University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

Honeywood.

Haventon passed along in this forlorn
condition, not knowing where to proceed,
or what course to adopt, but determining to
cast himself upon the clemency of the first
person he saw. 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 behind
called out, “Hallo! messmate; what;
scudding under bare poles! You must have
encountered a saucy 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,
dressed in sailors' habit. Haventon had often
heard of the generosity and magnanimity
of the British tars; he therefore approached
him and disclosed his real situation, not even

concealing his being taken in actual hostility
against the British government, and his escape
from prison.

The seamen 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 as long as there was
a shot in the locker, but as how you are now
in distress, you have by the laws of war, a
right to refit, though in an enemy's port.
Perhaps I may be in as bad trim before the
war is ended.” Then slipping off his coat and
giving it to Alonzo, “I must take thee in
tow,” he said, and turning, walked hastily
along the street, followed by Haventon; he
passed into a by-lane, 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 turn in, and
sleep till tomorrow, when we will see what
can be done.”

Next morning the sailor brought in a very
decent suit of clothes and presented them to
his guest. “You must make this place your
home,” said he, “until you gain a more favourable
breeze. In this great city you will

be safe; for even your late gaoler would not
know you in this dress; and perhaps some
opportunity may offer by which you can return
to your own country,” He told Alonzo
that his name was Jack Brown; that he was
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.”
Haventon was then introduced to Brown's
family; the woman was amiable, and the
children lovely.

Here he remained for several weeks. One
day he 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 diseased or disabled, carried to the hospital,
which being near by, he entered it to see
how the sick and wounded were treated, and
found that they received as much attention as
could be reasonably expected.

As he passed along the different aisles, he
was surprised at hearing his name called by a

feeble voice; turning towards the place from
whence it proceeded, he 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
Haventon, who immediately approached him;
his features appeared not unfamiliar, but Alonzo
for a moment could not recollect him.

“You do not know me,” said the apparently
dying stranger.

“Bowman!” exclaimed Haventon, in surprise.

“Yes,” replied the sick man, “it is Bowman;
you behold me on the verge of eternity—I
have but a short time to continue in this
world.”

Alonzo inquired how he came in the
power of the enemy.

“By the fate of war,” he replied. “I was
taken in an action near the White Plains, conducted

to New-York and confined on board a
prison-ship in the harbour, and thence sent
with a number of others to England. I had
received a wound in my thigh, from a musket
ball, during the action, which mortified, and
amputation was performed on the passage;
since then I have been rapidly wasting away,
and I now feel that the cold hand of death is
upon me.” He became exhausted, and for
some time remained silent. Alonzo did not
before discover that he had lost a leg; he
now perceived it had been taken off close to
his body, and that he was worn to a skeleton.

When Bowman revived, he inquired into
Haventon's affairs, who related all that had
happened to him after leaving New-London.

“You are unhappy,” said Bowman, “in
the death of your Melissa, to which it is possible
I have been undesigningly an accessary.
I could say much on this subject, would my
strength admit; 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,
whither I was 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, and renounce you;
her unexpected death however frustrated every
design of this nature, and overwhelmed
her father and family in inexpressible woe.”
Here Bowman ceased. Alonzo inquired
whether he was in need of any thing to render
him more comfortable; he replied he was
not; “For the comforts of life,” said he,
“I have no relish; medical aid is applied, but
without effect.” Judging he wanted rest,
Haventon then left him, promising to call
again in the morning.

When he returned the following day, he
perceived in Bowman an alarming alteration.
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 Haventon, and feebly
pressing it, “I am dying,” said he in a faint
voice; “if you ever return to America,
inform my friends of my fate.” This Alonzo
readily engaged to do, and assured him
also, that he would not leave him. Bowman
soon fell into a stupour; sensation became suspended,
his eyes rolled up and fixed; sometimes

he experienced a partial revival, 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.

Haventon followed his remains to the grave;
a natural stone was placed at its head, on
which Alonzo 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 of my acquaintance,”
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 tomorrow's sun you may be in France.”

At the time appointed Jack set out, bearing
a large trunk on his shoulder, and directing
Alonzo to follow him. They proceeded down
to a quay, and went on board a small shallop.
“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 guineas into his hand.
Haventon expressed his gratitude with tears.
“Say nothing,” replied the generous tar; “we
were born to help each other when in distress;
and may Jack Brown never weather a storm,
or splice a rope in the day of battle, 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
shallop soon sailed, and the next morning
reached Calais.

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 foreign country: perhaps through the aid
of the American minister, Dr. Franklin, to
whose fame Haventon 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 alone. To be informed
that he was an American and unfortunate,
was sufficient to arouse the feelings of
Franklin. He desired Haventon 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 but a gloomy wilderness, and
that his present object was only some means
of support.

The Doctor inquired of Alonzo the particular
circumstances and time of his father's
misfortune. Of this he gave a minute account.
Franklin sat in deep contemplation
for the space of several minutes. He then
took his pen, wrote a short note, sealed it,
and gave it to Haventon: “Deliver this,”
said he, “according to its direction, and you
will find employment until something more
favourable may offer.”

Alonzo took the paper, thanked the Doctor,
and went in search of the person to whom it
was addressed. He soon found the house,
which was situate in one of the most popular
streets in Paris. He knocked at the
door; it was opened by an elderly man:
Alonzo inquired for the name to whom the
note was directed; the gentleman said that
he himself was the person. Haventon presented
the note, which having read, the man
invited him to walk in, and ordered supper.
After it was over, he informed Alonzo that
he was an English bookseller, and should
employ him as a clerk, and desired to
know what wages he demanded. Haventon replied
he should submit that to him, being unacquainted
with the customary salaries of clerks

in that line of business. The gentleman observed
that the matter should be arranged the
ensuing day. His name was Grafton.

The next morning Mr. Grafton took Alonzo
into his bookstore, and gave him instructions;
his business was to sell books to customers,
and a list of prices was presented
him for the purpose. Mr. Grafton counted
out fifty 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.”

He gave his employer no room to complain;
nor had he any reason to be discontented
with his situation. Mr. Grafton regularly
advanced him fifty crowns at the commencement
of every month, and boarded
him in his family. Haventon dressed himself
in deep mourning: he sought no company;
he found consolation only in solitude, if
consolation it could be named.

Walking out early one morning, he perceived
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 gilt 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 been sometime 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, or the withering hand of sorrow had
impressed her celestial features! By what
providential miracle am I possessed of the
likeness, when the original is mouldered into
dust? What benevolent angel has taken pity
on my sufferings, and conveyed me this invaluable,
inestimable prize?”

But though he had thus obtained that
which he esteemed above all earthly objects,
what right had he to withhold it
from the real owner, could the owner indeed

be found? Perhaps the person who lost
it would part with it; possibly the money
contained in the purse was of more value to
that person than the miniature. At any rate,
justice required that he should, if possible,
discover to whom it belonged; this he might
do by advertising, which he immediately concluded
upon, resolving, should any one appear
as claimant, to purchase it if within his
power.

Passing into another street, he saw several
handbills posted on the walls of houses; stepping
up to one, he read as follows:

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
he inquired for the lodger; the man answered
him in French, which Haventon 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 chattering; he, in the English language,
desired Alonzo to walk in. It was an apartment
neatly furnished; no person was therein,
except the gentleman, the servant before mentioned,
and a person who sat writing in a corner
of the room, with his back towards them.
Haventon observed that he had called according
to the direction in a bill of advertisement,
to inquire for the person who the preceding
night had lost a purse and miniature. The
gentleman who was writing had hitherto taken
no notice of what passed; but at the sound
of Alonzo's voice, after he had entered the
room, he started and turned around, and on
mention of the miniature, he rose up. Haventon
fixed his eyes upon him; they both stood
a few moments silent; for a short time their
recollection was confused and imperfect, but
the mists of doubt were soon dissipated—
“Bloomfield!”—“Haventon!”—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 other's arms.

They retired to a separate apartment, equally
anxious for mutual explanation of so unexpected
a meeting. 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 parents, whom he found in inconsolable
affliction. “The letter which my uncle
had written,” said Bloomfield, “announcing
the distressing event, stated 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 prevented his
proceeding; for some time he could say no
more, and Haventon, with a bursting heart
could only mingle his tears.

“My father,” resumed Bloomfield, at
length, “bent on uniting her to Bowman, or at

least on 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 access to her while
her guardian was absent on business. She
was therefore no longer intrusted to the care
of her aunt, but my father immediately formed
and executed the plan of sending her to
his brother in South Carolina, with the pretence
of restoring her health, by change of
climate, which in reality had begun seriously
to decline: there it was designed that Bowman
should shortly follow her, with recommendations
from my father to our uncle,
urging him to use all possible means which
might tend to persuade her to relinquish all
thoughts of you, and accept the hand of your
rival. But change of climate only increased
her load of sorrows, and she soon perished
beneath them. The letter mentioned nothing
of her mental afflictions; possibly my uncle's
family were not acquainted therewith; to them,
probably, she never disclosed the secrets of
her bosom, but a prey to bitter grief and melancholy
concealment, sank silently into the
tomb. 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. Notwithstanding
he is parsimonious, yet he sincerely
loved his children. Inflexible as is his
nature, the untimely death of a truly affectionate
and an only daughter, will, I much fear,
precipitate him, and perhaps my mother also,
to a speedy grave.

“Soon as my feelings would permit, I repaired
to the residence of your parents, and
made inquiry concerning you. I found them
easy in their reduced circumstances, except
that your father had been ill, but was recovering.
Of you they had heard nothing after
your departure, and they deeply lamented
your absence. From Vincent I could obtain
no farther information.

“Sick of the world, I returned to the army.
An American ambassador was soon to
sail for Holland; I solicited and obtained
the appointment of secretary, hoping, 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:
tomorrow we depart for Holland. The minister

is the gentleman 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 in the street; I carefully wrapped
it in paper and deposited it in my purse,
which I probably dropped on replacing 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 clerical studies in New-York, I became
acquainted with a miniature-painter, who
took mine; he afterwards went into the country,
and as I found he was to pass near
Bloomfield Vale, I engaged him to call there
and take my sister's also; we exchanged
them soon after; it was dear to me even
while the original remained, but since she is
gone it has become a most invaluable relique.”

All the affectionate powers of Alonzo's soul
were called into action by Edgar's recital.
The “days of other years”—the ghost of sepulchred
blessings, passed in painful review.
Added to these, the indigent circumstances

of his parents, his father's recent illness, and
his probable inability to procure even the common
necessaries of life, 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, Bowman's death, his own escape
from prison, arrival in France, and
finding the miniature. To both Edgar and
Alonzo the manner of Melissa's sudden removal
from the mansion was still inexplicable,
though convinced that it was effected by
her aunt or her father.

As Bloomfield 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 Haventon, “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 earth, but now
I can only be a companion to my miseries.”

The next morning as they were about to
part, 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 Bloomfield, “it is thine. I
bestow it upon thee as I would the original,
had not death have become the rival of thy love
and of my affection. Permit not the sacred
symbol too tenderly to renew your sorrows.
How swiftly, Haventon, 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 the bosom from whence it was
taken!

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 opportunities presented, and
then affectionately parted; Edgar sailed for
Holland, and Alonzo returned to his employment
at Mr. Grafton's.

Sometime after this Haventon received a
message from Dr. Franklin, requesting him to
call at his house; he instantly obeyed the summons;
the Doctor introduced him into his study,
and after being seated, Franklin earnestly
surveyed him for some time, and then addressed
him as follows:

“Young man, your views, your resolutions,
and the present course of your conduct, are
totally wrong. Disappointment, you say, has
driven you from your native country. Disappointment
in what? In obtaining the object
you most valued. But suppose you had
experienced a completion of your wishes and
expectations; would you then have been happy?
Your own reason, if you coolly consult
it, will convince you to 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 gewgaw;
but when possessed you soon cast it away;
and sighed as ardently 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 intellect? I
tell you that by familiarity these allurements
perish, and the mind left vacant turns to some
other source to supply the vacuum. Stripped
of all but their intrinsic value, how poor,
how vain, 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 be correct, the ardency of your
passion must have expired with the pursuit—
an every-day dress, however rich and costly
the texture, is soon soiled—on your part, indifference
would consequently have succeeded;
on that of your partner, disappointment,

jealousy and disgust. What might have followed
is needless for me to name; your soul
must shudder at the idea of conjugal discord
and connubial hostility!

“But granting the most favourable consequences;
turn the brightest side of the picture;
admitting as much happiness as the
marriage 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
soon ceases, 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 heavy an affliction, for your
greatest good and most essential advantage.
And permit me to tell you, that in all my observations
on life, I have always found that
those connexions which were formed from
inordinate passion, or what you 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 perceive how few
among the sentimentally refined are even apparently
at ease, while those insusceptible of
what you term tender attachments, or who
receive them only as things of course, plod
on through life without ever experiencing the
least inconvenience from a want of the pleasures
they are supposed to bestow, or the existence
of 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; submit to the
dispensations of Heaven; place entire dependence
on the Supreme, and the triumph of
fortitude and resignation will be yours.”

Franklin paused. His reasonings, howver
they convinced the understanding, healed
not the wounds of Alonzo's bosom. In
Melissa he looked for as much happiness as
earth could afford, and he perceived no consoling
hand in life able to 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 child to administer relief. [All the parental
affections of Alonzo were now called into
poignant action.] You have left a country
bleeding at every vein; desolated by the
ravages of war; wrecked by the thunders of
battle; her heroes slain; her children captured,
her towns conflagrated. 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 hopeless
object, which by all your lamentations you
can never repossess, or bring back to the regions
of mortality.”

This aroused the patriotic flame in the bosom
of Alonzo, and he involuntarily 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. Soon
as you informed me of his failure I wrote to
my correspondent in London, and found, as
I suspected, that he had been overreached by
swindlers and sharpers. The pretended insolvency

of the merchants with whom he was connected
proves to be all a deception, as does 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 restoration
of your father's property, 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 shall advance you a sum equal to the
expences of your voyage, which will be liquidated
by the said agent. A ship sails in a few
days from Havre for Savannah in Georgia; I
will give you a draft on a house in that city, upon
which you will receive cash when you arrive,
to enable you to prosecute your journey.
It would indeed be more convenient were the
vessel bound to some northern port, but I
know of no other which will sail for any
part of America in some time. On board her
therefore I would advise you to take passage;
it is not very material in what quarter of the
continent you are landed, you will soon reach
Philadelphia, transact your business, restore
your father to his possessions, and be ready
to serve your country.”

If any thing could yield Alonzo consolation,
it must have been this noble, liberal and
disinterested conduct of the great Franklin, by
which his family were to be placed in ease and
independence. Ah! could this fortunate
event have occurred in time to save a life far
dearer than his own!—the reflection was too
painful, too excrutiating for retention. The
idea, however, of affording joy and comfort to
his aged parents hastened his departure. Furnished
with proper documents and credentials
from his generous benefactor, he took leave of
him with the warmest expressions of gratitude,
bade adieu to the family of Mr. Grafton,
repaired to Havre, and sailed for Savannah.