

Perhaps the draw-bridge had been let down,
the gate opened and the house entered by means
of false keys. Her father would as soon do this

as to confine her in this solitary place, and he
would go all lengths to induce her either by terror,
persuasion or threats, to relinquish Alonzo
and marry Beauman.

A thought impressed her mind which gave her
some consolation. It was possible to secure the
premises so that no person could enter even by
the aid of false keys. She asked John if he would
assist her that day. “In any thing you wish,
madam,” he replied. She then directed him to
go to work. Staples and iron bars were found
in different parts of the building, with which he
secured the doors and windows, so that they
could be opened only on the inside. The gate
which swung in, was secured in the same manner.
She then asked John if he was willing to leave
the key of the gate and the draw-bridge with
her. “Perhaps I may as well, (said he) for if you
bar the gate and let down the bridge, I cannot
get in myself until you let me in.'!—John handed
her the keys. “When I come (said he) I will
halloo and you must let me in.” This she promised
to do and John departed.[3]

That night, Melissa let down the bridge locked
and barred the gate, and the doors and windows
of the house: she also went again over all
parts of the building, strictly searching every
place, though she was well convinced she should
find nothing extraordinary. She then retired to
her chamber, seated herself at a western window,
and watched the slow declining sun, as it leisurely
sunk behind the lofty groves. Pensive twilight
spread her misty mantle over the landscape;
the western horizon glowed with the spangles of
evening. Deepening glooms advanced. The
last beam of day faded from the view and the
world was enveloped in night. The owl hooted
solemnly in the forest, and the whipperwill sung
cheerfully in the garden. Innumerable stars
glittered in the firmament, intermingling their
quivering lustre with the pale splendours of the
milk way.

Melissa did not retire from the window until
late; she then shut it and withdrew within the
room. She determined not to go to bed that
night: if she was to be visited by beings, material
or immaterial, she chose not again to encounter
them in darkness, or to be surprised when
she was asleep. But why should she fear? She
knew of none she had displeased except her father,
her aunt and Beauman. If by any of those
the late terrifying scenes had been wrought, she
had now effectually precluded a recurrence thereof,
for she was well convinced that no human being
could now enter the enclosure without her

permission. But if supernatural agents had
been the actors, what had she to fear from them?
The night passed away without any alarming circumstances,
and when daylight appeared she
flung herself upon the bed, and slept until the
morning was considerably advanced. She now
felt convinced that her former conjectures were
right, that it was her aunt, her father, or both,
who had caused the alarming sounds she had
heard, a repetition of which had only been prevented
by the precautions she had taken.

When she awoke, the horizon was overclouded,
and it began to rain. It continued to rain until
towards evening, when it cleared away. She
went to the gate, and found all things as she had
left them; she returned, fastened the doors as
usual, examined all parts of the house, and again
went to her chamber.

She sat up until a late hour, when growing
very drowsy, and convinced that she was safe
and secure, she went to bed; leaving, however,
two candles burning in the room. As she, for
two nights, had been deprived of her usual rest,
she soon fell into a slumber.

She had not long been asleep before she was
suddenly aroused by the apparent report of a pistol,
seemingly discharged close to her head.—
Awakened so instantaneously, her recollection,
for a time, was confused and imperfect. She
was only sensible of a strong, sulphurous scent:
but she soon remembered that she had left two
candles burning, and every object was now

shrouded in darkness. This alarmed her exceedingly.
What could have become of the
candles?—They must have been blown out, or
taken away. What was the sound she had just
heard?—What the sulphurous stench which had
pervaded the room? While she was thus musing
in perplexity, a broad flash like lightning, transiently
illuminated the chamber, followed by a
long, loud, and deep roar, which seemed to shake
the building to its centre. It did not appear like
thunder: the sounds seemed to be in the rooms
directly over her head. Perhaps, however, it
was thunder

Perhaps a preceding clap had struck near the
building, broken the windows, put out the lights,
and filled the house with the electric effluvium.
She listened for a repetition of the thunder—but
a very different sound soon grated on her ear.—
A hollow, horrible groan echoed through her apartment,
passing off in a faint dying murmur.
It was evident that the groan proceeded from
some person in the chamber. Melissa raised
herself up in the bed; a tall, white form moved
from the upper end of the room, glided slowly
by her bed, and seemed to pass off near the foot.
She then heard the doors below alternately open
and shut, slapping furiously, and in quick succession
followed by violentnoises in the rooms below,
like the falling of heavy bodies and the crash
of furniture. Clamourous voices succeeded, among
which she could distinguish boisterous
menaces and threatenings, and the plaintive tone

of expostulation A momentary silence ensued,
when the cry of “Murder! murder! murder!!”
echoed through the building, followed by thereport
of a pistol, and shortly after, the groans of a
person apparently in the agonies of death, which
grew fainter and fainter until it died away in a
seemingly expiring gasp. A dead silence prevailed
for a few minutes, to which a loud hoarse
peal of ghastly laughter succeeded—then again
all was still. But she soon heard heavy foot-steps
ascending the stairs to her chamber door.
It was now she became terrified and alarmed beyond
any former example. “Gracious Heaven,
defend me! (she exclaimed) what am I coming
to!”—Knowing that every avenue to the enclosure
was effectually secured; knowing that all
the doors and windows of the house as also that
which opened into her chamber, were fast locked
strictly bolted and barred; and knowing that
all the keys were in her possession, she could
not entertain the least doubt but the noises she
had heard were produced by supernatural beings,
and, she had reason to believe, of the most mischievous
nature. She was now convinced that
her father or her aunt could have no agency in
the business. She even wished her aunt had returned.
It must be exceedingly difficult to cross
the moat, as the draw-bridge was up; it must be
still more difficult to surpass the wall of the enclosure;
it was impossible for any human being
to enter the house, and still more impossible to
enter her chamber. While she lay thus ruminating
in extreme agitation, momentarily expecting
to have her ears assailed with some terrific
sound, a pale light dimly illuminated her chamber.

It grew brighter. She raised herself up to
look towards the door; the first object which
met her eye was a most horrible form standing at
a little distance from her bed side. Its appearance
was tall and robust, wrapped in a tattered
white robe, spotted with blood. The hair of its
head was matted with clotted gore. A deep
wound appeared to have pierced its breast, from
which fresh blood flowed down its garment. Its
pale face was gashed and gory; its eyes fixed,
glazed and glaring; its lips open, its teeth set,
and in its hand was a bloody dagger.

Melissa uttering a shriek of terror, shrunk into
the bed, and in an instant the room was involved
in pitchy darkness. A freezing ague seized
her limbs, and drops of chilling sweat stood
upon her face. Immediately a horrid hoarse
voice burst from amidst the gloom of her apartment—“
Begone! begone from this house!”—
The bed on which she lay then seemed to be agitated,
and directly she perceived some person
crawling on its foot. Every consideration except
present safety was relinquished; instantaneously
she sprang from the bed to the floor—
with convulsed grasp seized the candle, flew to
the fire and lighted it. She gazed wildly around
the room—no new object was visible. With
timid step she approached the bed; she strictly

searched all around and under it, but nothing
strange could be found. A thought darted into
her mind, to leave the house immediately and fly
to John's; this was easy, as the keys of the gate
and draw-bridge were in her possession. She
stoped not to reconsider her determination, but
seizing the keys, with the candle in her hand she
unlocked her chamber door, and proceeded cautiously
down stairs, fearfully casting her eyes on
each side, as she tremblingly advanced to the
outer door. She hesitated a moment. To what
perils was she about to expose herself by thus
venturing out at the dead of the night, and proceeding
such a distance alone? Her situation
she thought could become no more hazardous,
and she was about to unbar the door, when she
was alarmed by a deep, hollow sigh. She looked
around and saw, stretched on one side of the
hall, the same ghastly form which had so recently
appeared standing by her bed side The same
haggard countenance, the same awful appearance
of murderous death. A faintness came upon
her; she turned to flee to her chamber— the candle
dropped from her trembling hand, and she
was shrouded in impenetrable darkness. She
groped to find the stairs: as she came near their
foot, a black object, apparently in human shape,
stood before her, with eyes which seemed to burn
like coals of fire, and red flames issuing from its
mouth. As she stood fixed a moment in inexpressible
trepidation, a large ball of fire rolled along
the hall, towards the door, and burst with
an explosion which seemed to rock the building
to its deepest foundation. Melissa closed her
eyes and sunk senseless to the floor. She revived
and got to her chamber, she hardly knew
how; locked her door, lighted another candle,
and after again searching the room, flung herself
into a chair, in a state of mind which almost deprived
her of reason.

Daylight soon appeared, and the cheerful sun
darting its enlivening rays through the crevices
and windows of the antique mansion, recovered
her exhausted spirits, and dissipated, in some degree,
the terrors which hovered about her mind.
She endeavoured to reason coolly on the events
of the past night, but reason could not elucidate
them. Not the least noise had been heard since
she last returned to her chamber: she therefore
expected to discover no traits which might tend
to a disclosure of those mysteries. She consolated
herself only with a fixed determination to
leave the desolate mansion. Should John come
there that day, he might be prevailed on to permit
her to remain at her aunt's apartment in his
house until her aunt should return. If he should
not come before sunset, she resolved to leave the
mansion and proceed there.

She took some refreshment and went down
stairs: she found the doors and windows all fast
as she had left them. She then again searched
every room in the house, both above and below,
and the cellar; but she discovered no appearance
of there having been any person there. Not

the smallest article was displaced; every thing
appeared as it had formerly been. She then went
to the gate—it was locked as usual, and the draw
bridge was up. She again traversed the circuit
of the wall, but found no alteration, or any place
where it was possible the enclosure might be entered.
Again she visited the outer buildings,
and even entered the cemetery, but discovered
not the least circumstance which could conduce
to explain the surprising transactions of the preceding
night She however returned to her room
in a more composed frame of spirit confident
that she should not remain alone another night in
that gloomy, desolate, and dangerous solitude.

Towards evening Melissa took her usual walk
around the enclosure It was that season of the
year when weary summer is lapsing into the arms
of fallow autumn. The day had been warm, and
the light gales bore revigorating coolness on
their wings as they tremulously agitated the foliage
of the western forest, or fluttered among
the branches of trees surrounding the mansion.
The green splendors of spring had begun to fade
into a yellow lustre, the flowery verdure of the
fields was changed to a russet hue. A robin
chirped on a neighboring oak a wren chattered
beneath, swallows twittered around the decayed
buildings, the ludicrous mocking bird sung sportively
from the top of the highest elm, and the
surrounding groves rung with varying, artless
melody; while deep in the adjacent wilderness
the woodcock, hammering on some dry and blast-trees,

filled the woods with reverberant echoes.
The sound was only ruffled by the lingering
breezes, as they idly wandered over its surface.
Long-Island, now in possession of the British
troops, was thinly enveloped in smoky vapor;
scattered along its shores lay the numerous small
craft and larger ships of the hostile flect. A few
skiffs were passing and repassing the Sound, and
several American gun-boats lay off a point which
jutted out from the main land, far to the eastward.
Numberless summer insects mingied
their discordant strains amidst the weedy herbage.
A heavy black cloud was rising in the
northwest, which seemed to portend a shower, as
the sonorous, distant thunder, was at long intervals
distinctly heard.

Melissa walked around the yard, contemplating
the varying beauties of the scene: the images of
departed joys—the days when Alonzo had participated
with her in admiring the splendours of
rural prospects, raised in her bosom the sigh of
deep regret. She entered the garden and traversed
the alleys, now overgrown with weeds and
tufted knot grass. The flower beds were choaked
with the low running bramble and tangling
five finger; tall, rank rushes, mullens and daisies,
had usurped the empire of the kitchen garden.
The viny arbour was broken, and principally
gone to decay; yet the “lonely wild rose”
blushed mournfully amidst the ruins. As she
passed from the garden, she involuntarily stopped
at the cemetery. She paused in serious reflec

tion. “Here (said she) in this house of gloom,
rest, in undisturbed silence, my honorable ancestors,
once the active tenants of yonder mander
mansion. Then, throughout these now solirary
demesnes, the busy occurrences of life glided
in cheerful circles Then, these now moss
clad alleys, and this wild weedy garden, were the
resort of the fashionable and the gay. Then,
evening music floated over the fields, while yonder
halls and apartments shone in brilliant illumination.
Now all is sad, solitary and dreary, the
haunt of spirits and spectres of nameless terror.
All that now remains of the head that formed,
the hand that executed, and the bosom that relished
this once happy scenery, is now, alas! only
a heap of dust.”

She seated herself on a little hillock, under a
weeping willow, which stood near the cemetery,
and watched the rising shower, which slowly ascended
in gloomy pomp, half hidden behind the
western groves, shrouding the low sun in black
vapour, while coming thunders more nearly and
more awfully rolled. The shrieking night hawk[4]
soared high into the air, mingling with the lurid
van of approaching storm, which widening, more
rapidly advanced, until “the Heavens were arrayed
in blackness.

The lightning, broader and brighter flashed,
hurling down its forky streaming bolts, far in the
wilderness, its flaming path followed by the vollcying

artillery of the skies. New bending its
long, crinkling spires over the vallies, now glimmering
along the summit of the hills. Convolving
clouds poured smoky volumes through the
expansion; a deep hollow, distant roar, announced
the approach of “summoned winds.” The
whole forest bowed in awful grandeur, as from
its dark bosom rushed the impetuous hurricane,
twisting off, or tearing up by the roots, the stoutest
trees, whirling the heaviest branches through
the air, with irresistible fury. It dashed upon
the sea, tossed it into irregular mountains, or
mingled its white foamy spray with the gloom of
the turbid skies. Slant-ways, the large heavy
drops of rain began to descend. Melissa hastened
to the mansion as she reached the door a
very briliant flash of lightning, accompanied by a
tremendous explosion, alarmed her. A thunder
bolt had entered a large elm tree within the enclosure,
and with horrible crash, had shivered it
from top to bottom. She unlocked the door, and
hurried to her chamber. Deep night now filled
the atmosphere; the rain poured in torrents, the
wind rocked the building, and bellowed in the
adjacent groves: the sea raged and roared, fierce
lightnings rent the heavens, alternately involving
the world in the sheeted flame of its many coloured
fires; thunders rolled awfully around the firmament,
or burst with horrid din, bounding and
reverberating among the surrounding woods,
hills and vallies. It seemed nothing less than
the crush of worlds sounding thro' the universe.

Melissa walked her room, listening to the wild
commotion of the elements. She feared that if
the storm continued, she should be compelled to
pass another night in the lonely mansion; if so,
she resolved not to go to bed. She now suddenly
recollected that in her haste to regain her
chamber she had forgotten to lock the outer door.
The shock she had received when the lightning
demolished the elm tree, was the cause of this
neglect. She took the candle, ran hastily down,
and fastened the door. As she was returning,
she heard footsteps, and imperfectly saw the
glance of semething coming out of an adjoining
room into the hall. Supposing some ghastly object
was approaching, she averted her eyes and
flew to the stairs. As she was ascending them,
a voice behind her exclaimed “Gracious heaven!
Melissa!”—The voice agitated her frame
with a confused, sympathetic sensation. She
turned, fixed her eyes upon the person who had
spoken; unconnected ideas floated a moment in
her imagination—“Eternal powers! (she cried)
it is Alonzo.”

Alonzo and Melissa were equally surprised at
so unexpected a meeting. They could scarcely
credit their own senses. How he had discovered
her solitude—what led him to that lonely place—
how he had got over the wall—were queries
which first arose in her mind. He likewise could
not conceive by what miracle he should find her
in a remote, desolate building, which he had supposed
to be uninhabited. With rapture he took

her trembling hand; tears of joy choaked their
utterance. “You are wet, Alonzo, (said Melissa,
at length) we will go up to my chamber. I
have a fire there, where you can dry your clothes”
“Your chamber! (replied Alonzo) who then inhabits
this house?” “No one except myself;
(she answered) I am here alone, Alonzo.” “Alone!
(he exclaimed) here alone, Melissa—good
God! tell me how—why—by what means are
you here alone!” “Let us go up to my chamber
(she replied) and I will tell you all.” He
followed her to her apartment and seated himself
by the fire. “You want refreshment,” said
Melissa, which was indeed the case, as he had
been long without any, and was wet, hungry and
weary.

She immediately set about preparing tea, and
soon had it ready, and a comfortable repast was
spread for his entertainment. And now, reader,
if thou art a child of nature, if thy bosom is susceptible
of refined sensibility, contemplate for a
moment. Melissa and Alonzo seated at the same
table, a table prepared by her own hand, in a
lonely mansion, separated from society, and no
one to interrupt them. After innumerable difficulties,
troubles and perplexities; af er vexing
embarrassments, and a cruel separation, they
were once more together and for some time every
other consideration was lost. The violence
of the storm had not abated. The lightning still
blazed, the thunder bellowed, the wind roared,
the sea raged, the rain poured, mingled with

heavy hail; Alonzo and Melissa heard little of
it. She told him all that had happened to her
since they parted, except the strange noises and
awful sights which had terrified her during her
confinement in that solitary building; this she
cosidered unnecessary and untimely, in her
present situation.

Alonzo informed her that as soon as he had
learned the manner in which she had been sent
away, he left the house of Vincent and went to
her father's, to see if he could not find out by
some of the domestics what course her aunt had
taken. None of them knew any thing about it.
He did not put himself in the way of her father,
as he was apprehensive of ill treatment thereby.
He then went to several places among the relatives
of the family, where he had heretofore visited
with Melissa, most of whom received him
with a cautious coldness. At length he came to
the house of Mr. Simpson, the gentleman to
whose seat Alonzo was once driven by a shower,
where he accidentally found Melissa on a visit,
as mentioned before[5] Here he was admitted
with the ardour of friendship. They had heard
his story; Melissa had kept up a correspondence
with one of the young ladies; they were therefore,
informed of all except Melissa's removal
from her father's house: of this they knew nothing
until told thereof by Alonzo.

“I am surprised at the conduct of my kinsman,
(said Mr. Simpson) for though his determinations

are like the laws of the Medes and Persians,
unalterable, yet I have ever believed that
the welfare of his children lay nearest his heart.
In the present instance he is certainly pursuing a
mistaken policy. I will go and see him.” He
then ordered his horse, desiring Alonzo to remain
at his house until he returned.

Alonzo was treated with the most friendly politeness
by the family; he found that they were
deeply interested in his favour and the welfare of
Melissa. At evening Mr. Simpson returned.—
“It is in vain (said he) to reason with my kinsman;
he is determined that his daughter shall
marry your rival. He will not even inform me
to what place he has sent Melissa; her aunt
however is with her, and they must be at the residence
of some of the family relatives.

I will dispatch my son William among our con
nections to see if he can find her out.” The
next morning William departed, and was gone
two days, but could not obtain the least intelligence
either of Melissa or her aunt, although he
had been the rounds among the relations of the
family.

There is some my stery in this affair (said Mr.
Simpson.) I am very little acquainted with Melissa's
aunt. I have understood that she draws a
decent support from her patrimonial resources,
which, it is said are pretty large, and that she
resides alternately with her different relatives. I
have understood also that my kinsman expects
her fortune to come into his family, in case she

never marries, which, in all probability, she now
will not, and that she, in consequence, holds considerable
influence over him. It is not possible
but that Melissa is yet concealed at some place of
her aunt's residence, and that the family are in
the secret. I think it cannot be long before they
will disclose themselves; you, Alonzo, are welcome
to make my house your home; and if Melissa
can be found, she shall be treated as my
daughter. Alonzo thanked him for his friendship,
and fatherly kindness: “I must continue
(said he) my researches for Melissa; the result
you shall know.”

He then departed, and travelled through the
neighbouring villages and adjoining neighbourhoods,
making, at almost every house such enquiries
as he considered necessary on the occasion.
He at length arrived at the inn in the last
little village where Melissa and her aunt had
stopped the day they came to the mansion. Here
the inn-keeper informed him that two ladies, answering
his description, had been at his house;
he named the time, which was the day in which
Melissa, with her aunt, left her father's house.—
The inn-keeper told him that they purchased
some articles in the village, and drove off to the
south. Alonzo then traversed the country adjoining
the Sound, far to the westward, and returning
eastward, when he was overtaken by the
shower. No house being within sight, he betook
himself to the forest for shelter. From a
little hilly glade in the wilderness, he discovered

the lonely mansion, which, from its appearance,
he very naturally supposed to be uninhabited.—
The tempest soon becoming severe, he thought
he would endeavour to reach the house. When
he arrived at the moat, he found it impossible to
cross it, or ascend the wall; and he stood in momentary
jeopardy of his life, from the falling timber,
some of which was broken and torn up by
the tornado, some splintered by the fiery bolts of
heaven. At length a large tree, which stood near
him, on the verge of the moat, or rather in that
place, was hurled from its foundation, and
fell, with a hedious crash, across the moat, its top
lodging on the wall. He scrambled up on the
trunk and made his way on the wall. By the
incessant glare of lightning he was able to see distinctly.
The top of the tree was partly broken
by the force of its fall, and hung down the other
side of the wall. By these branches he let himself
down into the yard proceeded to the house,
found the door open, which Melissa had left in
her fright, and entered into one of the rooms,
where he proposed to stay until, at least, the
shower was over, still supposing the house unoccupted,
until the noise of locking the door, and
the light of the candle drew him from the room,
when, to his infinite surprise, he discovered Melissa,
as before related.

Melissa listened to Alonzo with varied emotion.
The fixed obduracy of her father, the generous
conduct of the the Simpsons, the constancy
of Alonzo, filled her heart with inexpressible sensations.

She foresaw that her sufferings were
not shortly to end. She knew not when her sorrows
were to close.

Alonzo was shocked at the alteration which
appeared in the features of Melissa. The rose
had faded from her cheek except when it was
transiently suffused with a hectic flush. A livid
paleness sat upon her countenance, and her fine
form was rapidly wasting. It was easy to be
foreseen that the grief which preyed upon her
heart would soon destroy her, unless speedily allayed.

The storm had now passed into the regions of
the east; the wind and rain had ceased, the
lightning more unfrequently flashed, and the
thunder rolled at a distance. The hours passed
hastily, day would soon appear. Hitherto they
had been absorbed in the present moment; it
was time to think of the future. After the
the troubles they had experienced; after so fortunate
a meeting they could not endure the idea
of another and immediate separation. And yet
immediately separated they must be. It would
not be safe for Alonzo to stay even until the rising
sun, unless he was concealed; and of what
use could it be for him to remain there in concealment?

In this dilemma there was but one expedient.
“Suffer me (said Alonzo to Melissa) to remove
you from this solitary confinement. Your health
is impaired. To you, your father is no more a
father; he has steeled his bosom to paternal affection;

he has banished you from his house,
placed you under the tyranny of others, and confined
you in a lonely desolate dwelling, far from
the sweets of society; and this only because you
cannot heedlessly renounce a most solemn contract,
formed under his eye, and sanctioned by
his immediate consent and approbation. Pardon
me. Melissa, I would not censure your father,
but permit me to say, that after such treatment,
you are absolved from implicit obedience to his
rigorous, cruel and stern commands. It will
therefore be considered a duty you owe to your
preservation, if you suffer me to remove you
from the tyrannical severity with which you are
oppressed.”

Melissa sighed, wiping a tear which fell from
her eye. “Unqualified obedience to my parents
(said she) I have ever considered the first of duties,
and have religiously practised thereon—but
where Alonzo, would you remove me?” “To
any place you shall appoint,” he answered. “I
have no where to go,” she replied. “If you
will allow me to name the place, [said he] I will
mention Mr. Simpson's. He will espouse your
cause and be a father to you, and if conciliation is
possible, will reconcile you to your father. This
can be done without my being known to have any
agency in the business. It can seem as if Mr.
Simpson had found you out. He will go any
just lengths to serve us. It was his desire, if
you could be found, to have you brought to his
house. There you can remain either in secret

or openly, as you shall choose. Be governed by
me in this, Melissa and in all things I will obey
you thereafter. I will then submit to the future
events of fate, but I cannot, Melissa, I cannot
leave you in this doleful place.”

Melissa arose and walked the room in extreme
agitation. What could she do? She had, indeed,
determined to leave the house, for reasons which
Alonzo knew nothing of. But should she leave
it in the way she had proposed, she was not sure
but she would be immediately remanded back,
more strictly guarded, and more severely treated.
To continue there, under existing circumstances,
would be impossible, and long to exist. She
therefore came to a determination—“I will go
[she said] to Mr. Simpson's.”

It was then agreed that Alonzo should proceed
to Vincent's, interest them in the plan, procure
a carriage and return at eleven o'clock the
next night. Melissa was to have the draw-bridge
down, and the gate open. If John should come
to the house the succeeding day, she would persuade
him to let her still keep the keys. But it
was possible her aunt might return. This would
render the execution of the scheme more hazardous
and difficult. A signal was therefore agreed
on; if her aunt should be there, a candle was to
be placed at the window fronting the gate, in the
room above; if not, it was to be placed against
a similar window in the room below. In the first
case, Alonzo was to rap loudly at the door. Melissa
was to run down, under pretence of seeing

who was there, fly with Alonzo to the carriage,
and leave her aunt to scrape acquaintance with
the ghosts and goblins of the old mansion. For
even if her aunt should return, which was extremely
doubtful, she thought she could contrive
to let down the bridge, and unlock the gate in
the evening without her knowledge. At any
rate she was determined not to let the keys go
out of her hands, unless they were forced from
her, until she had escaped from that horrid and
dreary place.

Daylight began to break from the east, and
Alonzo prepared to depart. Melissa accompanied
him to the gate and the bridge, which was
let down; he passed over, and she slowly withdrew,
both frequently turning to look back.—
When she came to the gate, she stopped; Alonzo
stopped also. She waved a white handkerchief
she had in her hand, and Alonzo bowed in
answer to the sign. She then leisurely entered
and slowly shut the gate. Alonzo could not forbear
climbing up into a tree to catch another
glimpse of her as she passed up the avenue.—

With lingering step he saw her move along,
soon receding from his view in the grey twilight
of misty morning. He then descended and
hastily proceeded on his journey.

Traits of glory now painted the eastern skies.
The glittering day-star, having unbarred the portals
of light, began to transmit its retrocessive
lustre. Thin scuds flew swiftly over the moon's
decrescent form. Low, hollow winds, murmur

ed among the bushes or brushed the limpid
drops from intermingling foliage. The fire-fly[6]
suni, feebly twinkling, amidst the herbage of
the fields. The dusky shadows of night fled to
the deep glens, and rocky caverns of the wilderness.
The American lark soared high in the
air consecrating its matin lay to morn's approaching
splendours. The woodlands began to ring
with native melody. The forest tops, on high
mountains, caught the sun's first ray, which widening
and extending, soon gem'd the landscape
with brilliants of a thousand various dies.

As Alonzo came out of the fields near the
road, he saw two persons passing in an open
chair; they suddenly stopped, earnestly gazing
at him: they were wrapped in long riding cloaks,
and it could not be distinguished from their dress
whether they were men or women. He stood
not to notice them, but made the best of his way
to Vincent's, where he arrived about noon. Rejoiced
to find that he had discovered Melissa,
they applauded the plan of her removal, and assisted
him in obtaining a carriage. A sedan was
procured, and he set out to return, promising to
see Vincent again, as soon as he had removed
Melissa to Mr. Simpson's. He made such use
of his time as to arrive at the mansion at the hour
appointed. He found the draw-bridge down,
the gate open, and saw as had been agreed upon,
the light at the lower window, glimmering thro'

the branches of trees. He was therefore assured
that Melissa was alone. His heart beat; a joyful
tremor seized his frame; Melissa was soon
to be under his care, for a short time at least.—
He drove up to the house, sprang out of the carriage,
and fastened his horse to a locust tree;—
the door was open, he went in, flew lightly up
stairs, entered her chamber— Melissa was not
there! A small fire was blazing on the hearth, a
candle was burning on the table. he stood petrified
with amazement; then gazed around in
anxious solicitude. What could have become
of her? It was impossible, he thought, but that
she must still be there.

Had she been removed by fraud or force, the
signal candle would not have been at the window.
Perhaps, in a freakish moment, she had concealed
herself for no other purpose than to cause
him a little perplexity. He therefore took the
candle and searched every corner of the chamber,
and every room of the house, not even missing
the garret and the cellar. He then placed the
candle in a lantern, went out and examined the
out-houses; he next went round the garden and
the yard, strictly exploring and investigating every
place, but he found her not. He repeatedly
and loudly called her by name; he was repeatedly
only by the solitary echoes of the wilderness.

Again he returned to the house, traversed the
rooms, there also calling on the name of Melissa;
his voice reverberated from the walls, dying away
in solemn murmurs in the distant empty apartments.

Thus did he continue his anxious scrutiny,
alternately in the house and the enclosure,
until day, but no traces could be discovered,
nothing seen or heard of Melissa. What had
become of her he could not form the most distant
conjecture. Nothing was removed from the
house; the beds, the chairs, the table, all the
furniture remained in the same condition as when
he was there the night before; the candle as had
been agreed upon, was at the window, and another
was burning on the table; it was therefore
evident that she could not have been long gone
when he arrived. By what means she had thus
suddenly disappeared, was a most deep and inscrutable
mystery.

When the sun had arisen, he once more repeated
his inquisitive search, but with the same
effect. He then, in extreme vexation and disappointment,
flung himself into the sedan, and
drove from the mansion. Frequently did he look
back at the building, anxiously did he scrutinize
every surrounding and receding object. A thrill
of pensive recollection vibrated through his frame
as he passed the gate, and the keen agonizing
pangs of blasted hope, pierced his heart, as his
carriage rolled over the bridge.

Once more he cast a “longing, lingering look”
upon the premises behind, sacred only for the
treasure they lately possessed, then sunk backward
in his seat, and was dragged slowly away.

Alonzo had understood from Melissa that
John's hut was situate about one mile north from

the mansion where she had been confined.—
When he came out near the road, he left his
horse and carriage, after securing them, and went
in search of it.

He soon discovered it, and knew it from the
description given thereof by Melissa. He went
up and knocked at the door, which was opened
by John, whom Alonzo also knew, from the portrait
Melissa had drawn of him. John stared in
amazement. “Understanding (said Alonzo)
that you have the charge of the old mansion in
yonder field, I have come to know if you can inform
me what has become of the young lady who
has been confined there.” “Confined! (answered
John) I did not know she was confined.”—
Recollecting himself, “I mean the young lady
who has lately resided there with her aunt,” replied
Alonzo. “She was there last night; (answered
John) her aunt is gone into the country
and has not returned.” Alonzo then told him
the situation of the mansion, and that she was not
there. John informed him that she was there about
sunset, and according to her request he had
left the keys of the gate and bridge with her, he
desired Alonzo to tarry there until he ran to the
mansion. He returned in about half an hour.—
“She is gone, sure enough; (said John) but
how or where it is impossible for me to guess.”
Convinced that he knew nothing of the matter,
Alonzo left him and returned to Vincent's.

Vincent and his lady were much surprised at
Alonzo's account of Melissa's sudden disappearance,

and they wished to ascertain whether her
father's family knew any thing of the circumstance.
Social intercourse had become suspended
between the families of Vincent and Melissa's
father, as the latter had taxed the former of improperly
endeavouring to promote the views of
Alonzo. They therefore procured a neighbouring
woman to visit Melissa's mother, to see if
any information could be obtained concerning
Melissa; but the old lady had heard nothing of
her since her departure with her aunt, who had
never yet returned. Alonzo left Vincent's and
went to Mr. Simpson's. he told them all that
had happened since he was there, of which, before,
they had heard nothing. At the houses of
Mr. Simpson and Vincent he resided sometime,
while they made the most diligent search to discover
Melissa, but nothing could be learnt of her
fate.

Alonzo then travelled into various parts of the
country, making such enquiries as caution dictated
of all whom he thought likely to give him information,
but he found none who could give
him the least intelligence of his lost Melissa.

In the course of his wanderings he passed near
the old mansion-house where Melissa had been
confined. He felt an inclination once more to
visit it—he proceeded over the bridge which was
down, but he found the gate locked. He therefore
hurried back and went to John's, whom he found at
home. On enquiring of John whether he had
yet heard any thing of the young lady and her

aunt “All I know of the matter (said John) is,
that two days after you was here, her aunt came
back with a strange gentleman, and ordered me
to go and fetch the furniture away from the room
they had occupied in the old mansion. I asked
her what had become of young madam. She told
me that young madam had behaved very indiscreetly,
and she found fault with me for leaving
the keys in her possession, though I did not
know that any harm could arise from it. From
the discourse which my wife and I afterwards overheard
between madam and the strange gentleman,
I understood that young madam had been
sent to reside with some friend or relation at a
great distance, because her father wanted her to
marry a man, and she wishes to marry somebody
else.” From John's plain and simple narrative,
Alonzo concluded that Melissa had been removed
by her father's order, or through the agency or
instigation of her aunt. Whether his visit to
the old mansion had been somehow discovered
or suspected, or whether she was removed by
some preconcerted or antecedent plan, he could
not conjecture. Still, the situation in which he
found the mansion the night he went to convey
her away, left an inexplicable impression on his
mind.

He could in no manner account how the candle
could be placed at the window according to agreement,
unless it had been done by herself, and
if so, how had she so suddenly been conveyed
away?

Alonzo asked John where Melissa's aunt now
was. “She left here yesterday morning (he answered)
with the strange gentleman I mentioned,
on a visit to some of her friends.” “Was the
strange gentleman you speak of her brother?”
asked Alonzo. “I believe not (replied John,
smiling and winking to his wife) I know not who
he was; somebody that madam seems to like
pretty well.” “Have you the care of the old
mansion?” said Alonzo. “Yes, (answered John)
I have the keys; I will accompany you thither,
perhaps you would like to purchase it; madam
said yesterday she thought she should sell it.”—
Alonzo told him he had no thought of purchasing,
thanked him for his information, and departed.

Convinced now that Melissa was removed by
the agency of her persecutors, he compared the
circumstances of John's relation. “She had
been sent to reside with some friend or relation
at a great distance.” This great distance, he believed
to be New-London, and her friend or relation
her cousin, at whose house Alonzo first saw
her, under whose care she would be safe, and
Beauman would have an opportunity of renewing
his addresses. Under these impressions, Alonzo
did not long hesitate what course to pursue—he
determined to repair to New-London immediately.

In pursuance of his design he went to his father's.
He found the old gentleman, with his man
contentedly tilling his farm, and his mother cheerfully

attending to household affairs, as their narrow
circumstances would not admit her to keep a
maid without embarrassment. Alonzo's soul
sickened on comparing the present state of his
family with its former affluence; but it was an
unspeakable consolation to see his aged parents
contented and happy in their humble situation,
and though the idea could not pluck the thorn
from his bosom, yet it tended temporarily to assuage
the anguish of the wound.

“You have been long gone, my son, (said his
father) I scarcely knew what had become of you.
Since I have become a farmer I know little of
what is going forward in the world; and indeed
we were never happier in our lives; after stocking
and paying for my farm, and purchasing the
requisites for my business, I have got considerable
money at command; we live frugally, and
realize the blessings of health, comfort and contentment;
our only disquietude is on your account,
Alonzo. Your affair with Melissa, I suppose
is not so favourable as you could wish, but
despair not, my son; hope is the harbinger of
fairer prospects; rely on Providence, which never
deserts those who submissively bow to the
justice of its dispensations.”

Unwilling to disturb the serenity of his parents,
Alonzo did not tell them his troubles; he answered
that perhaps all might yet come right, but
that as in the present state of his mind he thought
a change of situation might be of advantage, he
asked liberty of his father to travel for some little

time. To this his father consented, and offered
him a part of the money he had on hand,
which Alonzo refused saying he did not expect
to be long gone, and his resources had not yet
failed him.

He then sold off his books, his horses, his carriages
&c. the insignia of his better days, but
now useless appendages from which he raised no
inconsiderable sum. He then took a tender and
affectionate leave of his parents, and set out for
New-London.

Alonzo journeyed along with a heavy heart
and in an enfeebled frame of spirits. Through
disappointment, vexation, and the fatigues he had
undergone in wandering about, for a long time,
in search of Melissa, despondency had seized upon
his mind and indisposition upon his body.—
He put up the first night within a few miles of
New-Haven, and as he passed through that town
the next morning, the scenes of early life in
which he had there been an actor, moved in melancholy
succession over his mind. That day he
grew more indisposed; he experienced an unusual
languor listlessness and debility; chills, followed
by hot flashes, heavy pains in the head and
back, with incessant and intolerable thirst. It
was near night when he reached Killingsworth,
where he halted, as he felt unable to go farther;
he called for a bed, and through the night was
wrecked with severe pain, and scorched with a
burning fever.

The next morning he requested that the physician
of the town might be sent for; he came and
ordered a prescription which gave his patient
some relief; and by strict attention, in about ten
days Alonzo was able to pursue his journey. He
arrived at New-London, and took lodgings with
a private family of the name of Wyllys, in a retirired
part of the town.

The first object was to ascertain whether Melissa
was at her cousin's. But how should he obtain
this information? He knew no person in
the town except it was those whom he had reason
to suppose were leagued against him. Should
he go to the house of her cousin, it might prove
an injury to her if she were there, and could answer
no valuable purpose if she were not. The
evening after he arrived there he wrapped himself
up in his cloak and took the street which led
to the house of Melissa's cousin; he stopped
when he came against it to see if he could make
any discoveries. As people were passing and
repassing the street, he got over into a small enclosure
which adjoined the house, and stood under
a tree, about thirty yards from the house; he
had not long occupied this station, before a lady
came to the chamber window, which was flung
up, opposite to the place where he stood; she
leaned out, looked earnestly around for a few
minutes, then shut it and retired. She had
brought a candle into the room but did not bring
it to the window, of course he could not distinguish
her features so as to identify them.

He knew it was not the wife of Melissa's cousin,
and from her appearance he believed it to be
Melissa. Again the window opened again the
same lady appeared; she took a seat at a little
distance within the room; she reclined with her
head upon her hand, her arm appeared to be supported
by a stand or table. Alonzo's heart beat
violently; he now had a side view of her face,
and was more than ever convinced that it was
Melissa; her delicate features, though more pale
and dejected than when last he saw her;—her
brown hair, which fell in artless circles around
her lily neck, her arched eye-brows and commanding
aspect; Alonzo moved towards the house,
with a design, if possible, to draw her attention,
and should it really prove to be Melissa, to discover
himself. He had proceeded but a few
steps before she arose, shut the window, retired,
and the light disappeared. Alonzo waited a considerable
time but she appeared no more. Supposing
she had retired for the night, he slowly
withdrew, chagrined at his disappointment, yet
pleased at the discovery he had made.

The family with whom Alonzo had taken lodgings
were fashionable and respectable. The following
afternoon they had appointed to visit a
friend, and they invited Alonzo to accompany
them. When they named the family where their
visit was intended, he found it to be Melissa's
cousin. Alonzo therefore declined going under
pretence of business. He however waited with
anxiety for their return, hoping he should be able

to learn by their conversation, whether Melissa
was there or not. When they returned he
made some enquiries concerning the families in
town, until the conversation turned upon the
family they had visited. “The young lady who
resides there (said Mrs. Wyllys) is undoubtedly
in a confirmed decline; she will never recover.”
Alonzo started, deeply agitated. “Who is the
young lady?” he asked. “She is sister to the
gentleman's wife, where we visited (answered
Mr. Wyllys) her father lives in Newport, and
she has come here for her health” “Do you
not think (said Mrs. Wyllys) that she resembles
their cousin Melissa, who resided there some
time ago?” “Very much indeed, (replied her
husband) only she is not quite so handsome.”

Again was Alonzo disappointed, and again did
he experience a melancholy pleasure; he had the
last night hoped that he had discovered Melissa,
but to find her in a hopeless decline, was worse
than that she should remain undiscovered. “It
is reported (said Mrs. Wyllys) that Melissa has
been upon the verge of matrimony, but that the
treaty was somehow broken off; perhaps Beauman
will renew his addresses again should this
be the case.” “Beauman has other business
besides addressing the ladies (answered Mr. Wyllys.)
He has marched to the lines near New-York
with his new raised company of volunteers.”
[New York was then in possession of the British
troops.]

From this discourse, Alonzo was convinced
that Melissa was not the person he had seen at
her cousin's the preceding evening, and that she
was not there. He also found that Beauman was
not in town. Where to search next, or what
course to pursue, he was at a loss to determine.

The next morning he rose early and wandered
about the town. As he passed by the house of
Melissa's cousin, he saw the lady, who had appeared
at the window, walking in the garden.—
Her air, her figure, had very much the appearance
of Melissa,-but the lineaments of her countenance
were when viewed by the light of day, widely
dissimilar. Alonzo felt no strong curiosity farther
to examine her features, but passing on, returned
to his lodgings.

How he was now to proceed, Alonzo could not
readily decide. To return to his native place,
appeared to be as useless as to tarry where he was.
For many weeks had he travelled and searched
every place where he thought it probable Melissa
might be found, both among her relatives and
elsewhere. He had made every effort to obtain
some clue to her removal from the old mansion,
but he could learn nothing but what he had been
told by John. If his friends should ever hear of
her, they could not inform him thereof, as no one
knew where he was. Would it not, therefore, be
best for him to return back, and consult with his
friends and if nothing had been heard of her, pursue
some other mode of enquiry? He might, at
least, leave directions where his friends might

write to him, in case they should have any thing
whereof to apprise him.

An incident tended to confirm his resolution.
He one night dreamed that he was sitting in a
strange house, contemplating on his present situation,
when Melissa suddenly entered the room.
Her appearance was more pale, sickly and dejected
than when he last saw her. Her elegant form
had wasted away, her eyes were sunk, her cheeks
fallen, her lips livid. He fancied it to be night:
she held a candle in her hand, smiling languidly
upon him; she turned and went out of the room,
beckoning him to follow: he thought he immediately
arose and followed her. She glided
through several winding rooms and at length he
lost sight of her, and the light gradually fading
away, he was involved in deep darkness. He
groped along and at length saw a faint, distant
glimmer, the course of which he pursued, until
he came into a large room, hung with black tapestry,
and illuminated by a number of bright tapers.
On one side of the room appeared a hearse, on
which some person was laid; he went up to it;
the first object that arrested his attention was the
lovely form of Melissa, shrouded in the sable
vestments of death! Cold and lifeless, she lay
stretched upon the hearse, beautiful even in dissolution;
the dying smile of complacency had
not yet deserted her cheek. The music of her
voice had ceased; her fine eyes were closed forever.
Insensible to objects in which she once
delighted; to afflictions which had blasted her

blooming prospects, and drained the streams of
life, she lay like blossomed trees of spring, over-thrown
by rude and boisterous winds. The deep
groans which convulsed the distracted bosom,
and shocked the trembling frame of Alonzo,
broke the delusive charm; he awoke, rejoiced
to find it but a dream, though it impressed his
mind with doleful and portentous forebodings.

It was a long time before he could again close
his eyes to sleep; he a length fell into a slumber,
and again he dreamed. He fancied himself
with Melissa, at the house of her father, who had
consented to their union, and that the marriage
ceremony between them was there performed.—
He thought that Melissa appeared as she had
done in her most fortunate and sprightly days,
before the darts of adversity, and the thorns of
affliction, had wounded her heart. Her father
seemed to be divested of all his awful sternness,
and gave her to Alonzo with cheerful freedom.
He awoke, and the horrors of his former dream
were dissipated by the happy influences of the
last.

“Who knows (he said) but that this may finally
be the case; but that the sun of peace may
yet dispel the glooms of these distressful hours!”
He arose, determined to return home in a few
days; he went out and enjoyed his morning walk
in a more composed frame of spirits than he had
for some time experienced. He returned, and as
he was entering the door he saw the weekly
newspaper of the town, which had been published

that morning, and which the carrier had just
flung into the hall. The family had not yet arisen.
He took up the paper, carried it to his chamber,
and opened it to read the news of the day.
He ran his eye hastily over it, and was about to
lay it aside, when the death list arrested his attention,
by a display of broad black lines. The
first article he read therein was as follows:

Died, of a consumption on the 26th ult. at the
seat of her uncle, Col. W****** D——, near
Charleston, South Carolina, whither she had repaired
for her health, Miss Melissa D——, the
amiable daughter of J**** D——, Esq. of
*******, Connecticut, in the 18th year of her
age.

The paper fell from his palsied hand—a sudden
faintness came upon him—the room grew
dark—he staggered, and fell senseless upon the
floor

The incidents of our story will here produce a
pause.—The fanciful part of our readers may cast
it aside in chagrin and disappointment. “Such
an event (may they say) we were not prepared to
expect. After so many, and such various trials
of heart; after innumerable difficulties surmounted;
almost invincible objects overcome, and insuperable
barriers removed—after attending the
hero and heroine of your tale through the diversified
scenes of anxiety, suspense, hope disappointment,
expectation, joy, sorrow, anticipated
bliss, sudden and disastrous woe—after elevating
them to the threshold of happiness, by the premature

death of one, to plunge the other, instantaneously,
in deep and irretrievable despair, must
not, cannot be right. Your story will hereafter
become languid and spiritless; the subject will
be uninteresting, the theme unengaging, since the
genius which animated and enlivened it is gone
forever.”

Reader of sensibility, stop.—Are we not detailing
facts? Shall we gloss them over with false
colouring? Shall we describe things as they are,
or as they are not? Shall we draw with the pencil
of nature, or of art? Do we indeed paint life
as it is, or as it is not? Cast thine eyes, reader,
over the ephemeral circle of passing and fortuitous
events; view the change of contingencies:
mark well the varied and shifting scenery in the
great drama of time; seriously contemplate nature
in her operations: minutely examine the
entrance, the action, and the exit of characters on
the stage of existence—then say, if disappointment,
distress, misery and calamitous woe, are
not the inalienable portion of the susceptible besom.
Say, if the possession of refined feeling is
enviable—the lot of Nature's children covetable.
Whether, to such, through life, the sprinklings
of comfort are sufficient to give a zest to the bitter
banquets of adversity. Whether, indeed,
sorrow, sighing, and tears, are not the inseparable
attendants of all those whose hearts are the repositories
of tender affections and pathetic sympathies.
But what says the moralist?—“Portray
life as it is. Delude not the senses by deceptive

appearances. Arouse your hero: call to his aid
stern philosophy and sober reason. They will
dissipate the rainbow-glories of unreal pleasure,
and banish the glittering meteors of unsubstantial
happiness. Or if these fail, lead him to the holy
fane of religion. She will regulate the fires of
fancy, and assuage the tempest of the passions.
She will illuminate the dark wilderness, and
smooth the thorny paths of life. She will point
him to joys beyond the tomb—to another and a
better world; and pour the balm of consolation
and serenity over his wounded soul.”

Shall we indeed arouse Alonzo? Alas! to
what paths of grief and wretchedness shall we arouse
him! To a world, to him void and cheerless—a
world desolate, sad and dreary.

Alonzo revived.—“Why am I (he exclaimed)
recalled to this dungeon of torment? Why was
not my spirit permitted to take its flight to regions
where my guardian is gone? Why am I
cursed with memory? O that I might be blessed
with forgetfulness! But why do I talk of blessings?
Heaven never had one in store for me.
Where are fled my anticipated joys? To the bosom,
the dark bosom of the oblivious tomb!—
There lie all the graces worthy of love in life—
all the virtues worthy of lamentation in death.—
There lies perfection—perfection has here been
found. Was she not all that even heaven could
demand? Fair, lovely, holy and virtuous. Her
tender solicitudes, her enrapturing endearments,
her soul-inspiring blandishments—gone—gone

forever! That heavenly form, that discriminate
mind—all lovely as light all pure as a seraph's—
a prey to worms—mingled with incorporeal shadows,
regardless of former inquietudes or delights,
regardless of the keen anguish which now wrings
tears of blood from my despairing heart! Eternal
Disposer of events! if virtue be thy special
care, why is the fairest flower in the garden of innocence
and purity blasted like a noxious weed?
Why is the bright gem of excellence trampled
in the dust like a worthless pebble? Why is
Melissa hurried to the tomb?” Thus raved Alonzo.
It was evident that delirium had partially
seized his brain.

He arose and flung himself on the bed, in unspeakable
agony. “And what, alas! (he again
exclaimed) now remains for me? Existence and
unparalleled misery. The consolation even of
death is denied me! But Melissa! she—ah!
where is she? Oh! reflection insupportable! insufferable
consideration! Must that heavenly
frame putrify, moulder, and crumble into dust?
Must the loathsome spider nestle on her lily bosom?
the odious reptile riot on her delicate
limbs? the worm revel amid the roses of her
cheek, fatten on her temples, and bask in the
lustre of her eyes? Alas! the lustre has become
dimmed in death; the rose and the lily are withered;
the harmony of her voice has ceased; the
graces, the elegancies of form, the innumerable
delicacies of air, all are gone, and I am left in a
state of misery which defies mitigation or comparison.”

Exhausted by excess of grief, he now lay in a
stupifying anguish, until the servant summoned
him to breakfast. He told the servant he was indisposed,
and requested he might not be disturbed.
Mr. Wyllys and his lady came up, anxious
to yield him any assistance in their power, and
advised him to call a physician. He thanked
them, but told them it was unnecessary—he only
wanted rest. His extreme distress of mind
brought on a relapse of fever, from which he had
but imperfectly recovered. For several days he
lay in a very dangerous and doubtful state. A
physician was called, contrary to his choice or
knowledge, as for most part of the time his mind
was delirious and sensation imperfect. This
was, probably, the cause of baffling the disorder.
He was in a measure insensible to his woes. He
did not oppose the prescriptions of the physician.
The fever abated, nature triumphed over disease
of body—he slowly recovered, but the malady of
his mind was not removed.

He contemplated on the past. “I fear (said
he) I have murmured against the wisdom of
Providence. Forgive, O merciful Creator! forgive
the frenzies of distraction!” He now recollected
that Melissa once told him that she had
an uncle who resided near Charleston, in South-Carolina;
[7] thither he supposed she had been
sent by her father, when she was removed from
the old mansion, in order to prevent his having
access to her, and with a view to compel her to

marry Beauman. Her appearance had indicated
a deep decline when he last saw her. “There,
(said he) far removed from friends and acquaintance,
there did she languish, there did she die—
a victim to excessive grief, and cruel, parental
persecution.

As soon as he was able to leave his room, he
walked out one evening, and in deep contemplation
roved, he knew not where. The moon
shone brilliantly from her lofty throne; the chill,
heavy dews of autumn glittered on the decaying
verdure. The cadeat[8] croaked hoarsely among
the trees; the dircle[9] sung mournfully on the
grass. Alonzo heard them not; he was insensible
to all external objects, until he had imperceptibly
wandered to the rock on the point of the
beach, verging the Sound, to which he had attended
Melissa the first time he saw her at her
cousin's.‡ Had the whole artillery of Heaven
burst, in sheeted flame, from the skies—had raging
winds mingled the roaring waves with the
mountains—had an instantaneous earthquake
burst beneath his feet, his frame would not have
been so shocked, his soul so agitated! Sudden

as the blaze darts from the electric cloud was he
aroused to a lively sense of blessings entombed!
The memory of departed joys passed with rapidity
over his imagination; his first meeting with
Melissa; the evening he had attended her to that
place, her frequent allusions to the scenery there
displayed, when they had traversed the fields or
reclined in the bower on her favourite hill; in
fine, all the vicissitudes through which they had
passed, were recalled to his mind. His fancy saw
her, felt her gently leaning on his arm, while he
tremblingly pressed her hand. Again he saw
smiling health crimsoning the lilies of her cheek;
again he saw the bright soul of sympathetic feelings
sparkling in her eye—the air of ease—the
grace of attitude—her brown locks circling the
borders of her snowy robe. Again he was enraptured
by the melody of her voice. Once more
would he have been happy, had not fancy changed
the scene. But alas! she shifted the curtain.
He saw Melissa stretched on the sable hearse,
wrapped in the dreary vestments of the grave—
the roses withered—the lilies faded—motionless
—the graces fled—her eyes fixed, and sealed in
the glaze of death! Spontaneously he fell upon
his knees, and thus poured forth the overcharged
burden of its anguished bosom:

“Infinite Ruler of all events; Great Sovereign
of this ever changing world! Omnipotent
Controller of vicissitudes! Omniscient Dispenser
of destinies! The beginning, the progression,
the end is thine. Unsearchable are thy purposes!

mysterious thy movements! inscrutable
thy operations! An atom of thy creation, wildered
in the mazes of ignorance and woe, would
bow to thy decrees. Surrounded with impenetrable
gloom, unable to scrutinize the past, incompetent
to explore the future—fain would he
say, THY WILL BE DONE! And O! that it might
be consistent with that HIGH WILL, to call this
atom from a dungeon of wretchedness, to worlds
of light and glory, where his only CONSOLATION
is gone.”

Thus prayed the heart-broken Alonzo. It was
indeed a worldly prayer; but perhaps as pure
and as acceptable as many of our modern professors
would have made on a similar occasion.—
He arose and repaired to his lodgings. One determination
only he had now fallen upon—to bury
himself and his griefs from all with whom he
had formerly been acquainted. Why should he
return to the scenes of his former bliss and anxiety,
where every countenance would tend to renew
his mourning, where every door would be
inscribed with a memento mori, and where every
object would be shrouded in crape?—He therefore
turned his attention to the army; but the
army was far distant, and he was too feeble to
prosecute a journey of such an extent.

There were at that time preparations for fitting
out a convoy, at private expense, from various
parts of the United States, for the protection of
our European trade; they were to rendezvous
at a certain station, and thence proceed with the

merchantmen under their care to the ports of
France and Holland, where our trade principally
centered, and return as convoy to some other
mercantile fleet.

One of these ships of war was then nearly fitted
out at New-London. Alonzo offered himself
to the captain, who, pleased with his appearance,
gave him the station of commander of marines.

Alonzo prepared himself with all speed for the
voyage. He sought, he wished no acquaintance.
His only place of resort, except to his lodgings
and the ship, was to Melissa's favourite rock;—
there he bowed as to the shrine of her spirit, and
there he consecrated his devotions.

As he was one day passing through the town,
a gentleman stepped out of an adjoining house
and accosted him. Alonzo immediately recognized
him to be the cousin of Melissa, at whose
house he had first seen her. He was dressed in
full mourning, which was a sufficient indication
that he was apprized of her death. He invited
Alonzo to his house, and he could not complaisantly
refuse the invitation. He therefore accepted
it, and passed an hour with him, from
whom he learnt that Melissa had been sent to her
uncle's at Charleston, for the recovery of her
health, where she died. “Her premature death
(said her cousin) has borne so heavily upon her
aged father, that it is feared he will not long survive!”
“Well may it wring his bosom; (thought
Alonzo) his conscience can never be at peace.”
Whether Melissa's cousin had been informed of

the particulars of Alonzo's unfortunate attachment,
was not known, as he instituted no conversation
on the subject. Neither did he enquire
into Alonzo's prospects; he only invited him to
call again. Alonzo thanked him, but replied it
would be doubtful, as he should shortly leave
town. He made no one acquainted with his intentions.

The day at length arrived when the ship was
to sail, and Alonzo to leave the shores of America.
They spread their canvas to propitious
gales; the breezes rushed from their woody coverts,
and majestically wafted them from the harbour.

Slowly the land receded; fields, forests, hills,
mountains, towns and villages leisurely withdrew,
until they were mingled in one common mass.
The ocean opening, expanded and widened presenting
to the astonished eyes of the untried mariner
its wilderness of waters. Near sunset, Alonzo
ascended the mast to take a last view of a
country once so dear, but whose charms were
now lost forever. The land still appeared like a
semicircular border of dark green velvet on the
edge of a convex mirror. The sun sunk in fleecy
golden vapours behind it. It now dwindled to
discoloured and irregular spots which appeared
like objects floating, amidst the blue mists of
distance, on the verge of the main, and immediately
all was lost beneath the spherical, watery
surface.

Alonzo had fixed his eyes, as near as his judgment
could direct, towards Melissa's favourite
rock, till nothing but sea was discoverable. With
a heart parting sigh he then descended. They
had now launched into the illimitable world of
billows, and the sable wings of night brooded
over the boundless deep.

A new scene was now opened to Alonzo in the
wonders of the mighty deep. The sun rising
from and setting in the ocean, the wide spread region
of watery waste, now smooth as polished
glass, now urged into irregular rolling hillocks,
then swelled to

or gradually arising into mountainous waves.
Often would he traverse the deck amid the still
hours of midnight, when the moon silvered over
the liquid surface: “Bright luminary of the
lonely hour, (he would say) that now sheddest
thy mild and placid ray on the woe-worn head of
fortune's fugitive, dost thou not also pensively
shine on the sacred and silent grave of my Melissa?”

Favourable breezes wafted them for many days
over the bosom of the Atlantic. At length they
were overtaken by a violent storm. The wind
began to blow strongly from the southwest, which
soon increased to a violent gale. The dirgy
scud first flew swiftly along the sky; then dark
and heavy clouds filled the atmosphere, mingling
with the top gallant streamers of the ship. Night
hovered over the ocean, rendered horrible by the

intermitting blaze of lightnings, the awful crash
of thunder, and the deafening roar of winds and
waves. The sea was rolled into mountains, capped
with foaming fire. Now the ship was soaring
among the thunders of heaven, now sunk in
the abyss of waters.

The storm dispersed the fleet, so that when it
abated, the ship in which Alonzo sailed was found
alone; they, however, kept on their course of
destination, after repairing their rigging, which
had been considerably disordered by the violence
of the gale.

The next morning they discovered a sail which
they fondly hoped might prove to be one of their
own fleet, and accordingly made for it. The ship
they were in pursuit of shortened sail, and towards
noon, wore round and bore down upon
them, when they discovered that it was not a ship
belonging to their convoy. It appeared to be of
equal force and dimensions with that of their own,
they therefore, in order to prepare for the worst,
got ready with all speed for action. They slowly
approached each other, manœuvreing for the advantage,
till the strange ship ran up British colours,
and fired a gun, which was immediately answered
by the other, under the flag of the United
States. It was not long before a close and severe
action took place, which continued for three
hours, when both ships were in so shattered a
condition that they were unable to manage a gun.[10]

The British had lost their captain, and one half
their crew, most of the remainder being wounded.
The Americans had lost their second officer,
and their loss in men, both killed and wounded,
was nearly equal to that of the enemy. While
they lay in this condition, unable either to annoy
each other more, or to get away a large sail appeared,
bearing down upon them which soon
came up and proved to be an English frigate, and
which immediately took the American ship in
tow, after removing the crew into the hold of the
frigate. The crew of the British ship were also
taken on board of the frigate, which was no sooner
done than the ship went down, and was forever
buried beneath mountains of ponderous waves.
The frigate then with the American ship in tow,
made sail, and in a few days reached England.
The wounded prisoners were sent to a hospital,
but the others were confined in a strong prison
within the precincts of London.

The American prisoners were huddled into an
apartment with British convicts of various descriptions.
Among these Alonzo observed one
whose demeanor arrested his attention. A deep
melancholy was impressed upon his features;
his eye was wild and despairing; his figure was
interesting, tall, elegant and handsome. He appeared
to be about twenty-five years of age. He
seldom conversed, but when he did, it was readily
discovered that his education had been above
the common cast, and he possessed an enlightened
and discriminating mind. Alonzo sympathetically

sought his acquaintance, and discovered
therein a unison of woe.

One evening when the prisoners were retired
to rest, the stranger, upon Alonzo's request, rehearsed
the following incidents of his life.

“You express (said he) some surprise at finding
a man of my appearance in so degraded a situation,
and you wish to learn the events which
have plunged me in this abject state. These,
when I briefly relate, your wonder will cease.

“My name is Henry Malcomb; my father
was a clergyman in the west of England and descended
from one of the most respectable families
in those parts. I received a classical education,
and then entered the military school, as I was designed
for the army, to which my earliest inclinations
led. As soon as my education was considered
complete, an ensign's commission was
procured for me in one of the regiments destined
for the West Indies. Previous to its departure
for those islands, I became acquainted with a
Miss Vernon, who was a few years younger than
myself, and the daughter of a gentleman farmer,
who had recently purchased and removed to an
estate in my father's parish. Every thing that
was graceful and lovely appeared centered in her
person; every thing that was virtuous and excellent
in her mind. I sought her hand. Our
souls soon became united by the indissoluble
bonds of sincerest love, and as there were no parental
or other impediment to our union, it was
agreed that as soon as I returned from the Indies,

where it was expected that my stay would
be short, the marriage solemnities should be performed.
Solemn oaths of constancy passed between
us, and I sailed, with my regiment, for
the Indies.

“While there, I received from her, and returned
letters filled with the tenderest expressions of
anxiety and regret of absence. At length the
time came when we were to embark for England,
where we arrived after an absence of
about eighteen months. The moment I got on
land I hastened to the house of Mr. Vernon, to
see the charmer of my soul. She received me
with all the ardency of affection, and even shed
tears of joy in my presence. I pressed her to
name the day which was to perfect our union and
happiness, and the next Sunday, four days only
distant, was agreed upon for me to lead her to
the altar. How did my heart bound at the prospect
of making Miss Vernon my own! Of possessing
in her all that could render life agreeable!
I hastened home to my family and informed them
of my approaching bliss, who all sympathised in
the anticipated joy which swelled my bosom.

“I had a sister some years older than myself,
who had been the friend and inmate of my angel
in my absence. They were now almost every
day together, so that I had frequently opportunities
of her company. One day she had been with
my sister at my father's, and I attended her
home. On my return, my sister requested me
to attend her in a private room. We therefore

retired, and when we were seated she thus addressed
me:

“Henry, you know that to promote your peace,
your welfare and your happiness, has ever been
the pride of my heart. Nothing except this
could extort the secret which I shall now disclose,
and which has yet remained deposited in my own
bosom: my duty to a brother whom I esteem
dear as life, forbids me to remain silent. As an
affectionate sister, I cannot tacitly see you thus
imposed upon; I cannot see you the dupe and
slave of an artful and insidious woman, who does
not sincerely return your love; nor can I bear to
see your marriage consummated with one whose
soul and affections are placed upon another object.”

“Here she hesitated—while I, with insufferable
anguish of mind, begged her to proceed.

“About six or eight months after your departure,
(she continued) it was reported to Miss
Vernon that she had a rival in the Indies; that
you had there found an American beauty, on whom
you lavished those endearments which belonged
of right to her alone. This news made, at first,
a deep impression on her mind, but it soon wore
away; and whether from this cause, from fickleness
of disposition, or that she never sincerely
loved you, I know not, but this I do know, that a
youth has been for some time past her almost
constant companion. To convince you of this,
you need only tomorrow evening, about sunset,
conceal yourself near the long avenue by the side

of the rivulet, back of Mr. Vernon's country-house,
where you will undoubtedly surprise Miss
Vernon and her companion in their usual evening's
walk. If I should be mistaken I will submit
to your censure; but should you find it as I
have predicted, you have only to rush from your
concealment charge her with her perfidy, and
renounce her forever.”

“Of all the plagues, of all the torments, of all
the curses which torture the soul, jealousy of a
rival in love is the worst. Enraged, confounded
and astonished, it seemed as if my bosom would
have instantaneously burst. To conceal my emotions,
I left my sister's apartment, after having
thanked her for her information, and proceeded
to obey her injunctions. I retired to my own
room and there poured out my execrations.

“Cursed woman! [I exclaimed] is it thus you
requite my tender love! Could a vague report
of my inconstancy, drive you to infidelity! Did
not my continual letters breathe constant adoration?
And did not yours portray the same sincerity
of affection? No, it was not that which
caused you to perjure your plighted vows. It
was that damnable passion for novelty, which
more or less holds a predominacy over your
whole sex. To a new coat, a new face, a new
lover, you will sacrifice honor, principle and virtue.
And to those, backed by splendid power
and splendid property, you will forfeit your most
sacred engagements, though made in the presence
of Heaven.” Thus did I rave through a
sleepless night.

“The next day I walked into the fields, and
before the time my sister appointed had arrived,
I had worked up my feelings almost to the frenzy
of distraction. I repaired, however, to the
spot, and concealed myself in the place she had
named, which was a tuft of laurels by the side of
the walk. I soon perceived Miss Vernon strolling
down the avenue, aim in arm with a young
man elegantly dressed, and of singular delicate
appearance. They were earnestly conversing in
a low tone of voice; the hand of my false fair
one was gently pressed in the hand of the stranger.
As soon as they had passed the place of
my concealment, they turned aside and seated
themselves in a little arbour, a few yards distant
from where I was. The stranger clasped Miss
Vernon in his arms; “dearest angel! (he exclaimed)
what an interruption to our bliss by the
return of my hated rival!” With fond caresses
and endearing blandishments, “fear nothing, (she
replied) I have promised and must yield him my
hand, but you shall never be excluded from my
heart: we shall find sufficient opportunities for
private conference.”—I could contain myself no
longer—my brain was on fire. Quick as lightning
I sprang from my covert, and presenting a
pistol which I had concealed under my robe,
“Die! (said I) thou false and perjured wretch,
by the hand thou hast dishonoured, a death too
mild for so foul a crime!” and immediately shot
Miss Vernon through the head, who fell lifeless
at my feet! Then suddenly drawing my sword,

“And thou perfidious contaminator and destroyer
of my bliss! (cried I) go! attend thy companion
in iniquity to the black regions of everlasting
torment!” So saying, I plunged my
sword into his bosom. A screech of agony, attended
by the exclamation, “Henry! your wife!
your sister!” awoke me, too late, to terrors unutterable,
to anguish unspeakable, to woes irretrievable,
and insupportable despair! It was indeed
my betrothed wife, it was indeed my affectionate
sister, arrayed in man's habit. The one
lay dead before me—the other weltering in her
blood! With a feeble and expiring voice, my
sister informed me, that in a gay and inconsiderate
moment they had concerted this plan, to try
my jealousy, determining to discover themselves
as soon as they had made the experiment. “I
forgive you, Henry, (she said) I forgive your
mistake,” and closed her eyes forever in death!
What a scene for sensibilities like mine! To
paint or describe it exceeds the power of language
or imagination. I instantly turned the
sword against my own bosom, an unknown hand
arrested it, and prevented its entering my heart.
The report of the pistol, and the dying screech
of my sister, had alarmed Mr. Vernon's family,
who arrived at that moment, one of whom had
seized my arm, and thus hindered me from destroying
my own life. I submitted to be bound
and conveyed to prison. My trial came on at
the last assizes; I made no defence; was condemned
to death. My execution will take place
in eight weeks from to-morrow. I shall cheerfully
meet my fate, for who would endure life
when rendered so peculiarly miserable!”

The wretched Malcomb here ended his tale of
woe. No tear moistened his eye; his grief was
too despairing for tears: it preyed upon his heart,
drank the vital streams of life, and burst in convulsive
sighs from his burning bosom.

Alonzo seriously contemplated on the incidents
and events of this tragical story. Conscience-whispered
him, are not Malcomb's miseries superior
to thine? Candour and correct reason
must have answered yes. “Melissa perished,
(said Alonzo) but not by the hand of her lover—
she expired, but not through the mistaken frenzy
of him who adored her. She died, conscious
of the unfeigned love I bore her.”

Alonzo and his fellow-prisoners had been robbed,
when they were captured, of every thing
except the clothes they wore. Their allowance
of provisions was scanty and poor. They were
confined in the third story of a lofty prison.—
Time rolled away; no prospects appeared of
their liberation, either by exchange or parole.
Some of the prisoners were removed, as new
ones were introduced to other places of confinement,
until not one American was left except Alonzo.

Meantime the day appointed for the execution
of Malcomb drew near. His past and approaching
fate filled the breast of Alonzo with sympathetic
sorrow. He saw his venerable father, his

mother, his friends and acquaintance, with several
pious clergymen, frequently enter the prison
to console and comfort him and to prepare him
for the unchangeable state on which he was soon
to enter. He saw his mind softened by their advice
and counsel; frequently would he burst into
tears; often in the solitary hours of night was
he heard addressing the throne of grace for mercy
and forgiveness. But the grief that preyed at
his heart had wasted him to a skeleton; a slow
but deleterious fever had consequently implanted
itself in his constitution. Exhausted nature
could make but a weak struggle against disease
and affliction like his, and about a week previous
to the day appointed for his execution, he expired
in peace and penitence trusting in the mercy
of his Creator through the sufferings of a Redeemer.

Soon after this event, orders came for removing
some of the prisoners to a most loathsome
place of confinement, in the suburbs of the city.
It fell to Alonzo's lot to be one. He therefore
formed a project for escaping. He had observed
that the gratings in one of the windows of the apartment
were loose and could easily be removed.
One night when the prisoners were asleep, he
stripped off his clothes, every article of which he
cut into narrow slips, tied them together, fastened
one end to one of the strongest gratings, removed
the others until he had made an opening
large enough to get out, and then, by the rope
he had made of his clothes, let himself down into

the yard of the prison. There he found a long
piece of timber, which he dragged to the wall,
clambered up thereon, and sprang over into the
street. His shoes and hat he had left in the
prison, as a useless encumbrance without his
clothes, all which he had converted into the means
of escape, so that he was now literally stark naked.
He stood a moment to reflect. “Here am
I, (said he) freed from my local prison indeed,
but in the midst of an enemy's country, without
a friend, without the means of obtaining one day's
subsistence, surrounded by the darkness of night,
destitute of a single article of clothing, and even
unable to form a resolution what step next to
take. The ways of heaven are marvellous—may
I silently bow to its dispensations!”

Alonzo passed along the street in this forlorn
condition not knowing where to proceed, or what
course to take. It was about three o'clock in the
morning; the street was illuminated by lamps,
and he feared falling into the hands of the watch.
For some time he saw no person, at length a voice
from the other side of the street called out,—
“Hallo! messmate; what, scudding under bare
poles? You must have experienced a severe gale
indeed thus to have carried away every rag of
sail!” Alonzo turned, and saw the person who
spoke. He was a decent looking man, of middle
age, drest in a sailor's habit. Alonzo had
often heard of the generosity and honourable
conduct of the British tars; he therefore approached
him and told him his real case, not even

concealing his being taken in actual hostility to
the British government, and his escape from prison.
The sailor mused a few minutes. “Thy
case (said he) is a little critical, but do not despair;
had I met thee as an enemy, I should have
fought thee, but as it is, compassion is the first
consideration. Perhaps I may be in as bad a situation
before the war is ended.” Then slipping
off his coat and giving it to Alonzo, “follow me,”
he said, and turning, walked hastily along the
street followed by Alonzo; he passed into a bylane,
entered a small house, and taking Alonzo
into a back room, opened a trunk, and handed out
a shirt—“there (said he, pointing to a bed) you
can sleep till morning, when we will see what can
be done.”

The next morning the sailor brought in a very
decent suit of clothes and presented them to Alonzo.
“You will make this place your home
(said he) until more favourable prospects appear.
In this great city you will be safe, for even your
late gaoler would not recognize you in this dress.
And perhaps some opportunity may offer by
which you may return to your own country.”—
He told Alonzo that his name was Jack Brown,
that he was a midshipman on board the Severn,
that he had a wife and four children, and owned
the house in which they then were. “In order
to prevent suspicion or discovery [said he] I
shall consider you as a relation from the country
until you are better provided for.” Alonzo was
then introduced to the sailor's wife, an amiable

woman, and here he remained for several weeks.

One day Alonzo was informed that a number
of American prisoners were brought in. He
went to the place where they were landed, and
saw several led away to prison, and some who
were sick or disabled, carried to the hospital.—
As the hospital was near at hand, Alonzo entered
it to see how the sick and disabled prisoners were
treated.

He found that they received as much attention
as could reasonably be expected.[11] As he passed
along the different apartments he was surprised
at hearing his name called by a faint voice. He
turned to the place from whence it proceeded,
and saw stretched on a mattress, a person who
appeared on the point of expiring. His visage
was pale and emaciated his countenance haggard
and ghastly, his eyes inexpressive and glazy. He
held out his withered hand, and feebly beckoned
to Alonzo, who immediately approached him.—
His features appeared not unfamiliar to Alonzo,
but for a moment he could not recollect him.
“You do not know me,” said the apparently dying
stranger. “Beauman!” exclaimed Alonzo
in surprise. “Yes, [replied the sick man] it is
Beauman; you behold me on the verge of eternity;
I have but a short time to continue in this
world.” Alonzo enquired how he came in the
power of the enemy. “By the fate of war, [he

replied] I was taken in an action on York Island,
carried on board a prison-ship in New-York, and
sent with a number of others for England. I had
received a wound in my thigh, from a musket-ball,
during the action; the wound mortified, and
my thigh was amputated on the voyage, since
which I have been rapidly wasting away, and I
now feel that the cold hand of death is laid upon
me.” Here he became exhausted and for some
time remained silent. Alonzo had not before
discovered that he had lost his leg: he now found
that it had been taken off close to his body, and
that he was worn to a skeleton. When Beauman
revived, he enquired into Alonzo's affairs: Alonzo
related all that had happened to him after
leaving New-London.

“You are unhappy, Alonzo, [said Beauman]
in the death of your Melissa, to which it is possible
I have been undesignedly accessory. I
could say much on the subject, would my strength
permit; but it is needless—she is gone, and I
must soon go also. She was sent to her uncle's
at Charleston, by her father, where I was soon
to follow her. It was supposed that thus widely
removed from all access to your company, she
would yield to the persuasion of her friends to renounce
you; her unexpected death, however,
frustrated every design of this nature, and overwhelmed
her father and family in inexpressible
woe.”

Here Beauman ceased. Alonzo found he wanted
rest; he enquired whether he was in want of

any thing to render him more comfortable; Beauman
replied he was not; “for the comforts of
this life [said he] I have no relish; medical aid
is applied, but without effect.” Alonzo then left
him, promising to call again in the morning.

When Alonzo called the next morning, he perceived
an alarming alteration in Beauman. His
extremities were cold, a chilling, clammy sweat
stood upon his face, his respiration was short
and interrupted, his pulse weak and intermitting.
He took the hand of Alonzo, and feebly pressing
it, “I am dying, [said he in a faint voice.] If ever
you return to America, inform my friends of
my fate.” This Alonzo readily engaged to do,
and told him also that he would not leave him.

Beauman soon fell into a stupour; sensation
became suspended; his eyes rolled up and fixed.
Sometimes a partial revival would take place,
when he would fall into incoherent mutterings,
calling on the names of his deceased father, his
mother and Melissa; his voice dying away in imperfect
moanings, till his lips continued to move
without sound. Towards night he lay silent, and
only continued to breathe with difficulty, till a
slight convulsion gave the freed spirit to the unknown
regions of immaterial existence. Alonzo
followed his remains to the grave; a natural
stone was placed at its head, on which Alonzo,
unobserved, carved the initials of the deceased's
name, with the date of his death, and left him to
moulder with his native dust.

A few days after this event, Jack Brown informed
Alonzo that he had procured the means
of his escape. A person with whom I am acquainted
[said he] and whom I suppose to be a
smuggler, has agreed to carry you to France.—
There, by application to the American minister,
you will be enabled to get to your own country,
if that is your object. About midnight I will
pilot you on board, and by to-morrow's sun you
may be in France.” At the time appointed, Jack
set out, bearing a large trunk on his shoulder,
and directed Alonzo to follow him. They proceeded
down to a quay, and went on board a small
skiff. “Here [said Jack to the captain] is the
gentleman I spoke to you about,” and delivered
him the trunk. Then taking Alonzo aside, “in
that trunk [said he] are a few changes of linen,
and here is something to help you till you can
help yourself.” So saying, he slipped ten guincas
into his hand. Alonzo expressed his gratitude
with tears. “Say nothing [said Jack] we
were born to help each other in distress, and may
Jack never weather a storm or splice a rope if
he permits a fellow-creature to suffer with want
while he has a luncheon on board.” He then
shook Alonzo by the hand, wishing him a good
voyage, and went whistling away. The skiff
soon sailed, and the next morning Alonzo was
landed in France.

Alonzo proceeded immediately to Paris, not
with a view of returning to America; he had
yet, no relish for revisiting the land of his sorrows,

the scenes where at every step his heart
must bleed afresh, though to bleed it had never
ceased. But he was friendless in a strange land:
perhaps through the aid of the American minister,
Dr. Franklin, to whose fame Alonzo was no
stranger, he might be placed in a situation to
procure bread, which was all he at present hoped
or wished.

He therefore presented himself before the doctor,
whom he found in his study. To be informed
that he was an American and unfortunate, was
sufficient to arouse the feelings of Franklin. He
desired Alonzo to be seated, and to recite his
history. This he readily complied with, not
concealing his attachment to Melissa, her father's
barbarity, her death in consequence, his own
father's failure, with all the particulars of his
leaving America, his capture, escape from prison,
and arrival in France; as also the town of his
nativity, the name of his father, and the particular
circumstances of his family, concluding by
expressing his unconquerable reluctance to return
to his native country, which now would be
to him only a gloomy wilderness, and that his
present object was only some means of support.

The doctor enquired of Alonzo the particular
circumstances and time of his father's failure.—
Of this Alonzo gave him a minute account.
Franklin then sat in deep contemplation for the
space of fifteen minutes, without speaking a
word. He then took his pen, wrote a short note,
directed it, and gave it to Alonzo: “deliver this

[said he] to the person to whom it is directed he
will find you employment until something more
favourable may offer.” Alonzo took the note,
thanked the doctor, and went in search of the
person to whom it was addressed. He soon
found the house, which was situated in one of
the most popular streets in Paris. He knocked
at the door, which was opened by an elderly looking
man; Alonzo enquired for the name to whom
the note was addressed; the gentleman informed
him that he was the man. Alonzo presented
him the note, which having read, he desired him
to walk in, and ordered supper. After supper
he informed Alonzo that he was an English bookseller,
that he should employ him as a clerk, and
desired to know what wages he demanded; Alonzo
replied that he should submit that to him, being
unacquainted with the customary salary of
clerks in that line of business. The gentleman
told him that the matter should be arranged the
next day—his name was Grafton.

The next morning Mr. Grafton took Alonzo
into his book-store, and gave him his instructions.
His business was to sell the books to customers,
and a list of prices was given him for that purpose.
Mr. Grafton counted out twenty crowns
and gave them to Alonzo: `You may want
some necessaries, [said he] and as you have set
no price on your services, we shall not differ about
the wages, if you are attentive and faithful.”

Alonzo gave his employer no room to complain;
nor had he any reason to be discontented

with his situation. Mr. Grafton regularly advanced
him twenty crowns at the commencement
of every month, and boarded him in his family.
Alonzo dressed himself in deep mourning. He
sought no company; he found consolation only
in solitude, if consolation it could be called.

As he was walking out early one morning, he
discovered something lying in the street, which he
at first supposed to be a small piece of silk; he
took it up, and found it to be a curiously wrought
purse, containing a few guineas, with some small
pieces of silver, and something at the bottom
carefully wrapped in a piece of paper; he unfolded
it, and was thunderstruck at beholding an elegant
miniature of Melissa! Her sweetly pensive
features, her expressive countenance, her soul-enlivening
eye! The shock was almost too powerful
for his senses. Wildered in a maze of
wonders, he knew not what to conjecture. Melissa's
miniature found in the streets of Paris, after
she had some time been dead! He viewed it,
he clasped it to his bosom. “Such (said he)
did she appear, ere the corroding cankers of grief
had blighted her heavenly charms! By what
providential miracle am I possessed of the likeness,
when the original is no more? What benevolent
angel has taken pity on my sufferings,
and conveyed me this inestimable prize?”

But though he had thus become possessed of
what he esteemed most valuable, what right had
he to withhold it from the lawful owner, could
the owner indeed be found? Perhaps the person

who had lost it would part with it; perhaps the
money contained in the purse was of more value
to that person than the miniature. At any rate,
justice required that he should endeavour to
find to whom it belonged: this he might do by
advertising, which he immediately concluded upon,
resolving, should the owner appear, to purchase
the miniature, if possibly within his power.

Passing into another street, he saw several
hand-bills stuck up on the walls of houses; stepping
up to one, he read as follows:

“Lost, between the hours of nine and ten last
evening, in the Rue de Loir, a small silk purse,
containing a few pieces of money, and a lady's
m niature. One hundred crowns will be
given to the person who may have found it, and
will restore it to the owner, at the American Hotel,
near the Louvre, room No 4.”

It was printed both in the French and English
languages. By the reward here offered, Alonzo
was convinced that the miniature belonged to
some person who set a value upon it; determined
to explicate the mystery, he proceeded
immediately to the place, found the room mentioned
in the bill, and knocked at the door. A servant
appeared, of whom Alonzo enquired for the lodger.
The servant answered him in French, which Alonzo
did not understand; he replied in his own
language, but found it was unintelligible to the
servant. A grave middle aged gentleman then
came to the door, from within the room, and ended
their jabbering at each other; he in the English

language, desired Alonzo to walk in. It was
an apartment neatly furnished; no person was
therein except the gentleman and servant before
mentioned and a person who sat writing in a
corner of the room, with his back towards them.

Alonzo informed the gentleman that he had
called according to the direction in a bill of advertisement
to enquire for the person who, the
preceding night, had lost a purse and miniature.
The person who was writing had hitherto taken
no notice of what had passed; but at the sound
of Alonzo's voice, after he had entered the room,
he started and turned about, and at mention of
the miniature, he rose up. Alonzo fixed his eyes
upon him; they both stood for a few moments
silent; for a short time their recollection was
confused and imperfect, but the mists of doubt
were soon dissipated. “Edgar!”—“Alonzo!”
they alternately exclaimed. It was indeed Edgar,
the early friend and fellow-student of Alonzo—the
brother of Melissa! In an instant they
were in each others arms.

Edgar and Alonzo retired to a separate room.
Edgar informed Alonzo that the news of Melissa's
death reached him by a letter from his father,
while at the army; that he immediately procured
a furlough and visited his father, whom,
with his mother, he found in inconsolable distress.
“The letter which my uncle had written (said
Edgar) announcing her death, mentioned with
what patience and placidity she endured her malady,
and with what calmness and resignation she

met the approach of death. Her last moments,
like her whole life, were unruffled and serene.—
She is in Heaven, Alonzo—she is an angel!”—
Swelling grief here choaked the utterance of Edgar;
for some time he could proceed no farther,
and Alonzo, with bursting bosom, mingled his
tears.

`My father, (resumed Edgar) bent on uniting
her to Beauman or at least of preventing her union
with you, had removed her to a desolate family
mansion, and placed her under the care of an
aunt. At that place, he either suspected, or really
discovered that you had recourse to her while
my aunt was absent on business. She was therefore
no longer entrusted to the care of her aunt,
but my father immediately formed and executed
the plan of sending her to his brother in South-Carolina,
under pretence of restoring her to
health, by change of climate, as her health, in reality
had began rapidly to decay. There it was
designed that Beauman should shortly follow her,
with recommendations from my father to her uncle
urging him to use all possible means which
might tend to persuade her to become the wife
of Beauman. But change of climate only encreased
the load of sorrows, and she soon sunk
beneath them. The letter mentioned nothing of
her troubles; possibly my uncle's family knew
nothing of them; to them, probably,

“My father's distress was excessive: often
did he accuse himself of barbarity, and he once
earnestly expressed a wish that he had consented
to her union with you. My father, I know, is
parsimonious, but he sincerely loved his children.
Inflexible as is his nature, the untimely death of
a truly affectionate and only daughter, will, I
much fear, precipitate him, and perhaps my
mother also, to a speedy grave.

“As soon as my feelings would permit, I repaired
to your father's, and made enquiry concerning
you. I found your parents content in
their humble state, except that your father had
been ill, but was recovering. Of you they had
heard nothing since your departure and they
deeply lamented your absence. And from Vincent
I could obtain no farther information.

“Sick of the world, I returned to the army.
An American consul was soon to sail for Holland;
I solicited and obtained the appointment of secretary.
I hoped by visiting distant countries, in
some measure to relieve my mind from the deep
melancholy with which it was oppressed. We
were to proceed first to Paris, where we have
been a few days; to-morrow we are to depart
for Holland. The consul is the man who introduced
you into the room where you found
me. Last evening I lost the miniature which I
suppose you have found; the chain to which it
was suspended around my neck, had broken, while
I was walking the street; I carefully wrapped it
in paper and deposited it in my purse, which I

probably dropped on replacing it in my pocket,
and did not discover the loss until this morning;
I immediately made diligent search, but not finding
it. I put up bills of advertisement. The likeness
was taken in my sister's happiest days. After
I had entered upon my professional studies in
New-York, I became acquainted with a miniature
painter, who took my likeness. He afterwards
went into the country, and as I found he was to
pass near my father's, I engaged him to call there
and take my sister's likeness also: we exchangeed
them soon after. It was dear to me, even while
the original remained; but since she is gone it
has become a most precious and valuable relique.”

All the tender powers of Alonzo's soul were
called into action by Edgar's recital. The “days
of other years”—the ghosts of sepulchred blessings,
passed in painful review. Added to these,
the penurious condition of his parents, his father's
recent illness, and his probable inability to
procure the bread of his family, all tended more
deeply to sink his spirits in the gulf of melancholy
and misery. He however informed Edgar
of all that had happened since they parted at
Vincent's; respecting the old mansion, Melissa's
extraordinary disappearance therefrom, the manner
in which he was informed of her death, his
departure from America, capture, escape. Beauman's
death, arrival in France, and his finding
the miniature. To Edgar as well as Alonzo,
Melissa's sudden and unaccountable removal
from the mansion was mysterious and inexplicable.

As Edgar was to depart early the next morning,
they neither slept nor separated that night.

If it were not for your reluctance to revisit
your native country, (said Edgar) I should urge
you to accompany me to Holland, and thence return
with me to America. Necessity and duty
require that I should not be long absent, as my
parents want my assistance, and they are now
childless.” “Suffer me (answered Alonzo) to
bury myself in this city for the present; should
I ever again awake to real life, I will seek you
out if you are on the earth, but now I can only
be a companion to my miseries.”

The next morning as they were about to depart,
Alonzo took Melissa's miniature from his
bosom, he contemplated the picture a few moments
with ardent emotion, and presented it to
Edgar. “Keep it, (said Edgar) it is thine. I
bestow it upon thee as I would the original had
not death become the rival of thy love, and my
affection. Suffer not the sacred symbol too tenderly
to renew your sorrows. How swiftly, Alonzo,
does this restless life fleet away! How
soon shall we pass the barriers of terrestrial existence!
Let us live worthy of ourselves, of our
holy religion, of Melissa—Melissa, whom, when
a few more suns have arisen and set, we shall
meet in regions where all tears shall be eternally
wiped from every eye.”

With what unspeakable sensibilities was it returned
to Alonzo's bosom! Edgar offered Alonzo
pecuniary assistance, which the latter refused;

“I am in business, (said he) which brings me a
decent support and that is sufficient.” They agreed
to write each other as frequently as possible,
and then affectionately parted; Edgar sailed
for Holland, and Alonzo returned to his business
at Mr. Grafton's.

Some time after this Alonzo received a message
from Dr. Franklin, requiring his attendance
at his house, which summons he immediately obeyed.
The doctor introduced him into his study,
and after being seated, he earnestly viewed
Alonzo for some time, and thus addressed him:

“Young man, your views, your resolutions,
and your present conduct, are totally wrong.—
Disappointment, you say, has driven you from
your native country. Disappointment in what?
In obtaining the object on which you most doated.
And suppose this object had been obtained,
would your happiness have been complete? Your
own reason, if you coolly consult it, will convince
you of the contrary. Do you not remember,
when an infant, how you cried, and teazed
your nurse, or your parents, for a rattle or some
gay trinket? Your whole soul was fixed upon
the enchanting bauble; but when obtained you
soon cast it away, and sighed as earnestly for
some other trifle, some new toy. Thus it is
through life; the fancied value of an object ceases
with the attainment; it becomes familiar, and
its charm is lost.

“Was it the splendours of beauty which enraptured
you? Sickness may, and age must destroy

the symmetry of the most finished form—
the brilliancy of the finest features. Was it the
graces of the mind? I tell you that by familiarity
these allurements are lost, and the mind left
vacant turns to some other source to supply vacuum.

“Stripped of all their intrinsic value, how poor,
how vain, and how worthless, are those things
we name pleasures and enjoyments!

“Besides, the attainment of your wishes might
have been the death of your hopes. If my reasoning
is correct, the ardency of your passion
might have closed with the pursuit. An every
day suit however rich and costly the texture,
is soon worn threadbare. On your part,
indifference would consequently succeed; on the
part of your partner, disappointment, jealousy,
and disgust. What might follow is needless for
me to name; your soul must shudder at the idea
of conjugal infidelity!

“But admitting the most favourable consequences;
turn the brightest side of the picture;
admitting as much happiness as the connubial
state will allow: how might your bosom have
been wounded by the sickness and death of your
children, or their disorderly and disobedient conduct!
You must know also, that the warmth of
youthful passion must soon cease, and it is merely
a hazardous chance whether friendship will
supply the absence of affection.

“After all, my young friend, it will be well
for you to consider, whether the all-wise dispensing

hand of Providence has not directed this
matter, which you esteem so great an affliction,
for your greatest good, and most essential advantage.
And suffer me to tell you, that in all my
observations on life, I have always found that
those connections which were formed from inordinate
passion, or what some would call pure affection,
have been ever the most unhappy. Examine
the varied circles of society, you will there
see this axiom demonstrated: you will there see
how few among the sentimentally refined are even
apparently at ease, while those insusceptible of
what you name tender attachments, or who receive
them only as things of course, plod on
through life, without even experiencing the least
inconvenience from a want ol the pleasures they
are supposed to bestow, or the pains they are sure
to create. Beware, then, my son, beware of
yielding the heart to the effeminacies of passion.
Exquisite sensibilities are ever subject to exquisite
inquietudes Counsel with correct reason,
place entire dependence on the Supreme, and
the triumph of fortitude and resignation will be
yours.”

Franklin paused. His reasonings, however
they convinced the understanding, could not heal
the wounds of Alonzo's bosom. In Melissa he
looked for as much happiness as earth could afford,
nor could he see any prospect in life which
could repair the loss he had sustained.

“You have (resumed the philosopher) deserted
an indulgent father, a fond and tender mother,

who must want your aid; now, perhaps, unable
to toil for bread; now possibly laid upon the bed
of sickness, calling in anguish or delirium, for
the filial hand of their only son to administer relief.
[All the parental feelings of Alonzo were
now called into poignant action.] You have left
a country, bleeding at every pore, desolated by
the ravages of war, wrecked by the thunders of
battle, her heroes slain, her children captured.—
This country asks—she demands—you owe her
your services—God and nature call upon you to
defend her, while here you bury yourself in inglorious
inactivity, pining for a hapless object,
which by all your lamentations you can never
bring back to the regions of mortality.”

This aroused the patriotic flame in the bosom
of Alonzo, and he voluntarily exclaimed, “I will
go to the relief of my parents—I will fly to the
defence of my country!”

“In former days (continued Franklin) I was
well acquainted with your father. As soon as
you informed me of his failure, I wrote to my
correspondent in England, and found, as I expected,
that he had been overreached by swindlers
and sharpers. The pretended failure of
the merchants with whom he was in company,
was all a sham, as also the reported loss of the
ships in their employ. The merchants fled to
England; I have had them arrested, and they
have given up their effects, to much more than
the amount of their debts. I have therefore procured
a reversion of your father's losses, which,

with costs, damages, and interests, when legally
stated, he will receive of my agent in Philadelphia,
to whom I shall transmit sufficient documents
by you, and I shall advance you a sum
equal to the expenses of your voyage, which will
be liquidated by the said agent. A ship sails in
a few days from Havre, for Savannah in Georgia;
it would, indeed, be more convenient were she
bound to some more northern port, but I know
of no other which will sail for any part of America
in some time. In her therefore I would advise
you to take passage; it is not very material
on what part of the continent you are landed, you
will soon reach Philadelphia, transact your business,
restore your father to his property, and be
ready to serve your country.”

If any thing could have given Alonzo consolation,
it must have been this noble, generous and
disinterested conduct of the great Franklin in favour
of his father by which his family were restored
to ease and to independence. Ah! had this
but have happened in time to save a life far dearer
than his own! The reflection was too painful.
The idea, however, of giving joy to his aged parents,
hastened his departure. Furnished with
proper documents and credentials from Franklin,
his benefactor, he took leave of him, with the
warmest expressions of gratitude, as also of Mr.
Grafton, and sailed for Savannah, where he arrived
in about eight weeks.

Intent on his purpose, he immediately purchased
a carriage and proceeded on for Philadelphia.

As he approached Charleston, his bosom swelled
with mournful recollection. He arrived in that
city in the afternoon, and at evening he walked
out, and entered a little ale-house, which stood
near the large burial ground. An elderly woman
and two small children were the only persons in
the house, except himself. After calling for a
pint of ale, he enquired of the old lady, if Col.
D— (Melissa's uncle) did not live near the
city. She informed him that he resided about a
mile from the town, where he had an elegant
seat, and that he was very rich. “Was there not
a young lady (asked Alonzo) who died there about
eighteen months ago?” “La me! (said she)
did you know her? Yes; and a sweeter or more
handsome lady, the sun never shined on. And
then she was so good, so patient in her sickness.
Poor, dear, distressed girl, she pined away to
skin and bones before she died. She was not
Col. D—'s daughter, only somehow related;
she came here in hopes that a change of air might
do her good. She came from—la me! I cannot
think of the name of the place; it is a crabbed
name though.” “Connecticut, was it not,”
said Alonzo. “O yes, that was it, (replied she)
dear me! then you knew her, did you sir? Well
we have not her like left in Charleston, that we
han't; and then there was such ado at her funeral;
five hundred people I dare say, with eight
young ladies for pall-bearers, all dressed in white,
with black ribons, and all the bells tolling.”—
“Where was she buried?” enquired Alonzo.
“In the church-yard right before our door (she
answered.) My husband is the sexton; he put
up her large white marble tomb-stones; they are
the largest and whitest in the whole burying-ground,
and so, indeed, they ought to be, for
never was there a person who deserved them
more.” Tired with the old woman's garrulity,
and with a bosom bursting with anguish, Alonzo
paid for his ale without drinking it, bade her
good night, and slowly proceeded to the church-yard.
The moon, in full lustre, shone with solemn,
silvery ray, on the sacred piles, and funeral
monuments of the sacred dead; the wind murmured
mournfully among the weeping willows;
a solitary nightingale[12] sang plaintively in the distant
forest, and a whipperwill, Melissa's favourite
bird, whistled near the portico of the church.
The large white tomb-stones soon caught the eye
of Alonzo. He approached them with tremulous
step, and with feelings too agitated for description.
On the head-stone he read as follows:

SACRED
To the Memory of inestimable departed
Worth;
To unrivalled Excellence and Virtue.

Miss Melissa D—,
Whose remains are deposited here, and whose
ethereal part became a seraph, Oct. 26, 1776,
In the 18th year of her age.

Alonzo bent, kneeled, he prostrated himself,
he clasped the green turf which enclosed her
grave, he watered it with his tears he warmed
it with his sighs. “Where art thou, bright beam
of heavently light! (he said.) Come to my troubled
soul, blest spirit! Come, holy shade! come
in all thy native loveliness, and cheer the bosom
of wretchedness by thy grief dispersing smile!
On the ray of yon evening star descend. One
moment leave the celestial regions of glory—
leave one moment, thy sister beatitudes, glide,
in intrancing beauty before me; wave benignly
wave thy white hand, and assuage the anguish of
despairing sorrow! Alas! in vain my invocation!
A curtain, impenetrable, is drawn betwixt
me and thee, only to be disclosed by the dissolution
of nature.”

He arose and walked away; suddenly he stopped:
“Yet (said he) if spirits departed lose not
the power of recollection; if they have knowledge
of present events on earth, Melissa cannot
have forgotten me—she must pity me.” He returned
to the grave, he took her miniature from
his bosom he held it up and earnestly viewed it
by the moon's pale ray.

“Ah, Franklin! (he exclaimed) how tenderly
does she beam her lovely eye upon me! How often
have I drank delicious extacy from the delicacy
of those unrivalled charms! How often have
they taught me to anticipate superlative and uninterrupted
bliss! Mistaken and delusive hope!
[returning the miniature to his bosom] Vain and

presumptuous assurance. Then [pointing to the
grave] there behold how my dearest wishes, my
fondest expectations are realized!—Hallowed
turf! lie lightly on her bosom! Sacred willows!
sprinkle the dews gently over her grave, while
the mourning breezes sigh sadly amid your
branches! Here may the “widowed wild rose
love to bloom!” Here may the first placid beams
of morning delight to linger; from hence, the
evening ray reluctantly withdraw! And when the
final trump shall renovate and arouse the sleeping
saint; when on “buoyant step” she soars to
glory, may our meeting spirits join in beatific
transport! May my enraptured ear catch the first
holy whisper of her consecrated lips.”

Alonzo having thus poured out the effusions
of an overcharged heart pensively returned to the
inn, which he entered and seated himself in the
common room in deep contemplation. As usual
at public inns, a number of people were in the
room among whom were several officers of the
American army. Alonzo was too deeply absorpt
in melancholy reflection, to notice passing incidents
until a young officer came, seated himself
by him, and entered into conversation respecting
the events of the war. He appeared to be about
Alonzo's age; his person was interesting, his
manners sprightly, his observations correct. Alonzo
was, in some degree, aroused from his abstractedness;
the manners of the stranger pleased
him. His frankness, his ease, his understanding,
his urbanity, void of vanity or sophistication,

sympathetically caught the feelings of Alonzo,
and he even felt a sort of solemn regret when
the stranger departed. He soon retired to bed,
determining to proceed early in the morning.

He arose about day-light; the horizon was
overcast, and it had begun to rain, which before
sunrise encreased to a violent storm. He found
therefore that he must content himself to stay until
it was over, which did not happen till near
night, and too late to pursue his journey. He was
informed by the inn-keeper, that the theatre,
which had been closed since the commencement
of the war, was to be opened for that night only,
with the tragedy of Gustavus, and close with a
representation of Burgoyne's capture, and some
other recent events of the American war. To
“wing the hours with swifter speed,” Alonzo
determined to go to the theatre, and at the hour
appointed he repaired thither.

As he was proceeding to take his seat, he passed
the box where sat the young officer, whose
manners had so prepossessed him the preceding
evening at the inn. He immediately arose; they
exchanged salutations, and Alonzo walked on
and took his seat. The evening was warm, and
the house exceedingly crowded. After the tragedy
was through, and before the after-piece
commenced, the young officer came to Alonzo's
box, and made some remarks on the merit of the
actors. While they were discoursing a bustle
took place in one part of the house, and several
people gathered around a box, at a little distance

from them. The officer turned, left Alonzo, and
hastened to the place. To the general enquiry
of “what's the matter?” it was answered that
“a lady had fainted.” She was led out, and the
tumult subsided.

As soon as the after-piece was closed, Alonzo
returned to the inn. As he passed along he cast
his eyes toward the church-yard, where lay the
“wither'd blessings of his richest joys.” Affection,
passion, inclination, urged him to go and
breathe a farewel sigh, to drop a final tear over
the grave of Melissa; discretion reason, wisdom
forbade it—forbade that he re-pierce the ten
thousand wounds of his bosom, by the acute revival
of unavailing sorrows. He hurried to his
chamber.

As he prepared to retire to rest, he saw a book
lying on the table near his bed. On taking it up
he found it to be Young's Night Thoughts a book
which in happier days, had been the solace of
many a gloomy, many a lucid hour. He took it
up, and the first lines he cast his eyes upon were
the following:

His tears fell fast upon the book! he replaced
it and flung himself into bed. Sleep was far

from him; he closed not his eyes till the portals
of light were unbarred in the east, when he fell
into interrupted slumbers

When he awoke, the morning was considerably
advanced. He arose. One consolation was
yet left—to see his parents happy. He went
down to order his carriage; his favourite stranger,
the young officer, was in waiting, and requested
a private interview. They immediately
retired to a separate room, when the stranger thus
addressed Alonzo:

“From our short acquaintance, you may, sir,
consider it singular that I should attempt to scrutinize
your private concerns; more extraordinary
may you esteem it when I inform you of my
reasons for so doing. Judging, however, from
appearances, I have no doubt of your candour;
if my questions should be deemed improper you
will tell me so.” Alonzo assured him he would
treat him candidly. “This I believe, (said the
young officer) I take the liberty therefore to ask
if you are an American?” “I am,” answered
Alonzo. “I presume—(said the stranger) the
question is a delicate one—I presume your family
is respectable?” “Sacredly so,” replied Alonzo.
“Are you married, sir?” “I am now,
and have ever been single.” “Have you any
prospects of connecting in marriage?” “I have
not, sir.” “I may then safely proceed, (said the
stranger) I trust you will hear me attentively;
you will judge maturely, you will decide correctly,
I am confident that you will answer me sincerely.

“A young lady of this city, with whom I am
well acquainted, and to whom, indeed, I am distantly
related, whose father is affluent, whose
connections are eminently respectable, whose
manners are engaging, whose mind is virtue,
whose elegance of form and personal beauty defy
competition, is the cause, sir, of this mission.—
Early introduced into the higher walks of life,
she has passed the rounds of fashionable company;
numberless suitors sighed for her hand whom
she complaisantly dismissed without disobliging,
as her heart had not yet been touched by the
tender passion of love. Surprising as it may
however seem, it is now about six months since
she saw in her dream the youth who possessed
the power to inspire her with this passion. In
her dream she saw a young gentleman whose interesting
manners and appearance impressed her
so deeply that she found she must be unhappy
without him. She thought it was in a mixed
company she saw him, but that she could not get
an opportunity to speak to him. It seemed that
if she could but speak with him, all difficulties
would at once be removed. At length he approached
her, and just as he was about to address
her, she awoke. This extraordinary
dream she has communicated to several of her
acquaintance. Confident that she should some
time or other behold the real person whose semblance
she had seen in her dream, she has never
since been perfectly at ease in her mind. Her
father who has but two children, one besides

herself, being doting fond of her, has promised
that if ever she meets this unknown stranger, he
will not oppose their union, provided he is respectable,
and that if worthy of her hand he will
make him independent.

“On my return from the inn the evening I
first saw you, I told my sister—I beg pardon,
sir—I was wandering from my subject—after I
first met you at the inn, I fell in company with
the lady, and in a railing way told her I had seen
her invisible beau, as we used to call the gentleman
of the dream. I superficially described
your person, and descanted a little on the embellishments
of your mind. She listened with some
curiosity and attention; but I had so often jested
with her in this manner, that she thought little
of it. At the play last night, I had just been
speaking to her when I came to your box: her
eyes followed me, but no sooner had they rested
on you, than she fainted! This was the cause of
my leaving you so abruptly, and not returning.
We conveyed her home, when she informed me
that you was the person she had seen in her
dream!

“To me only she preferred disclosing the circumstance
at present, for reasons which must be
obvious to your understanding. Even her father
and mother are not informed of it, and should
my mission prove unsuccessful, none except you,
sir, she and myself, I hope and trust, will ever
know any thing of the matter.

“Now, sir, it is necessary for me farther to
explain. As singular as the circumstances which
I have related may appear to you, to me they
must appear as strange. One valuable purpose
is however answered thereby; it will exclude
the imputation of capriciousness—the freakish
whim of love at first sight, which exists only in
novels and romances. You, sir, are young, unmarried,
unaffianced, your affections free—such
is the condition of the lady. She enquires not
into the state of your property; she asks not
riches: if she obtains the object of her choice,
on him, as I have told you, will her father bestow
affluence. Whatever, sir, may be your pretensions
to eminence, and they may be many, the
lady is not your inferior. Her education also is
such as would do honor to a gentleman of taste.
I will not extend my remarks; you perfectly understand
me—what answer shall I return?”

Alonzo sighed; for a few moments he was
silent. “Perhaps (said the stranger) you may
consider the mode of this message as bearing the
appearance of indecorum. If so, I presume on
reviewing the incidents which to—which enforced
it, as the most safe—the only means of sure
communication, you will change your opinion.
Probably you would not wish finally to decide
until you have visited the lady. This was my
expectation, and I am, therefore, ready to introduce
you to her presence.”

“No, sir, (said Alonzo) so far from considering
the message indecorous, I esteem it a peculiar

honour, both as respects the lady and yourself.
Nor is it necessary that I should visit the
lady, to confirm the truth of what you have related.
You will not, sir, receive it as an adulatory
compliment, when I say, that although our acquaintance
is short, yet my confidence in your
integrity is such as to require no corroborating
facts to establish your declaration. But, sir,
there are obstacles, insuperable obstacles, to the
execution of the measures you would propose.

“Your frankness to me demands, on my part,
equal candour. I assured you that I was unmarried,
and had no prospect of entering into matrimonial
engagements; this is indeed the fact: but
it is also true that my affections—my first, my
earliest affections were engaged inalienably engaged
to an object which is now no more. Perhaps
you may esteem it singular; perhaps you
will consider it enthusiasm; but, sir, it is impossible
that my heart should admit a second and
similar impression.”

The stranger paused.—“Recent disappointments
of this nature (he replied) commonly leave
the mind under such gloomy influences. Time,
however, the soother of severest woes, will,
though slowly, yet surely disperse the clouds of
anguish, and the rays of comfort and consolation
will beam upon the soul. I wish not to be considered
importunate but the day may arrive when
you may change your present determination, and
then will you not regret that you refused so advantageous
an overture?”

“That day will never arrive sir, (answered
Alonzo) I have had time for deliberate reflection
since the melancholy event took place. I have
experienced a sufficient change of objects and of
country; the effect is the same. The wound is
still recent, and so it will ever remain; indeed I
cannot wish it otherwise. There is a rich and
sacred solemnity in my sorrows sir, which I
would not exchange for the most splendid acquirements
of wealth, or the most dignified titles
of fame.”

The young officer sat for some time silent.—
“Well, sir, (he said) since it is thus, seeing that
these things are so, I will urge you no farther.—
You will pardon me respecting the part I have
taken in this business, since it was with the purest
designs. May consolation, comfort and happiness
yet be yours.”

“To you and your fair friend (said Alonzo) I
consider myself under the highest obligations.
The gratitude I feel I can but feebly express;—
believe me sir, when I tell you (and it is all I can
say) that your ingenuous conduct has left impressions
in my bosom which can never be obliterated.”
The stranger held out his hand, which
Alonzo ardently grasped: they were silent, but
their eyes spoke sympathy, and they parted.

Alonzo immediately prepared, and was soon
ready to depart. As he was stepping into his
carriage, he saw the young officer returning. As
he came up, “I must detain you a few moments
longer (he said) and I will give you no farther

trouble. You will recollect that the lady about
whom I have so much teazed you, when she became
acquainted with you in her dream, believed
that if she could speak with you all difficulties
would be removed. Conscious that this may be
the case, [for with all her accomplishments she
is a little superstitious] she desires to see you.
You have nothing to fear, sir; she would not for
the world yield you her hand, unless in return
you could give her your heart. Nor was she
willing you should know that she made this request,
but wished me to introduce you, as it were,
by stratagem. Confident, however, that you
would thus far yield to the caprice of a lady, I
chose to tell you the truth. She resides near by,
and it will not hinder you long.”

“It is capriciousness in the extreme,” thought
Alonzo, but he told the stranger he would accompany
him; who immediately stepped into
the carriage and they drove, by his direction, to
an elegant house in a street at a little distance,
and alighted. As they entered the house, a servant
handed the stranger a note, which he hastily
looked over; “tell the gentleman I will wait on
him in a moment,” said he to the servant, who
instantly withdrew. Turning to Alonzo, “a person
is in waiting [said he] on urgent business—
excuse me therefore if it is with reluctance I retire
a few moments after I have announced you;
I will soon again be with you.”

They then ascended a flight of stairs; the
stranger opened the door of a chamber—“The

gentleman I mentioned to you, madam,” he said;
Alonzo entered, the stranger closed the door and
retired. The lady was sitting by a window at
the lower end of the room, but arose as Alonzo
was announced. She was dressed in sky blue
silk, embroidered with spangled lace; a gemmed
tiara gathered her hair, from which was suspended
a green veil, according to the mode of those
times; a silken girdle with diamond clasps, surrounded
her waist, and a brilliant sparkled upon
her bosom. “The stranger's description was
not exaggerated, [thought Alonzo] for except
one, I have never seen a more elegant figure,”
and he almost wished the veil removed, that he
might behold her features.

“You will please to be seated, sir, [she said]
I know not how—I feel an inconceivable diffidence
in making an excuse for the inconveniences
my silly caprices have given you.” Enchanting
melody was in her voice!—Alonzo knew not
why, but it thrilled his bosom electrified his
soul, and vibrated every nerve of his heart.—
Confused and hurried sensations, melancholy yet
pleasing; transporting as the recurrence of
youthful joys, enrapturing as dreams of early
childhood, passed in rapid succession over his
imagination! She advanced towards him, and
turned aside her veil. Her eyes were suffused,
and tears streamed down her cheeks. Alonzo
started—his whole frame shook!—he gasped for
breath.!—“Melissa! [he convulsively exclaimed]
God of infinite wonders!—It is Melissa!!”

Again will the incidents of our history produce
a pause. Our sentimental readers will experience
a recurrence of sympathetic sensibilities,
and will attend more eagerly to the final scene
of our drama. “Melissa alive! (may they say)
Impossible! Did not Alonzo see her death announced
in the public prints? Did not her cousin
at New-London inform him of the circumstances,
and was he not in mourning? Did not the
dying Beauman confirm the melancholy fact?
And was not the unquestionable testimony of
her brother Edgar sufficient to seal the truth of
all this? Did not the sexton's wife, who knew
not Alonzo, corroborate it? And did not Alonzo
finally, read her name, her age, and the time
of her death, on her tomb-stone, which exactly
accorded with the publication of her death in the
papers, and his own knowledge of her age? And
is not this sufficient to prove, clearly and incontestibly
prove that she is dead? And yet here
she is again in all her primitive beauty and splendour!
No, this surely can never be.—However
the author may succeed in his description, in
painting reanimated nature, he is no magician, or
if he is, he cannot raise the dead. Melissa has
long since mouldered into dust, and he has raised
up some female Martin Guerre, or Thomas
Hoag—some person from whose near resemblance
to the deceased, he thinks to impose upon
us, and upon Alonzo also, for Melissa. But it
will not do; it must be the identical Melissa
herself, or it might as well be her likeness in a

marble statue. What! can Alonzo realize the
delicacies, the tenderness, the blandishments, of
Melissa in another? Can her substitute point
him to the rock on New-London beach, the bower
on her favourite hill, or so feelingly describe
the charms of nature? Can he, indeed find in
her representative those alluring graces, that
pensive sweetness, those unrivalled virtues and
matchless worth, which he found in Melissa, and
which attracted, fixed, and secured the youngest
affections of his soul? Impossible! Or could the
author even make it out that Alonzo was deceived
by a person so nearly resembling Melissa
that he could not distinguish the difference, yet
to his readers he must unveil the deception, and,
of course, the story will end in disappointment;
it will leave an unpleasant and disagreeable impression
on the mind of the reader, which in
novel writing is certainly wrong. It is proved,
as clearly as facts can prove, that he has suffered
Melissa todie, and since she is dead, it is totally
beyond his power to bring her to life—and so his
history is intrinsically good for nothing.”

Be not quite so hasty, my zealous censor.—
Did we not tell you that we were detailing facts?
Shall we disguise or discolour truth to please
your taste? Have we not told you that disappointments
are the lot of life? Have we not,
according to the advice of the moralist, led Alonzo
to the temple of philosophy, the shrine of reason,
and the sanctuary of religion? If all these
fail; if in these Alonzo cannot find a balsam

sufficient to heal his wounded bosom then if, in
despite of graves and tomb-stones, Melissa
will come to his relief; will pour the balm of
consolation over his anguished soul, cynical critic,
can the author help it?

It was indeed Melissa, the identical Melissa,
whom Alonzo ascended a tree to catch a last
glimpse of, as she walked up the avenue to the
old mansion, after they had parted at the draw-bridge,
on the morning of the day when she was
so mysteriously removed “Melissa!”—
“Alonzo!”—were all they could articulate;
and frown not, my fair readers, if we tell you
that she was instantly in his arms, while he pressed
his ardent lips to her glowing cheek.

Sneer not, ye callous hearted insensibles, ye
fastidious prudes, if we inform you that their
tears fell in one intermingling shower, that their
sighs wafted in one blended breeze.

The sudden opening of the door aroused them
to a sense of their improper situation—for who
but must consider it improper to find a young lady
locked in the arms of a gentleman to whom
she had just been introduced? The opening of
the door, therefore, caused them quickly to
change their position, not so hastily, however, but
that the young officer who then entered the room
had a glimpse of their situation. “Aha! (said
he) have I caught you? Is my philosophic Plato
so soon metamorphosed to a bon ton enamarato?
But a few hours ago, sir, and you were proof against
the whole arcana of beauty, and all the artillery

of the graces; but no sooner are you for
one moment tete a tete with a fashionable belle,
than your heroism and your resolutions are vanquished,
your former ties dissolved, and your
deceased charmer totally forgotten or neglected,
by the virtue of a single glance. Well so it is;
Amor vincit omnia is my motto; to thee, all conquering
beauty, our firmest determinations must
bow. I cannot censure you for discovering,
though late, that one living object is really of
more intrinsic value than two dead ones. Indeed,
sir, I cannot but applaud your determination.”
The laws of honour (said Alonzo smiling)
compel me to submit to become the subject
of your raillery and deception; I am in your
power.” “I acknowledge (said the officer) that
I have a little deceived you; my story was fiction
founded on truth—the novel style: but for the
deceptive part, you may thank your little gipsey
of a nymph there; [pointing to Melissa] she
planned and I executed.” “How ready you
gentlemen are, (replied Melissa) when accused
of impropriety, to east the blame on the defenceless!
So it was with our first parents, and so it
is still. But you must remember that Alonzo is
yet to hear my story; there, sir, I have the advantage
of you.” “Then I confess (said he,
looking at Alonzo) you will be too hard for me,
and so I will say no more about it.”

Melissa then introduced the young officer to
Alonzo by the appellation of Capt. Wilmot.—
“He is the son of my deceased uncle (said she)

a cousin to whom I am much indebted, as you
shall hereafter know.”

A coach drove up to the door, which Melissa
informed Alonzo was her uncle's, and was sent
to convey Alfred and her home. “You will
have no objection to breakfast with me at my uncle's
(said Alfred) if it be only to keep our cousin
Melissa in countenance.” Alonzo did not
hesitate to accept the invitation; they immediately
therefore entered the coach, a servant took
charge of Alonzo's carriage and they drove to
the seat of Col. D— who with his family received
Alonzo with much friendship and politeness.
Alfred had apprized them of Alonzo's arrival
in town, and of course he was expected.

Col. D— was about fifty years old, his manners
were majestically grave and commanding,
yet polished and polite. His family consisted of
an amiable wife, considerably younger than himself,
and three children; the eldest son about ten
years of age, and two daughters, one seven, the
other four years old Harmony and cheerfulness
reigned in this family, which diffused tranquillity
and ease to its members and its guests.

It was agreed that Alonzo should pass a few
days at the house of Melissa's uncle, when Melissa
was to accompany him to Connecticut. Alfred,
with some other officers, was recruiting for
the army, where his regiment then lay, and which
he was shortly to join. He could not, therefore,
be constantly at his uncle's, though he was principally
there while Alonzo staid: but being absent

the day after his arrival, Melissa and Alonzo
having retired to a room separate from the family,
she gave him the following account of what
happened after they had parted at the old mansion.

“The morning after you left me (she said)
John came to the bridge and called to be let in;
I immediately went to the gate, opened it, and
let down the bridge John informed me that my
aunt had suddenly and unexpectedly arrived that
morning in company with a strange gentleman,
and that he had come for the keys, as my aunt
was to visit the mansion that day. I strove to
persuade John to leave the keys in my possession,
and that I would make all easy with my
aunt when she arrived This, though with much
reluctance, he at length consented to, and departed.
Soon after this my aunt came, and without
much ceremony, demanded the keys, insinuating
that I had obtained them from John by imposition,
and for the basest purposes. This aroused
me to indignation, and I answered by informing
her that whatever purposes the persecution and
cruelty of my family had compelled me to adopt,
my conscience, under present circumstances, approved
them, and I refused to give her the keys.
She then ordered me to prepare to leave the mansion,
and accompany her to her residence at the
house of John. I told her that I had been placed
there by my father, and should not consent to a
removal unless by his express orders. She then
left me, intimating that she would soon let me

know that her authority was not to be thus trampled
upon with impunity.

“I immediately raised the bridge and made
fast the gate, determining, on no considerations,
to suffer it to be opened until evening. The day
passed away without any occurrence worthy of
note and as soon as it was dark, I went, opened
the gate, and cautiously let down the bridge. I
then returned to the mansion, and placed the candle,
as we had concerted, at the window. Shortly
after I heard a carriage roll over the bridge and
proceed up the avenue. My heart fluttered; I
wished, I hardly knew what I did wish but I feared
I was about to act improperly, as I had no other
idea but that it was you. Alonzo, who was approaching.
The carriage stopped near the door
of the mansion, a foot-step ascended the stairs;
judge of my surprise and agitation when my father
entered the chamber! A maid and two men
servants followed him. He directed me to make
immediate preparations for leaving the mansion,
which command, with the assistance of the servants
I obeyed with a heart too full for utterance.
As soon as I was ready, we entered the carriage,
which drove rapidly away. As we passed out of
the gate, I looked back at the mansion, and saw
the light of the candle, which I had forgotten to
remove, streaming from the window, and it was
by an extraordinary effort that I prevented myself
from fainting. The carriage drove, as near
as I could judge, about ten miles, when we stopped
at an inn for the night, except my father, who

returned home on horseback leaving me at the
inn in company with the servants, where the carriage
also remained. The maid was a person
who had been attached to me from my infancy.
I asked her whether she could explain these mysterious
proceedings. “All I know, Miss, I will
tell you; (said she) your father received a letter
to-day from your aunt, which put him in a terrible
fluster; he immediately ordered his carriage
and directed us to attend him. He met your
aunt at a tavern somewhere away back, and she
told him that the gentleman who used to come
to our house so much once had contrived to carry
you off from the place where you lived with
her; so your father concluded to send you to
your uncle's in Carolina, and said that I must go
with you: and to tell you the truth, Miss, I was
not displeased with it, for your father has grown
so sour of late, that we have little peace in the
house.”—By this I found that my fate was fixed,
and I gave myself up for some time, to unavailing
sorrow. The maid informed me that my
mother was well, which was one sweet consolation
among my many troubles—but she knew
nothing of my father's late conduct.

“The next morning we proceeded, and I was
hurried on by rapid stages to the Chesapeak,
where, with the maid and one man-servant, I was
put on board a packet for Charleston, at which
place we arrived in due time.

“My uncle and his family received me with
much tenderness; the servant delivered a package

of letters to my uncle from my father. The
carriage with one servant (the driver) had returned
from the Chesapeak to Connecticut.

“My father had but one brother and two sisters,
of which my uncle here is the youngest.—
One of my aunts, the old maid, who was my protectress
at the old mansion, you have seen at my
father's; the other was the mother of Alfred:
she married very young, to a gentleman in Hartford,
of the name of Wilmot, who fell before the
walls of Louisburg, in the old French war. My
aunt did not long survive him; her health which
had been for some time declining, received so
serious a shock by this catastrophe, that she died
a few months after the melancholy tidings arrived,
leaving Alfred, their only child, then an infant,
to the protection of his relations, who, as
soon as he arrived at a suitable age, placed him
at school.

“My grandfather, who had the principal management
of Mr. Wilmot's estate, sent my uncle,
who was then young and unmarried, to Hartford,
for the purpose of transacting the necessary business.
Here he became acquainted with a young
lady, eminent for beauty and loveliness, but
without fortune, the daughter of a poor mechanic.
As soon as my grandfather was informed of this
attachment, he, in a very peremptory manner,
ordered my uncle to break off the connection on
pain of his highest displeasure. But such is the
force of early impressions, [Melissa sighed] that
my uncle found it impossible to submit to these

firm injunctions; a clandestine marriage ensued,
and my grandfather's maledictions in consequence.
The union was, however, soon dissolved;
my uncle's wife died in about twelve
months after their marriage, and soon after the
birth of the first child, which was a daughter.—
Inconsolable and comfortless, my uncle put the
child out to nurse, and travelled to the south.—
After wandering about for some time, he took
up his residence in Charleston, where he amassed
a splendid fortune. He finally married to an
amiable and respectable woman, whose tenderness
though it did not entirely remove, yet soon
greatly alleviated the pangs of early sorrow, and
this, added to the little blandishments of a young
family, fixed him in a state of more contentedness
than he once ever expected to see. His
daughter, by his first wife, when she became of
proper age, was sent to a respectable boarding-school
in Boston, where she remained until within
about two years before I came here. Alfred
was educated at Harvard College; as soon as he
had graduated he came here on my uncle's request
and has since remained in his family.

“Soon after I arrived here, my uncle came into
my chamber one day; “Melissa, (said he) I
find by your father's letters that he considers you
to have formed an improper connection; I wish
you to give me a true statement of the matter,
and if any thing can be done to reconcile you to
your father, you may depend upon my assistance.
I have seen some troubles in this way myself, in

my early days; perhaps my counsel may be of
some service” I immediately gave a correct
account of every particular circumstance from
the time of my first acquaintance with you until
my arrival at this house. He sat some time silent,
and then told me that my father, he believed
had drawn the worst side of the picture and
that he had urged him to exert every means in
his power to reclaim me to obedience; that Beauman
was to follow me in a few months, and that
if I still refused to yield him my hand my father
positively and solemnly declared that he would
discard me forever, and strenuously enjoined it
upon him to do the same. “I well know my
brother's temper; (continued my uncle) the case
is difficult, but something must be done. I will
immediately write to your father, desiring him
not to proceed too rashly; in the mean time, we
must consider what measures to pursue. You
must not, my niece, you must not be sacrificed.”
So saying, he left me, highly consolated that instead
of a tyrant I had found a friend in my new
protector.

“Alfred was made acquainted with the affair,
and many were the plans projected for my benefit,
and abandoned as indefeasible, till an event
happened which called forth all the fortitude of
my uncle to support it, and operated in the end
to free me from persecution.

“My uncle's daughter, by his first wife, was
of a very delicate and sickly constitution, and
her health evidently decreasing after she came to

this place, she was sent to a village on one of the
high hills of Pedee, where she remained a considerable
time; she then went to one of the inland
towns in North-Carolina, from whence she
had but just returned with Alfred when I arrived
Afterwards I accompanied her to Georgetown,
and other places, attended by her father, so
that she was little more known in Charleston
than myself. But all answered no purpose to the
restoration of her health; a confirmed hectic carried
her off in the bloom of youth.

“I was but a few months older than she; her
name was Melissa, a name which a pious grandmother
had borne, and was therefore retained in
the family. Our similarity of age, and in some
measure of appearance, our being so little known
in Charleston, and our names being the same,
suggested to Alfred the idea of imposing on my
father by passing off my cousin's death as my
own. This would at least, deter Beauman from
prosecuting his intended journey to Charleston;
it would also give time for farther deliberation,
and might so operate on my father's feelings, as
to soften that obduracy of temper, which deeply
disquieted himself and others, and thus finally be
productive of happily effecting the designed purpose.

“My uncle was too deeply overwhelmed in
grief to be particularly consulted on this plan.—
He however entrusted Alfred to act with full
powers, and to use his name for my interest, if
necessary. Alfred therefore procured a publica

tion, as of my death, in the Connecticut papers,
particularly at New London, the native place of
Beauman. In Charleston it was also generally
supposed that it was the niece and not the daughter
of Col. D—, who had died: this imposition
was likewise practised upon the sexton, who
keeps the register of deaths.[13] Alfred then wrote
a letter to my father in my uncle's name, stating
the particulars of my cousin's death, and applying
them to me. The epitaph on her tomb-stone
was likewise so devised that it would with equal
propriety apply either to her or to me.

“To undeceive you, Alonzo, (continued Melissa)
was the next object. I consulted with Alfred
how this should be done. “My sister,” he
said [in our private circles he always called me
by the tender name of sister] “I am determined
to see you happy before I relinquish the business
I have undertaken; letters are a precarious
mode of communication; I will make a journey
to Connecticut, find out Alonzo, visit your
friends, and see how the plan operates. I am
known to your father, who has ever treated me
as a relative. I will return as speedily as possible,
and we shall then know what measures are
best next to pursue.” I requested him to unfold
the deception to my mother, and, if he found it
expedient, to Vincent and Mr. Simpson, in
whose friendship and fidelity I was sure he might
safely confide.

“He soon departed, and returned in about two
months. He found my father and mother in extreme
distress on account of my supposed death;
my mother's grief had brought her on the bed of
sickness; but when Alfred had undeceived her
she rapidly revived. My father told Alfred that
he seriously regretted opposing my inclinations,
and that, were it possible he could retrace the
steps he had taken, he should conduct in a very
different manner, as he was not only deprived of
me, but Edgar also, who had gone to Holland in
an official capacity, soon after receiving the
tidings of my death. “I am now childless,”
said my father in tears. Alfred's feelings were
moved, and could he then have found you,
he would have told my father the truth, but lest
he should relapse from present determinations,
he considered it his duty still, with him, to continue
the deception.

“On enquiring at your father's, at Vincent's,
and at Mr. Simpson's, he could learn nothing of
you, except that you had gone to New London,
judging possibly that you would find me there.
Alfred therefore determined to proceed to that
place immediately. He then confidentially unfolded
to your father, Vincent, and Mr. Simpson,
the scheme, desiring that if you returned you
would proceed immediately to Charleston. My
father was still to be kept in ignorance.

“Alfred proceeded immediately to New London;
from my cousin there, he was informed of
your interview with him, but from whence you

then came to where you went, he knew not, and
after making the strictest enquiry, he could hear
nothing more of you. By a vessel in that port,
bound directly for Holland, he wrote an account
of the whole affair to Edgar, mentioning his unsuccessful
search to find you—and returned to
Charleston.

“Alfred learnt from my friends the circumstances
which occasioned my sudden removal from
the old mansion. The morning you left me you
was discovered by my aunt, who was passing the
road in a chair with a gentleman, whom she had
then but recently become acquainted with. My
aunt knew you; they immediately drove to
John's hut. On finding that John had left the
keys with me, she sent him for them; and on my
refusing to give them up, she came herself, as I
have before related; and as she succeeded no
better than John she returned and dispatched a
message to my father, informed him of the circumstances,
and her suspicions of your having
been to the mansion, and that from my having
possession of the keys, and refusing to yield them
up, there was little doubt but that we had formed
a plan for my escape. Alarmed at this information,
my father immediately ordered his carriage,
drove to the mansion, and removed me as
I have before informed you. I ought to have
told you that the maid and man-servant who attended
me to Charleston, not liking the country,
and growing sickly, were sent back by my uncle
after they had been there about two months.”

Alonzo found by this narrative that John had
deceived him when he made his enquiries of him
concerning his knowledge of Melissa's removal.
But this was not surprising; John was tenant to
Melissa's aunt and subservient to all her views;
she had undoubtedly given him instructions how
to act.

“But who was the strange gentleman with
your aunt?” enquired Alonzo. “This I will
also tell you (answered Melissa) though it unfolds
a tale which reflects no great honour to my
family.

“Hamblin was the name which this man assumed;
he said he had been an eminent merchant
in New-York, and had left it about the time it
was taken by the British. He lodged at an inn
where my aunt frequently stopped when she was
out collecting her rents, where he first introduced
himself to her acquaintance, and ingratiated himself
into her favour by art and insidiou sness.—
He accompanied her on her visits to her tenants,
and assisted her in collecting her rents. He told
her that when the war came on, he had turned
his effects into money, which he had with him,
and was now in pursuit of some country place
where he might purchase a residence to remain
during the war. To cut the story as short as
possible he finally initiated himself so far in my
aunt's favour that she accepted his hand and contrary
to my father's opinion, she married him,
and he soon after persuaded her to sell her property,
under pretence of removing to some populous

town, and living in style; her property,
however, was no sooner sold (which my father
bought for ready cash, at a low price) than he
found means to realize the money, and absconded.
It was afterwards found that his real name
was Brenton; that he had left a wife and family
in Virginia in indigent circumstances, where he
had spent an ample fortune, left him by his father,
in debauchery, and involved himself deeply
in debt. He had scarcely time to get off with
the booty he swindled from my aunt, when his
creditors from Virginia were at his heels. He
fled to the British at New-York, where he rioted
for a few months, was finally stabbed by a soldier
in a fracas, and died the next day. He was about
thirty-five years old. All these troubles bore so
heavily upon my aunt, that she went into a decline,
and died about six months ago.

“After Alfred returned from Connecticut, he
wrote frequently to Vincent and Mr. Simpson,
but could obtain no intelligence concerning you.
It would be needless, Alonzo, to describe my
conjectures, my anxieties, my feelings!—The
death of my cousin and aunt had kept me in crape
until at the instance of Alfred I put it off yesterday
morning at my uncle's house, which Alfred
had proposed for the scene of action, after he
had discovered the cause of my fainting at the
theatre. I did not readily come into Alfred's
plan to deceive you: “Suffer me (he said) to try
the constancy of your Leander; I doubt whether
he would swim the Hellespont for you.” This

aroused my pride and confidence, and I permitted
him to proceed.”

Alonzo then gave Melissa a minute account of
all that happened to him from the time of their
parting at the old mansion, until he met with her
the day before. At the mention of Beauman's
fate, Melissa sighed. “With how many vain
fears (said she) was I perplexed, lest, by some
means he should discover my existence and
place of residence, after he, alas! was silent in
the tomb!”—Alonzo told Melissa that he had
received a letter from Edgar after he arrived in
Holland, and that he had written him an answer,
just as he left Paris, informing him of his reasons
for returning to America.

When the time arrived that Alonzo and Melissa
were to set out for Connecticut, Melissa's uncle
and Alfred accompanied them as far as
Georgetown, where an affectionate parting took
place; the latter returned to Charleston, and the
former proceeded on their journey.

Philadelphia was now in possession of the
British troops. Alonzo found Dr. Franklin's agent
at Chester, transacted his business, went
on, arrived at Vincent's, where he left Melissa,
and proceeded immediately to his father's.

The friends of Alonzo and Melissa were joyfully
surprised at their arrival. Melissa's mother
was sent for to Vincent's. Let imagination
paint the meeting! As yet, however, they were
not prepared to undeceive her father.

Alonzo found his parents in penurious circumstances
indeed; his father having, the preceding
summer, been too indisposed to manage his little
farm with attention, and being unable to hire labourers,
his crops had yielded but a scanty supply,
and he had been compelled to sell most of
his stock to answer pressing demands. With
great joy they welcomed Alonzo, whom they
had given up as lost. “You still find your father
poor, Alonzo, (said the old gentleman) but
you find him still honest. From my inability to
labour we have latterly been a little more pressed
than usual, but having now recovered my
health, I trust that difficulty will soon be removed.”

Alonzo asked his father if he ever knew Dr.
Franklin. “We were school-mates (he replied)
and were intimately acquainted after we became
young men in business for ourselves. We have
done each other favours; I once divided my money
with Franklin on an urgent occasion to him;
he afterwards repaid me with ample interest—he
will never forget it.” Alonzo then related to his
father all the incidents of his travels, minutely
particularizing the disinterested conduct of
Franklin, and then presented his father with the
reversion of his estate. The old man fell on his
knees, and, with tears streaming down his withered
cheeks, offered devout thanks to the great
Dispenser of all mercies.

Alonzo then visited Melissa's father, who received
him with much complacency: “I have

injured (said he) my young friend, deeply injured
you but in doing this I have inflicted a wound
still deeper in my own bosom.” Alonzo desired
him not to renew his sorrows: “What is
past (said he) is beyond recal; but a subject of
some importance to me, is the object of my present
visit. True it is, that your daughter was the
subject of my earliest affection, an affection which
my bosom must ever retain; but being separated
by the will of Providence—for I view Providence
as overruling all events for wise purposes—
I betook myself to travel. Time, you know it
is said, sir, will blunt the sharpest thorns of sorrow:
[the old man sighed] in my travels I have
found a lady so nearly resembling your daughter,
that I was induced to sue for her hand, and have
been so happy as to gain the promise of it. The
favour I have to ask of you, sir, is only that you
will permit the marriage ceremony to be celebrated
in your house, as you know my father is
poor, his house small and inconvenient, and that
you will also honour me by giving the lady
away. In receiving her from your hands, I shall
in some measure realize former anticipations; I
shall receive her in the character of Melissa!”

“Ah! (said Melissa's father) were it in my
power—could I but give you the original! But
how vain that wish! Yes, my young friend, your
request shall be punctually complied with; I will
take upon myself the preparations; name your
day, and if the lady is portionless, in that she
shall be to me a Melissa.” Alonzo bowed his

gratitude, and after appointing that day week, departed.

Invitations were once more sent abroad for the
wedding of Alonzo and Melissa. Few, indeed,
knew it to be the real Melissa, but they were
generally informed of Alonzo's reasons for preferring
the celebration at her father's.

The evening before the day on which the marriage
was to take place, Alonzo and Melissa
were sitting with the Vincents in an upper room,
when a person rapped at the door below. Vincent
went down, and immediately returned, introducing,
to the joy and surprise of the company,
Edgar!—Here, again, we shall leave it for
the imagination to depict the scene of an affectionate
brother meeting a tender and only sister,
whom he had long since supposed to be dead!
He had been at his father's, and his mother had let
him into the secret, when he immediately hastened
to Vincent's. He told them that he did not
stay long in Holland; that after receiving Alonzo's
letter from Paris, he felt an unconquerable
propensity to return, and soon sailed for America,
arrived at Boston, came to New-Haven, took orders
in the ministry, and had reached home that
day. He informed them that Mr. Simpson and
family had arrived at his father's, and some relatives
whom his mother had invited.

The next morning ushered in the day in which
the hero and heroine of our story were to consummate
their felicity. No cross purposes stood
ready to intervene their happiness, no determined

rival, no obdurate father, no watchful, scowling
aunt, to interrupt their transports. It was the
latter end of May; nature was arrayed in her
richest ornaments, and adorned with her sweetest
perfumes. The sun blended its mild lustre with
the landscapes' lovely green, silk-winged breezes
frolicked amidst the flowers; the spring birds
carolled in varying strains:
Evening was appointed for the the ceremony, and
Edgar was to be the officiating clergyman.

When the hour arrived, they repaired to the
house of Melissa's father, where numerous guests
had assembled. Melissa was introduced into
the bridal apartment, and took her seat among a
brilliant circle of ladies. She was attired in robes
“white as the southern clouds,” spangled with
silver, and trimmed with deep gold lace; her
hair hung loosely upon her shoulders, encircled
by a wreath of artificial flowers. She had regained
all her former loveliness; the rose and the
lily again blended their tinges in her cheek; again
pensive sprightliness sparkled in her eye.—
Alonzo was now introduced and took his seat at
the side of Melissa; his father and mother came
next, who were placed at the right hand of the
young couple, Melissa's parents followed, and
were stationed at the left; Edgar then came and
took his seat in front, after which the guests
were summoned, who filled the room. Edgar
then rising, motioned to the intended bride and

bridegroom to rise also. He next turned to Alonzo's
father for his sanction, who bowed assent;
then addressing his own father, with emotions
that scarcely suffered him to articulate, “Do you,
sir, (said he) give this lady to that gentleman?”
A solemn silence prevailed in the room. Melissa
was extremely agitated, as her father slowly
rising, and with down cast eyes, “where tides of
heavy sorrow swelled,” took her trembling hand,
and conveying it into Alonzo's, “May the smiles
of heaven rest upon you, (he said) may future
blessings crown your present happy prospects—
and may your latter days never be embittered by
the premature loss of near and dear—” Pungent
grief here choaked his utterance, and at this
moment, Melissa falling upon her knees, “Dear
father! [she exclaimed, bursting into tears] pardon
deception!—acknowledge your daughter—
your own Melissa!” Her father started—he gazed
at her with scrutinizing attention—sunk back
in his chair.—“My daughter! [he cried] God
of mysterious mercy! it is my daughter!” The
guests caught the contagious sympathy; convulsive
sobs arose from all parts of the room. Melissa's
father clasped her in his arms, “and I receive
thee as from the dead! (he said) I am anxious
to hear the mighty mystery unfolded. But
first let the solemn rites for which we are assembled
be concluded, let not an old man's anxiety
interrupt the ceremony.”—“But you are apprised,
sir, [said Alonzo] of my inability to support
your daughter according to her deserts.”-“Leave
that to me, [replied her father] my young friend;
I have enough: my children are restored, and I
am happy.”

Melissa soon resumed her former station; the
indissoluble knot was tied, they sat down to the
wedding feast, and mirth and hilarity danced in
cheerful circles.

Before the company retired, Edgar related the
most prominent incidents of Alonzo and Melissa's
history, since they had been absent. The guests
listened with attention; they applauded the conduct
of our new bride and bridegroom, in which
Melissa's father cordially joined. They rejoiced
to find that Alonzo's father had regained his fortune,
and copious libations were poured forth in
honour of the immortal Franklin.

And now, reader of sensibility, indulge the
pleasing sensations of thy bosom, for Alonzo
and Melissa are MARRIED.

Alonzo's father was soon in complete repossession
of his former property. The premises from
which he had been driven by his unfeeling creditors
were yielded up without difficulty, and to
which he immediately removed He not only
recovered the principal of the fortune he had lost,
but the damages and the interest; so that, altho'
like Job he had seen affliction, like him his latter
days were better than his beginning. But wearied
with the bustles of life, he did not again enter
into the mercantile business, but placing his
money at interest in safe hands, lived retired on
his little farm.

A few days after the wedding, as Melissa was
sitting with Alonzo, Edgar and her parents, she
asked her father whether the old mansion was inhabited.
“Not by human beings; [he replied]
since it has fallen into my hands I have leased it
to three or four different families, who all left it
under the foolish pretence or impression of hearing
noises and seeing frightful objects, and such
is the superstition of people that no one, now, will
venture to try it again, though I suppose its inhabitants
to consist only of rats and mice.” Melissa
then informed them of all that had happened
when she was there, the alarming noises and
horrible appearances she had been witness to,
and in which she was confident her senses had
not deceived her. Exceedingly astonished at
her relation, it was agreed that Edgar and Alonzo,
properly attended, should proceed to the
mansion, in order to find whether any discoveries
could be made which might tend to the elucidation
of so mysterious an affair.

For this purpose they chose twenty men, armed
them with muskets and swords, and proceeded
to the place, where they arrived in the dusk
of the evening, having chosen that season as the
most favourable to their designs. They found
the draw-bridge up and the gate locked, as Edgar's
father said he had left them. They entered
and secured them in the same manner. When
they came to the house, they cautiously unlocked
the door, and proceeded to the chamber,
where they struck a fire and lighted candles,

which they had brought with them. It was then
agreed to plant fifteen of the men at suitable distances
around the mansion, and retain five in the
chamber with Alonzo and Edgar. The men
who were placed around the house were stationed
behind trees, stumps or rocks, and where no
object presented, lay flat on the ground, with orders
not to stir, or discover themselves, let what
would ensue, unless some alarm should be given
from the house. Alonzo and Edgar were armed
with pistols and side arms, and posted themselves
with the five men in the chamber, taking care
that the lights should not shine against the window-shutters,
so that nothing could be discovered
from without. Things thus arranged, they
observed almost an implicit silence, no one being
allowed to speak, except in a low whisper.

For a long time no sound was heard except
the hollow roar of winds in the neighbouring forest,
their whistling around the angles of the
mansion, or the hoarse murmurs of the distant
surge. The night was dark, and only illuminated
by the feeble twinkling of half clouded stars.
They had watched until about midnight, when
they were alarmed by noises in the rooms below,
among which they could distinguish foot-steps
and human voices. Alonzo and Edgar then taking
each a pistol in one hand and a drawn sword
in the other, ordered their men to follow them,
prepared for action. Coming to the head of the
stairs, they saw a brilliant light streaming into
the hall; they therefore concluded to take no

candles, and to prevent discovery they took off
their shoes. When they came into the hall opposite
the door of the room from whence the
light and noises proceeded, they discovered ten
men genteelly dressed, sitting around a table, on
which was placed a considerable quantity of gold
and silver coin, a number of glasses and several
decanters of wine. Alonzo and his party stood
a few minutes, listening to the following discourse,
which took place among this ghostly gentry.

“Well boys! we have made a fine haul this
trip.”—“Yes, but poor Bob, though, was plump'd
over by the d—d skulkers!”—“Aye, and had
we not tugged bravely at the oars, they would
have hook'd us.”—“Rascally cow-boys detained
us too long.”—“Well, well, never mind it; let
us knock around the wine, and then divide the
spoil.” At this moment, Alonzo and Edgar,
followed by the five men, rushed into the room,
crying, “Surrender, or you are all dead men!”
In an instant the room was involved in pitchy
darkness; a loud crash was heard, then a scampering
about the floor, and a noise as if several
doors shut to, with violence. They however
gave the alarm to the men without, by loudly
shouting “Look out!” and immediately the discharge
of several guns was heard around the
mansion. One of the men flew up stairs and
brought a light, but, to their utter amazement,
no person was to be discovered in the room except
their own party. The table, with its apparatus,

and the chairs on which these now invisible
beings had sat, had disappeared, not a single
trace of them being left. While they stood petrified
with astonishment, the men from without
called for admittance. The door being unlocked,
they led in a stranger wounded, whom they immediately
discovered to be one of those they had
seen at the table.

The men who had been stationed around the
mansion informed that some time before the alarm
was made, they saw a number of persons
crossing the yard from the western part of the
enclosure, towards the house; that immediately
after the shout was given, they discovered several
people running back in the same direction;
they hailed them, which being disregarded, they
fired upon them, one of whom they brought
down, which was the wounded man they had
brought in. The others, though they pursued
them, got off. The prisoner's wound was not
dangerous; the ball had shattered his arm, and
glanced upon his breast. They dressed his wound
as well as they could, and then requested him to
unfold the circumstances of the suspicious appearance
in which he was involved.

“First promise me, on your honour, (said the
stranger) that you will use your influence to prevent
my being punished or imprisoned.” This
they readily agreed to on condition that he
would conceal nothing from them, and he gave
them the following relation.

That they were a part of a gang of illicit traders;
men who had combined for the purpose
of carrying on a secret and illegal commerce with
the British army on Long Island, whom, contrary
to the existing laws they supplied with provisions,
and brought off English goods, which
they sold at a very extortionate price. But this
was not all; they also brought over large quantities
of counterfeit continental money, which they
put off among the Americans for live stock, poultry
produce, &c. which they carried to the island.
The counterfeit money they purchased by merely
paying for the printing; the British having
obtained copies of the American emission, struck
immense quantities of it in New-York, and insidiously
sent it out into the country in order to
sink our currency. This gang was likewise connected
with the cow-boys, who made it their business
to steal, not only milch cows, and other
cattle, but also hogs and sheep, which they drove
by night to some convenient place on the shores
of the Sound, where these thief partners received
them, and conveyed them to the British.

“In our excursions across the Sound (continued
the wounded man) we had frequently observed
this mansion, which, from every appearance,
we were convinced was uninhabited; we therefore
selected it as a suitable place for our future
rendezvous, which had heretofore been only in
the open woods. To cross the moat, we dragged
up an old canoe from the sea-shore, which
we concealed in the bushes as soon as we recrossed

from the old mansion. To get over the
wall we used ladders of ropes, placing a flat of
thick board on the top of the spikes driven into
the wall. We found more difficulty in getting
into the house; we however at length succeeded,
by tearing away a part of the back wall, where
we fitted in a door so exactly, and so nicely painted
it, that it could not be distinguished from the
wall itself. This door was so constructed that
on touching a spring it would fly open, and when
unrestrained would shut to, with violence. Finding
the apartment so eligible for our purpose,
and fearing that at some future time we might
be disturbed either by the owner of the building
or some tenant, we cut similar doors into every
room of the house, so that on an emergency we
could traverse every apartment without access
to the known doors. Trap-doors on a similar
construction, communicated with the cellar; the
table which you saw us sitting around, stood on
one of those, which, on your abrupt appearance,
as soon as the candles were extinguished, was,
with its contents, precipitated below and we made
our escape by those secret doors, judging that
although you had seen us, if we could get off
you would be unable to find out any thing which
might lead to our discovery.

“A circumstance soon occurred which tended
to embarrass our plans, and at first seemed to menace
their overthrow. Our assembling at the
mansion was irregular, as occasion and circumstances
required; often not more than once a

week, but sometimes more frequent, and always
in the night. Late one night, as we were proceeding
to the mansion, and had arrived near it,
suddenly one of the chamber windows was opened,
and a light issued from within. We entered
the house with caution, and soon discovered that
some person was in the chamber from whence
we had seen the light. We remained until all
was silent and then entered the chamber by one
of our secret doors, and, to our inexpressible
surprise, beheld a beautiful young lady, asleep
on the only bed in the room. We cautiously retired,
and reconnoitring all parts of the mansion,
found she was the only inhabitant except ourselves.
The singularity of her being there alone
is a circumstance we have never been able to discover,
but it gave us fair hopes of easily procuring
her ejectment. We then immediately withdrew,
and made preparations to dispossess the
fair tenant of premises to which we considered
ourselves more properly entitled, as possessing
a prior incumbency.

We did not effect the completion of our apparatus
under three or four days. As soon as we
were prepared, we returned to the mansion. As
we approached the house, it appears the lady
heard us, for again she suddenly flung up a window
and held out a candle: we skulked from
the light, but feared she had a glimpse of us.—
After we had got into the house we were still,
until we supposed her to be asleep, which we
found to be the case on going to her chamber.—

We then stationed one near her bed, who by a
loud rap on the floor with a cane, appeared to arouse
her in a fright. Loud noises were then
made below, and some of them ran heavily up
the stairs which led to her chamber the person
stationed in the room whispering near her bed—
she raised herself up, and he fled behind the curtains.
Soon after she again lay down, he approached
nearer the bed with a design to lay his
hand (on which he had drawn a thin sheet-lead
glove) across her face; but discovering her arm
on the outside of the bed-clothes he grasped it—
she screamed and sprang up in the bed; the man
then left the room. As it was not our intention to
injure the lady, but only to drive her from the
house, we concluded we had sufficiently alarmed
her, and having extinguished the lights, were
about to depart when we heard her descending
the stairs. She came down and examined the
doors when one of our party, in a loud whisper,
crying “away! away!” she darted up stairs,
and we left the house.

“We did not return the next night, in order
to give her time to get off; but the night after
we again repaired to the mansion, expecting that
she had gone, but we were disappointed. As
it was late when we arrived, she was wrapped in
sleep, and we found that more forcible measures
must be resorted to before we could remove her,
and for such measures we were amply prepared.”

The stranger then unfolded the mysteries of
that awful night, when Melissa was so terrified

by horrible appearances. One of the tallest and
most robust of the gang, was attired as has been
described when he appeared by her bed side.—
The white robe was an old sheet stained in some
parts with a liquid red mixture; the wound in
his breast was artificial, and the blood issuing
therefrom was only some of this mixture, pressed
from a small bladder, concealed under his
robe. On his head and face he wore a mask,
with glass eyes; the mask was painted to suit
their purposes. The bloody dagger was of wood,
and painted.

Thus accoutred he took his stand near Melissa's
bed, having first blown out the candles she
had left burning, and discharged a small pistol.
Perceiving this had awaked her, a train of powder
was fired in the adjoining room, opposite the
secret door, which was left open, in order that
the flash might illuminate her apartment; then
several large cannon balls were rolled through
the rooms over her head, imitative of thunder.
The person in her room then uttered a horrible
groan, and gliding along by her bed, took his
stand behind the curtains, near the foot. The
noises below, the cry of murder, the firing of the
second pistol, and the running up stairs, were all
corresponding scenes to impress terror on her
imagination. The pretended ghost then advanced
in front of her bed, while lights were slowly
introduced, which first shone faintly, until they
were ushered into the room by the private door,
exhibiting the person before her in all his horrific

appearances. On her shrieking, and shrinking
into the bed, the lights were suddenly extinguished,
and the person, after commanding her to be
gone in a hoarse voice, passed again to the foot
of the bed, shook it violently, and made a seeming
attempt to get upon it, when perceiving her
to be springing up, he fled out of the room by
the secret door, cautiously shut it, and joined his
companions.

The operators had not yet completed their
farce, or rather (to Melissa) tragedy. They had
framed an image of paste-board, in human shape,
arrayed it in black, its eyes being formed of large
pieces of what is vulgarly called fox-fire,[14] made
into the likeness of human eyes, some material
being placed in its mouth, around which was a
piece of the thinnest scarlet tiffany, in order to
make it appear of a flame colour. They had also
constructed a large combustible ball, of several
thicknesses of paste-board, to which a match
was placed. The image was to be conveyed into
her room, and placed, in the dark, before her
bed; while in that position, the ball was to be
rubbed over with phosphorus, the match set on
fire, and rolled across her chamber, and when it
burst, the image was to vanish, by being suddenly
conveyed out of the private door, which was
to close the scene for that night. But as Melissa
had now arisen and alighted candles, the plan was

defeated. While they were consulting how to
proceed, they heard her unlock her chamber-door,
and slowly descend the stairs. Fearing a
discovery, they retired with their lights, and the
person who had been in her chamber not having
yet stripped off his ghostly habiliments, laid himself
down on one side of the hall. The man who
had the image crowded himself with it under the
stairs she was descending. On her dropping the
candle when she turned to flee to her chamber
from the sight of the same object which had appeared
at her bed side, the person under the
stairs presented the image at their foot, and at
the same instant the combustible ball was prepared,
and rolled through the hall; and when on its
bursting she fainted, they began to grow alarmed;
but on finding that she recovered and regained
her chamber, they departed, for that time
from the house.

“Our scheme (continued the wounded man)
had the desired effect. On returning a few evenings
after, we found the lady gone and the furniture
removed. Several attempts were afterwards
made to occupy the house, but we always
succeeded in soon frightening the inhabitants
away.”

Edgar and Alonzo then requested their prisoner
to shew them the springs of the secret
doors, and how they were opened. The springs
were sunk in the wood, which being touched by
entering a gimblet-hole with a piece of pointed
steel, which each of the gang always had about

him, the door would fly open, and fasten again in
shutting to. On opening the trap-door over
which the gang had sat when they first discovered
them, they found the table and chairs, with the
decanters broken, and the money, which they secured.
In one part of the cellar they were shewn
a kind of cave, its mouth covered with boards
and earth; here the company kept their furniture,
and to this place would they have removed
it, had they not been so suddenly frightened
away. The canoe they found secreted in the
bushes beyond the canal.

It was then agreed that the man should go before
the proper authorities in a neighbouring
town, and there, as state's evidence, make affidavit
of what he had recited, and as complete a developement
of the characters concerned in the
business as possible, when he was to be released.
The man enquired to what town they were to go,
which, when they had informed him, “Then
(said he) it will be in my power to perform one
deed of justice before I leave the country as
leave it I must, immediately after I have given
in my testimony, or I shall be assassinated by
some of those who will be implicated in the transaction
I have related.” He then informed them
that while he, with the gang, was prosecuting the
illicit trade, a British ship came and anchored in
the Sound, which they supplied with provisions,
but that having at one time a considerable quantity
on hand, the ship sent its boat on shore, with
an officer and five men, to fetch it; the officer

came with them on shore, leaving the men in the
boat: “As we were about to carry the provisions
on board the boat, (continued the man) a
party of Americans fired upon us, and wounded
the officer in the thigh, who fell; “I shall be
made prisoner; (said he, taking out his purse)
keep this, and if I live and regain my liberty,
perhaps you may have an opportunity of restoring
it; alarm the boat's crew, and shift for yourselves.”
The boat was alarmed, returned to the
ship, and we saved ourselves by flight.

“This happened about four months ago; the
ship soon after sailed for New-York, and the officer
was imprisoned in the jail of the town to
which we are to go; I can therefore restore him
his purse.” The man farther informed them,
that they had several times come near being taken,
and the last trip they were fired upon and
one of their party killed.

They immediately set out for the aforesaid
town, after having dismissed their fifteen men;
and when they arrived there, Alonzo and Edgar
accompanied their prisoner to the jail. On making
the proper enquiries they were conducted
into a dark and dirty apartment of the jail, where
were several prisoners in irons. The British officer
was soon distinguished among them, by his
regimentals. Though enveloped in filth and
dust, his countenance appeared familiar to Alonzo,
and on a few moments recollection,
he recognized in the manacled officer, the generous
midshipman, Jack Brown, who had so

disinterestedly relieved him, when he escaped
from the prison in London! In the fervency of
his feelings, Alonzo flew to him and clasped him
in his arms. “What do I behold! (he cried)
My friend, my brave deliverer, in chains in my
own country!”—“The fortune of war, boy;
(said Jack) it might have been worse. But, my
lad, I am heartily glad to see you; how has it
fared with you since you left Old England?”—
“We will talk of that by and by” said Alonzo.

There were then some American officers of
distinction in town, with whom Edgar was acquainted,
to whom he applied for the relief of the
noble sailor; and as there were several other
British prisoners in jail, it was agreed that a cartel
should be immediately sent to New-York to
exchange them. Alonzo had, therefore, the satisfaction
to see the irons knocked off of his liberal
hearted benefactor, and his prison-doors
opened. The man they had taken at the mansion
returned him his purse, containing only
twenty-five guineas, of which Jack gave him ten.
“There, boy, (said he) you have been honest, so
I will divide with you.” They then repaired to
an inn; Jack, whose wound was healed, was put
under the hands of a barber, cleaned, furnished
with a change of clothes, and soon appeared in a
new attitude.

He informed Alonzo that soon after he left
England his ship was ordered for America: that
the price of provisions growing high, it had taken
almost all his wages to support his family; that

he had sent home his last remittance just before
he was taken, reserving only the twenty-five
guineas which had been restored him that day.
“But I have never despaired (said he) the great
Commodore of life orders all for the best; my
tour of duty is to serve my king and country, and
provide for my dear Poll and her chicks, which
if I faithfully perform, I shall gain the applause
of the Commander.”

When the cartel was ready to depart, Alonzo
taking Jack apart from the company, presented
him with a draught of five hundred
pounds sterling, on a merchant in New-York,
who privately transacted business with the Americans.
“Take this, my friend, (said he)
you can ensure it by converting it into bills of
exchange on London; though you once saw me
naked, I can now conveniently spare this sum,
and it may assist you in buffeting the billows of
life.” The generous tar shed tears of gratitude,
and Alonzo enjoyed the pleasure of seeing him
depart, calling down blessings on the head of his
reciprocal benefactor.

The man who came with Alonzo and Edgar
from the mansion, then went before the magistrates
of the town, and gave his testimony and
affidavit, by which it appeared that several eminent
characters of Connecticut were concerned
in this illicit trade. They then released him,
gave him the money they had found in the cellar
at the mansion, and he immediately left the town.
Precepts were soon after issued for a number of

those traders, several were taken, among whom
were some of the gang, and others who were only
concerned, but most of them absconded, so
that the company and their plans were broken
up.

When Alonzo and Edgar returned home, and
related their adventure, they were all surprised
at the fortitude of Melissa in being enabled to
support her spirits in a solitary mansion, amidst
such great, and so many terrors.

It was now that Alonzo turned his attention
to future prospects. It was time to select a
place for domestic residence. He consulted Melissa,
and she expressively mentioned the little
secluded village, where

they projected scenes of connubial bliss, and
planned the structure of their family edifice.[15]
This intimation according with the ardent wishes
of Alonzo, the site formerly marked out, with
an adjoining farm, was immediately purchased,
and suitable buildings erected, to which Alonzo
and Melissa removed the ensuing summer.

The clergyman of the village having recently
died in a good old age, Edgar was called to the
pastoral charge of this unsophisticated people.—
Here did Melissa and Alonzo repose after the
storms of adversity were past. Here did they
realize all the happiness which the sublunary

hand of time apportions to mortals. The varying
seasons diversified their joys, except when
Alonzo was called with the militia of his country,
wherein he bore an eminent commission to
oppose the enemy; and this was not unfrequent,
as in his country's defence he took a very conspicuous
part. Then would anxiety, incertitude
and disconsolation possess the bosom of Melissa,
until dissipated by his safe return. But the happy
termination of the war soon removed all
cause of these disquietudes.

Soon after the close of the war. Alonzo received
a letter from his friend, Jack Brown, dated
at an interior parish in England, in which,
after pouring forth abundance of gratitude, he
informed, that on returning to England he procured
his discharge from the navy, sold his house,
and removed into the country, where he had set
up an inn with the sign of The Grateful American.
“You have made us all happy; (said he) my
dear Poll blubbered like a fresh water sailor in a
hurricane when I told her of your goodness.—
My wife, my children, all hands upon deck are
yours. We have a good run of business, and
are now under full sail for the land of prosperity.”

Edgar married to one of the Miss Simpsons,
whose father's seat was in the vicinity of the village.
The parents of Alonzo and Melissa were
their frequent visitors, as were also Vincent and
his lady, with many others of their acquaintance,
who all rejoiced in their happy situation,
after such a diversity of troubles. Alfred was

generally once a year their guest, until at length
he married and settled in the mercantile business
in Charleston, South-Carolina.

To our hero and heroine, the rural charms of
their secluded village were a source of ever
pleasing variety. Spring, with its verdured
fields, flowery meads, and vocal groves; its vernal
gales, purling rills, and its evening whipperwill:
summer, with its embowering shades, reflected
in the glassy lake, and the long, pensive,
yet sprightly notes of the solitary strawberry-bird;
[16] its lightning and its thunder: autumn,
with its mellow fruit, its yellow foliage and decaying
verdure: winter, with its hoarse, rough
blasts, its icy beard and snowy mantle, all tended
to thrill, with sensations of pleasing transition,
the feeling bosoms of Alonzo and Melissa.

FINIS