University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

Stanley.

Glenford, the relative with whom Melissa
resided while a pupil at the New-London
female academy, married his wife in Jersey.
He with his lady, about this time, had been to
visit her parents, and on their return passed
a few days at the seat of Col. Bloomfield.
While there, Mrs. Glenford insisted, and it
was agreed, that Melissa should accompany
them home and tarry a short time, when Edgar
was to go there and attend her back.

In the absence of his sister young Bloomfield
received a visit from a gentleman who
had been his class-student at Yale; his name

was Alonzo Haventon, the only child of an
eminent merchant who resided in an adjacent
seaport town; he was designed for the bar
and soon expected to enter upon his professional
studies. It was a joyful meeting between
him and Edgar, for at College they had formed
a permanent and indissoluble friendship.

Alonzo was about twenty-one years old;
of elegant and stately appearance, polished
manners, and highly prepossessing address;
his eye indicated sublimity of mind, honourable
sentiment, and a soul of exquisite sensibility;
his settled countenance seemed tinged
with shades of melancholy, but when animated
by interesting company, or sprightly
conversation, he was cheerful and often gay;
young, ardent and enterprizing, he looked forward
to his profession as the principal road to
dignity and emolument; without arrogance,
he was not destitute of laudable ambition; and
though he aspired to shine in the sphere he
had selected,

His genius was far superior to the ordinary
class, which had been cultivated and expanded
by the refinements of an excellent education.

While Alonzo continued his visit the season
approached when Edgar was to proceed to
New-London and escort his sister home; he
invited his friend to accompany him, who
readily accepted the invitation; when the
time arrived they set out together, and at
evening on the second day of their journey
reached the place and repaired to the house
of Glenford.

Melissa was at a ball, given in celebration
of a marriage in that town; she did not return
until late; Bowman, her gallant, as mentioned
in the early part of this work, attended
her; she flew into the arms of Edgar; as he
introduced Haventon she started and seemed
confused; Alonzo also appeared surprised;
Bloomfield perceived their embarrassment,

but could not conjecture the cause; he endeavoured
to relieve them by presenting Bowman
to his friend; they were both also apparently
astonished and performed the ceremony
in evident discomposure. Bloomfield
contemplated this double scene of emotion
with excited curiosity and anxiety: after
Bowman retired he made some inquiries
of his sister, and she informed him that Haventon
was the stranger who by risking his
own safety had rescued her from such imminent
danger when on the point of being plunged
down a tremendous precipice, as has been related;
“And he,” said Edgar, “was my
most intimate friend at College. An explanation
now took place; Alonzo received the renewed
acknowledgements of Edgar and his
sister for the important service he had rendered
them. He told them that when the incident
occurred he had been on a visit to a
distant relative of his father whose name was
Vincent. This person resided in the neighbourhood
of Col. Bloomfield, and was well
known to the family.

If Alonzo was interested by the appearance
of Melissa when he first saw her agitated
by affright, trembling, shuddering with

the apprehensions of sudden death; if then;
after snatching her from perils so hazardous,
he became fixed to the spot she had left, gazing
stedfastly after the carriage as it conveyed
her away, his feelings were not less affected
on this second interview, when he beheld her
calm, placid, smiling and cheerful; on his
mind she impressed those ideas of that perfection
which a poet of later days thus happily
expresses:

She was dressed in white, embroidered and
spangled with rich silver lace; a green silk
girdle, enwrought and tasselled with gold, surrounded
her waist; her hair was unadorned
except by a wreath of artificial flowers, on
the front of which blazed a single diamond.

They remained at New-London some days,
which they passed in visiting and in social
parties. Bowman was an assiduous attendant
upon Melissa; he came one afternoon and invited

her to ride out; she excused herself,
saying she was indisposed, and Edgar supplied
her place.

At evening she proposed walking out with
Glenford and his lady, but they were prevented
by unexpected visitors. 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
strolled through fields adjoining the harbour.
The moon shone in full brilliancy, 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 odoured with the fragrance of surrounding
flowers; the sound of various instrumental
music wafting from the town was
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

proceeded to a point of the beach where stood
a large rock whose base was washed by every
tide; there they seated themselves and enjoyed
awhile the splendours of the scene—
the drapery of nature. “To this place,” said
Melissa, “have I taken many a solitary walk
on such an evening as the present, and here
have I experienced more pleasing sensations
than I ever received in the most splendid circles
of mirth and gaiety.” 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. Bowman handed Melissa
into the carriage, and with Glenford and
his lady accompanied them to Branford,
which place they reached about sunset, and
lodged there that night at the house of an acquaintance.
The next morning they separated;
the Glenford party returned to New-London;
Edgar with his friend and sister
proceeded on, and at evening arrived at his
father's house, which was in the western part
of the state.

Edgar and Alonzo frequently interchanged
visits, and they passed some time together in

travelling through different parts of America.
But the season at length arrived when they
must part; the former repaired to New-York
where he was to commence his theological
studies; the latter entered the office of an
eminent attorney in his native town, which was
about twenty miles distant from the seat of
Col. Bloomfield. Haventon was the frequent
guest of this family; for though Edgar was
absent, there was still an object which attracted
him thither. If he had admired the noble
qualifications 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 virtues
and accomplishments of the one, must not the
most tender passions of the soul be attracted
by the milder and more refined excellencies
of the other?

Bowman had become the acknowledged
suitor of Melissa, but the distance of his residence
rendered it inconvenient to visit her
often. He came regularly about once in two
or three months, of course Alonzo and he
sometimes met. Haventon knew not whether
he had made serious pretensions, but his particularity
indicated something more than

fashionable politeness; his manners, his independent
situation, his family, entitled him to
respect; it was not probable therefore that he
would be objectionable to Melissa's friends—
nor to Melissa herself—thought Alonzo, with
an involuntary sigh.

But as Bowman's visits became more frequent,
increasing anxiety was excited in Alonzo's
breast; he wished she might 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 society, what charm wing the lingering
moments when she was gone? In
the remission 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 excluded from the unreserved friendship
and conversation of Melissa! And unreserved
it could not be were she not completely mistress
of herself. But was there not something
of a more refined texture than friendship in
his predilection for the company of Miss
Bloomfield? If so, why not avow it? His
prospects, his family, and of course his pretensions,

might not be inferior to those of his
rival; but perhaps Bowman was preferred;
his opportunities had been greater; he had
first formed an acquaintance with her; distance
proved no barrier to his addresses; his
visits became more frequent: was it not then
extremely probable that he had secured her
affections? Thus reflected Alonzo, but these
reflections tended not to allay the tempest
which was gathering in his bosom. He ordered
his horse, and was in a short time at
Bloomfield Vale.

It was summer, and towards evening when
he arrived. Melissa was sitting by a window
when he entered the hall; she arose and received
him with a smile; “I have just been
thinking of an evening's ramble,” said she,
“but had no one to escort 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 paper which he had found in
the yard. Melissa received it: “'Tis a letter,”
said she, “which I sent by Bowman to
a lady in New-London, and the careless man

has lost it.” Turning to Alonzo, “I forgot
to tell you that your friend has been with us
a few days; he left us this morning.”

“My friend!” replied Haventon, hastily.

“Is he not so?” inquired Melissa.

“I beg pardon, Madam,” answered he,
“my mind was absent.”

“He requested us to present his respects to
his friend Alonzo,” said she. Haventon
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, to the top of the
high hill called the Mountain, noticed in the
early part of this history. 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
an eastern cloud; the light gales sported among
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 extremest verge of the horizon.
“This is a most beautiful scene,” said
Melissa.

“It really is,” replied Haventon; “can
New-London boast so charming a prospect?”

Melissa. No—yes—indeed I can hardly
say. You know, Alonzo, how I was charmed
with the rock at the point of the beach.

Alonzo. You once mentioned the happy
hours you had passed at that place. Perhaps
the company which attended you there gave
the scenery its highest embellishment.

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

Al. That is a little surprising.

Mel. Why surprising?

Al. Where was Bowman?

Mel. Perhaps he was not fond of solitude;
besides, he was not always my beau-man.

Al. Sometimes.

Mel. Yes, sometimes.

Al. And now always.

Mel. Not this evening.

Al. He formally addresses you.

Mel. Well.

Al. And will soon claim the exclusive privilege
to that favour.

Mel. That does not follow of course.

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

Mel. Who am I to understand by another?

Al. Melissa. [A short silence succeeded.]

Mel. See that ship, Alonzo, coming up the
Sound; how it plows through the white foam,
while the breezes flutter among the sails as
they vary to the beams of the sun.

Al. Yes; it is almost down.

Mel. What is almost down?

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

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

Al. I beg pardon, Madam. Oh yes—the
ship—it—it bounds with rapid motion over
the waves.

A pause ensued. They wandered leisurely
around the hill and again halted at its top;
the sun sank behind western groves; twilight
arose in the east and floated along the air;
darkness began to hover among the woodlands
and valleys; the beauties of the landscape
slowly receded:

“This reminds me of our walk at New-London,”
said Melissa.

“Do you remember it?” inquired Alonzo.

“Certainly,” she replied; “I shall never
forget the sweet pensive scenery of my favourite
rock.”

“Nor I neither,” he expressively answered.

“Seest thou that bright star, Alonzo?”
said Melissa, pointing to the planet Venus
which glowed resplendently in the west;
“how often has my imagination soared to its
sphere and anxiously endeavoured to explore
its world! What are its inhabitants? Are they
a superior order of beings, or mortal like us?
Have they their entrances on life and their
exits, or is death not known among them?
Are they subject to our frailties, our pains and
our passions, or do they experience uninterrupted
peace and happiness? Such have been
the wanderings of inquisitive fancy, when on
summer evenings I have contemplated that little
luminous orb which in alternate succession,
as the poet would say, ushers in the splendours

of morning, or follows the track of twilight
down the western sky.”

“It is a contemplation worthy the soul,”
answered Alonzo. “Those numerous globes
of light scattered over the heavens are doubtless,
many of them, suns, blazing to systems
similar to this of which our earth forms a
part; a far greater number are probably inhabited
worlds, but with what kind of beings,
whether spiritual or human, can only be
vaguely conjectured: some may be the abodes
of angels; others occupied by different species
of mortals, superior and inferior to man.
Others again are possibly the residence of spirits
departed from their bodies, there to remain
until the great last day of retribution
and decision. Comets, those wild and wandering
orbs, may be the habitations of the
wicked; the brilliant, shining stars, of the
righteous; the former, places of wrath and
punishment, the latter, of felicity and joy.
That glorious planet, forming a part of our
system, and which now attracts your attention,
Melissa, may contain within its sphere the
happy souls of our dear deceased friends.

“The unassisted eye can explore but a
small portion of the countless stellar legions
sprinkled over the boundless extent of space;
glasses of common magnitude show us that
the galaxy is composed of an infinite number
of stars; telescopes of higher powers disclose,
in regions far remote, constellations innumerable.
Man, ignorant man, in his circumscribed
sphere, knows little, very little of the
immensity of creation, the incomprehensible
works of Deity.”

“These reflections,” returned Melissa,
“remind me of a poetic production which
my brother wrote and sent to a friend while
at College. He favoured me with a copy
of it; some parts thereof touch upon the subject
you have been treating. You shall see it
this evening.”

As they were returning they paused to observe
a brilliant display of the Aurora Borealis,
which had been forming and increasing as twilight
decayed. It was grand, beautiful and sublime;
a luminous arch extended from the two
extremities of the northern horizon, from all
parts of which pyramidical pillars of apparent
flame shot forth, some of them reaching to the

zenith, alternately rising, brightening and fading
away; the concave beneath quite to its base
was clouded with a substance resembling
smoke, interspersed with crimson stains and
spots of inconceivable brightness. Suddenly
the arch was broken and dissolved; then from
adverse points arose numerous columns, flashing,
rushing forward, meeting, closing in the
centre, and vanishing, like armies engaged in
hostile conflict, while just beneath the space
they occupied lay a kind of vapour which bore
the semblance of blood: shortly the whole disappeared,
except a light on the verge of the hoizon
like the morning dawn; then at one point
masses like smoke and sparkling flame would
ascend, similar to those of a burning city, while
from a distant quarter of the field the columns
again appeared as if marching rapidly towards
the conflagration, in long succession, but vanished
as they approached it, and soon all
faded from the sight. During the existence
of the phenomenon there was distinctly heard
a low rumbling sound in the region of the
north, like the solemn roar of distant winds.[1]

Melissa inquired what causes were assigned
for these singular appearances. “They have

never been accounted for,” answered Alonzo,
“on correct philosophical principles; conjecture
is various; some have supposed them to proceed
from the reflections of the sun shining upon
mountains of ice in the Greenland seas; others,
that they are occasioned by nitrous particles
rising in the air, and wafted by northerly winds,
till meeting with the warm breezes of the
south, corruscations are thus produced. The
most modern opinion is that they are effected
by certain powers of electricity hitherto not
accurately defined. But the irregular order
in which they occur proves the incorrectness,
or at least the uncertainty of each of these
theories. We sometimes may perceive them
for several nights in succession, and frequently
every week for many months; and then
not in a single instance for years. They are
common in Canada, Greenland, Iceland and
other northern countries, but are recent in
southern Europe and America.”[2]

After they reached home Melissa put into
the hands of Haventon the poem she had mentioned.

“You shall judge of Edgar's poetical
abilities,” said she, “for intimate as you
and he were at College, I think you cannot
have seen this; he has often told me that
he never submitted the light effusions of his
muse, as he styled such performances, to the
inspection of any but those to whom they
were addressed. It was written on the anniversary
of the New Year.”

“And to thyself,” said Alonzo. Melissa
smiled, and the former read as follows:

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

Absence and solitude however tended only
to increase his anxieties; nor were they alleviated
by a letter he received from his friend
Vincent, who resided, as has been stated, near
Bloomfield Vale, an extract of which follows:

“I shall never be a guest at Melissa's wedding,”
said Alonzo, as he hastily paced the
room; “but I will once again see her and bid
her a final and lasting adieu before that event
occurs; for thereafter I shall visit her no
more.”

The next day he repaired to her father's;
he inquired for Melissa; she was gone with a
party to the shores of the Sound, escorted by
Bowman. At evening they returned: Bowman
and Haventon 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 he.

“I think not,” she answered, “if your
long absence should be construed into neglect.
But we will hear your excuse,” said she,
smiling, “when leisure permits, and perhaps

pardon you.” He thanked her for such condescension.

The next morning Bowman set out for
New-London; Haventon 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 fault, 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 sometimes be intrusive.

Mel. What times?

Al. When Bowman 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. Were Bowman here my position might
be demonstrated.

Mel. I think I understand you.

Al. And acknowledge my observations to
be just.

Mel. [hesitating.] Yes—I believe—I must.

Al. And appropriate?

Melissa was silent.

Al. You hesitate, Miss Bloomfield.

She still made no reply.

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

Mel. [confused.] If it be a proper one. You
are entitled to candour.

Al. Are you engaged to Bowman?

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

Al. Has he obtained an interest in your affections?

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

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

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

Al. Yet?

Mel. I assure you I have not.

Al. [taking her hand with emotion.] 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.
Bowman or Haventon 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
addresses of more than one. I am
conscious of my inadvertence, and that the
reproof is just: one therefore must be dismissed.
But—[again she hesitated.]

A considerable pause ensued. At length
Alonzo arose, “I will not press you farther,”
he said, “I know the delicacy of your feelings,
and honour your sincerity; I will not
therefore insist on your performing the unpleasant
task of discrimination. Your conduct
in every point of view has been discrete.
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. The affections are not
under our direction, yet our happiness or misery
depends on their influence. 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 justice to
call here once more?”

“I will,” said he, “at any time you shall
appoint.”

“Four weeks then,” she said, “from this
day favour us with a visit, and you shall
have my decision and receive a final answer.”

“I will be punctual to the time,” he replied,
and bade her adieu.