University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

Barlow.

The ship in which Alonzo embarked was
a merchantman letter of marque, commanded
and manned by Frenchmen, with American
papers, and sailing under the flag of the United
States. She carried sixteen guns, and had
a number of passengers on board, of both
sexes, among whom were some entire families,
whose design was to settle in Louisiana; but
besides Haventon there were only three
Americans; Mr. Freeland, concerned in
the cargo of the vessel which consisted of
French dry goods, and his two clerks. Freeland
was a bachelor of about forty years of
age, a native of Savannah, where for several
years he had been a considerable trader; he
was a person of some information, and the
only one on board with whom Alonzo
formed any intimacy, as the clerks were but

mere youth, neither of them being over sixteen
years old.

Fine weather and pleasant breezes attended
them across the Atlantic. As they were armed
only for defence, and as British cruizers
were scouring the ocean, they endeavoured
to shun all large vessels which appeared like
ships of war.

Deeper melancholy impressed the mind of
Haventon as he approached the American
shore. He was returning indeed to his native
land, but to him it was a country widowed
of every joy; a land where his sad bereavement
would be renewed by every familiar object.
One consolation was left him; he came
empowered to restore his parents to affluence;
when he had effected this he determined to
fly to the standard of his country, and to exert
himself in the cause of freedom while his life
or the war should continue.

The morning they came within soundings
a large sail appeared coming off the coast;
she bore down upon them, and soon was discovered
to be a frigate under English colours;
instantly they set all the canvas their ship

could carry, and put her before the wind,
which happened to be favourable. The frigate
gave them chase through the day; towards
evening she came so near as to commence
a running fire, but with little effect.
Night set in with dark and heavy clouds, and
the wind springing up, they altered their
course and escaped.

A storm came on, which towards midnight
increased to a severe gale. Knowing that
they must be near the coast, and apprehensive
of danger, as the wind blew in shore, they
attempted to lie to, but this the violence of
the gale prevented. They found by casting
the lead that they were rapidly approaching
shoal water; they let go all their anchors, and
lightened the ship by throwing over her guns;
the anchors held her but for a few moments;
the cables parted, and they drove with amazing
velocity towards land. Consternation
then seized the crew; they saw nothing but
inevitable destruction before them. Suddenly
she struck upon a reef with tremendous
crash. All was alarm and confusion. The
darkness of the night, the raging of the
wind, the roaring of the sea, mingled with the
despairing cries of men, women and children,

formed a scene beyond description terrible.
The masts were all carried away. As
a last resort they hoisted out the long boat,
which was immediately stove to pieces against
the sides of the vessel; the only remaining
boat was let down with more caution; the
people inconsiderately rushed in, and in a
moment were buried with it beneath the
waves. Instantly a general and an agonizing
screech announced the parting of the ship,
and human voices ceased to wail.

Haventon with the rest sank in the deep,
but in struggling with the billows caught hold
of a broken spar. His mind was collected.
He saw himself upon the verge of eternity,
just entering the world of spirits. “Pardon,
Great God!” he exclaimed, “all the failings,
all the errors of thy creature, and receive him
to thy mercy. My parents! could I have first
restored them—but thy Almighty will be done.
I shall now meet my Melissa.” He was hurried
swiftly along, sometimes floating on liquid
mountains, then buried in their suffocating
bosoms, till on the receding of a stupendous
billow he found himself resting on
land.

He attempted to rise, but was unable; he
therefore crawled as far as his strength would
permit; and the rage of the returning wave
expired at his feet, by which he judged he
was now beyond the fury of the sea: by seizing
hold of small shrubbery, he drew himself
up a little eminence, and soon by exertion
recovered the use of his limbs. He fell upon
his knees and returned thanks to that Power,
in whose hands are the destinies of life, and
who had preserved him through so dreadful
a catastrophe.

Day began to break; the violence of the
storm had abated, but the sea was still in terrible
commotion. Alonzo walked along the
shore, where at every step the scattered fragments
of the ship were mingled with the
dead bodies of his late companions. He contemplated
the awful scene with feelings of the
most poignant distress.

Suddenly he was startled by a low, hollow
groan: searching among the dead whence it
proceeded, he discovered a body in which
appeared some symptoms of life, but so disfigured
with sand and sea-weed that at first he
could not clearly distinguish the features: on a

closer examination he, with mingled emotions
of pleasure and surprise, perceived it to be
Freeland. He drew the body out from among
the filth and rubbish with which it was partially
covered, placed it on a bank, and by constant
and continued friction restored animation; but
it was long before correct sensation returned;
intermitting sighs at length succeeded a convulsive
struggle, and Freeland opened his
eyes, at first gazing vacantly around him,
then fixing them on Haventon; slowly recollection
came to his mind; he raised himself
up, and the destructive effects of the shipwreck
met his sight. “All have perished
then,” he exclaimed, “except ourselves, and
by what miracle are we preserved?” “By a
miracle indeed,” replied Haventon, and related
the manner in which he had escaped
death.

Freeland informed Alonzo that when the
ship parted he was standing on the quarter-deck;
that he clung to the rudder, which
buoyed him up until he was dashed with
great violence against a rock on the shore,
when he lost all sensation.

It was with much difficulty, and not without
the assistance of Haventon, that Freeland
could walk; they however slowly traversed the
shore, searching among the bodies to see if
there were yet any which retained the least
signs of remaining life; but all were cold
and inanimate; all had apparently been long
dead. On casting his eyes around, Freeland
exclaimed, “I know this place well; we are
on one of the small islands bordering the coast
of Georgia; I have often been here: about
half a mile inland there is a cluster of houses,
where we can obtain refreshment and assistance.”

Feeble and exhausted, they set out for the
place and arrived there about noon. The inhabitants,
to whom Freeland was known, received
them with hospitality, and granted
them every aid in their power. The people
assembled and repaired to the coast, where
they buried the dead, and collected such valuable
fragments of the wreck as had been
cast on shore. The next day Haventon and
Freeland were conveyed to the continent, and
they soon reached Savannah.

Freeland invited Alonzo to his house; it
was managed by servants, and an elderly
man and woman whom he called his overseers.
“You will make this place your
home,” said he to Haventon, “so long as it
may suit your convenience. I hope it will be
unnecessary to request you to use the same
freedom as though it was your own.” The
latter thanked him, but said that important
business demanded his immediate departure
for the northern states.

“You will not, then,” said the other, “feel
a delicacy in making use of my purse, which,
whatever may be your future prospects, your
present circumstances, occasioned by the late
disastrous events, must render indispensible.”

“I would with gratitude and pleasure accept
your generous offer,” replied Haventon,
“but I have preserved my papers, among
which is a draft upon a mercantile house in
this city which will completely answer all my
purposes.”

The documents and credentials which Alonzo
received from Franklin he had carefully
wrapped in a piece of oiled seal-skin and

deposited them in his trunk; when the ship
struck, he flew to the trunk, took them out
and placed them in his bosom. “If my life
is prolonged, or if not, and my body should be
found,” thought he, “they may yet reach my
father.” The oiled skin resisted the water,
and they were thus preserved.

Intent on his purpose, he immediately turned
the draft into cash, purchased a carriage,
took a grateful leave of Freeland, and proceeded
on for Philadelphia. As he approached
Charleston, his bosom swelled with mournful
recollection. Near this place, the riches
of his earliest fond hopes, the only earthly
blessing he had ever seriously aspired to attain,
lay buried. Here were entombed all the
joys, every comfort his affections could comprise:
though hereafter he might find momentary
consolation, he never could experience
pleasure or delight, for here had perished
his felicity, here mouldered Melissa!

He reached the city in the afternoon, and
entered an inn of decent appearance, where
he proposed staying until the next day. He
asked the landlord some questions respecting
the family of Bloomfield; the innkeeper

could give no information on the subject, as
he was but little acquainted in the city, having
recently removed thither from the country.

At evening Alonzo walked out and wandered
about the city and its environs. He felt
exceedingly anxious to learn something more
particular respecting Melissa's death; but to
whom could he apply? He might easily inquire
out her uncle; yet what purpose would
this answer, as to approach him comported
not with Haventon's ideas of propriety. Her
uncle had doubtless been made acquainted
with all the particulars of her history, and
had probably acted in concert with her father.
From him therefore Alonzo had nothing to
expect, perhaps not even the common courtesies
due to strangers; but he experienced
an extreme reluctance to leave Charleston
without obtaining some information relative
to the last moments of Melissa. “Ah!” he
silently ejaculated, “could I but find the
place where her remains are deposited, that
I might consecrate it with tears!”

In his excursion he passed near the large burial
ground; involuntarily he paused: “Possibly,”
he sighed, “the object of my early solicitudes

and lasting lamentations rests here
in this solemn habitation of gloom and silence.”
He entered a little ale-house which
stood near. An elderly woman and two small
children were all the persons he found in the
hut. After calling for a pint of ale he asked
the old lady if a gentleman by the name of
Bloomfield did not reside in the city: she
informed him that a person of that name
now lived at Bloomfield Hill, about two miles
from town, where he had an elegant country
seat; that he was very rich, and owned a superb
house in the city, which he occupied
during the winter.

“Was there not a young lady,” asked
Alonzo, “who died in the family about
twenty months ago?”

“Dear me!” said she, “Did you know her
then? Yes; there was; and a sweeter or more
handsomer 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 bone before she died.
She was not Col. Bloomfield's daughter, only
somehow related; she was sickly, and came
here in hopes that a change of air might do

her good. She came from — Good lack!
I can't think of the name of the place; it is
a crabbed name, though.”

“Connecticut, was it not?” said Haventon.

“Oh yes; that was it,” replied she. “Dear
suz! Then you knew her, did you, Sir?
Well; we hav'n't her like left in Charleston,
that we ha'n't. And then there was such ado
at her funeral; five hundred people, I dare
say, and more too, with eight young ladies
for pall-bearers, all dressed in white, with
black ribbons, and all the bells tolling so.”

“Where was she buried?” inquired Alonzo.

“In the great 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 and
grandest in the whole burying-ground, and so
indeed they ought to be, for never was there
a person who deserved them more.”

Tired of the old woman's loquacity, and
with a bosom bursting in anguish, he paid for

his ale without drinking it, bade her good
night, and slowly proceeded to the church-yard.

The moon in meridian glory shone with
solemn, silvery ray, on the consecrated piles
and funereal monuments of the sacred dead;
the wind murmured mournfully among the
weeping-willows; a solitary nightingale[1] 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 Haventon;
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 BLOOMFIELD:
Whose remains are deposited here;
And whose ethereal part became a Seraph,
October 26, 1776,
In the 19th year of her age.

Alonzo bent, he kneeled, he prostrated
himself, he clasped the green turf which inclosed
her grave, he watered it with his
tears, he warmed it with his sighs. “Where
art thou, bright beam of heavenly 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 you 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 invocations! A curtain impenetrable is
drawn between me and thee, only to be dissolved
with the dissolution of nature!”

He arose and walked away with hurried
step: suddenly he stopped: “Yet,” said he,
“if spirits departed lose not the power of recollection;
if they have knowledge of passing
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, “where is thy philosophy now!
How tenderly pensive beam her lovely eyes
upon me! How often have I drank delicious
ecstacy from the delicacy of those celestial
charms! How frequently have they taught
me to anticipate superlative and uninterrupted
bliss! Mistaken and delusive hope! [returning
the miniature to his bosom:] Vain and
presumptuous assurance! There, [pointing
to the grave,] there, behold how my dearest
wishes—my proudest hopes—my fondest expectations
are realized!”

He stood awhile silent in speechless agony;
then with interrupting sighs he softly murmured,

“Hallowed turf! lie lightly on her bosom!
Sacred willows! sprinkle the dews gently
over her tomb, while the moaning breezes
sigh sadly amidst your branches! Here let
the `widowed wild-rose' love to bloom, and
the sweet-briar to languish! here may the
first placid beams of morning delight to linger;
from hence the mild rays of evening
reluctantly retire! 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, and my enraptured ear catch the
first holy whisper of her consecrated lips!”

Having thus poured out the effusions of an
overcharged heart, he pensively returned
to the inn, and seated himself in the common
room, in deep contemplation. As usual at
public houses, a number of people were
gathered there, among whom were several
officers of the American army. Haventon
was too deeply involved in melancholy reflection,
to notice passing incidents, until a young
officer took a seat near him, and entered into
conversation respecting the events of the
war. His person was interesting, his address
sprightly, his observations correct.
Alonzo was in some degree aroused from his
abstraction; the manners of the stranger
pleased him. His frankness, his ease, his
understanding, his urbanity, void of arrogance
or pedantry, spontaneously attracted
the respect and esteem of Haventon, and he
even felt a sort of solemn regret when the
stranger departed. He soon retired to bed,
determining to proceed on early in the morning.

He arose about daylight; the horizon was
overcast; it soon began to rain, and before
sunrise a heavy storm set in. 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 innkeeper, 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 minutes with
swifter speed,' he determined to go to the
theatre, and at the hour appointed repaired
thither. As he was advancing along the aisle
he passed a box where sat the young officer,
whose manners had so prepossessed him the
preceding evening, at the inn; they recognized
each other, exchanged salutations,
and Alonzo walked on and took his seat.
The evening was warm, and the house exceedingly
crowded. When the tragedy was
concluded, and before the after-piece commenced,
the officer came to Haventon's
box, and made some remarks on the merits of
the actors. While they were discoursing, a

bustle took place in one part of the house, and
several people gathered around a box, a little
distance from them. The stranger turned, left
Alonzo, and hastened to the place. To the
general inquiry of “what's the matter,” it
was answered that “a lady had fainted.” She
was led out, and the tumult subsided.

Soon as the representation closed, Haventon
returned to the inn. As he passed along
he cast his eyes towards the church-yard,
where lay the `withered blessings of his
dearest joys.' Affection, passion, inclination,
urged him to go and breathe a farewell sigh,
to drop a final tear over the tomb of Melissa;
discretion, reason, wisdom, forbade it—forbade
that he should repierce 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 volume which in happier days
had been the solace of many a gloomy, many
a lucid hour. He opened it, and the first
lines he cast his eyes upon were the following:

His tears fell fast upon the page; he replaced
the book, and flung himself into bed.
Sleep was far from him; he closed not his
eyes till dawning light broke from the east;
he then 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, and
the stranger thus addressed him.

“From our short acquaintance, Sir, you
may 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 have the
goodness to tell me so.”

Alonzo assured him he would treat him
candidly.

“This I believe,” said the officer; “I
therefore take the liberty to ask if you are an
American.”

“I am,” answered Haventon.

“I presume,” added the stranger—“the
question is a delicate one—I presume—your
family is respectable?”

“Sacredly so, Sir,” replied Alonzo.

“Are you unmarried, 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,” continued
the officer: “I trust you will hear me attentively,
judge maturely, and decide discreetly.
At any rate, I am confident you will answer
me sincerely.

“A young lady of this city, with whom I
am well acquainted, and on terms of the most
intimate friendship; whose father is affluent,
and her connexions 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: many suitors have 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 a
dream, the youth who possessed the power to
inspire her with this passion. In her dream
she saw a young gentleman whose manners
and appearance interested her so deeply
as to render her unhappy. She thought he endeavoured
to obtain an interview with her,
but that some invisible power prevented it. It

seemed that if they could but converse together,
it would ensure their felicity. At
length he approached, and just as he was
about to address her, she awoke.

“This extraordinary vision she has communicated
to several of her acquaintance.
Confident that she should at some future time
meet with the real person whose semblance
she had thus seen, her mind has never since
been perfectly at ease. Her father, who has
but one child besides herself, being extremely
fond of her, has promised that if ever
this unknown stranger should appear to claim
her hand, he will not oppose their union, provided
he is respectable, and that if worthy of
her choice, he will make him independent.
On my return from the inn the evening I first
saw you, I told my cousin—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 rallying way, told
her I had seen her invisible beau, as we used
to style the visionary gentleman. 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 but little of it.
At the play last night, I had just been conversing
with 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. According to her request,
we conveyed her immediately home, when
she informed me that you was the person
she had seen in her dream! To me only, as
her most trusty friend, she disclosed the circumstance.
Even her father and mother are
not informed of it, and should my mission
prove unsuccessful, I shall rest satisfied that
our confidence has been honourably reposed,
and is most securely deposited.

“Now, Sir, is it necessary for me farther to
explain? Singular as the facts which I
have related may be considered by 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 are the circumstances of the
lady. She inquires not into the state of your

property: she asks not riches. If she obtain 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 honour 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. So sudden, so unexpected was this
singular and extraordinary proposition, that
though not indecisive as to an answer, he
scarcely knew how to frame his reply.

“Perhaps,” said the stranger, “you may
view the manner of this message as bearing
the appearance of indecorum. If so, I presume
that on reviewing the incidents which led
to—which induced it, as the most safe—as indeed
the only proper means of 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,” replied Haventon, “so far
from considering the message indecorous, I
esteem and receive it as a mark of peculiar
distinction both as it respects the lady and
yourself; nor is it necessary that I should
visit her to confirm the truth of what you
have related. You will not, Sir, receive it
as a compliment when I say that although
our acquaintance has been short, yet my confidence
in your honour and 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 sincerity. I assured you that I was
unmarried, and had no prospect of entering
into matrimonial alliances; 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; possibly 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 those clouds of anguish, and the rays
of consolation and tranquility again beam
upon the soul. I wish not to be considered
importunate, but the day may arrive when
you will change your present determination,
and then must you not regret that you rejected
so advantageous an overture?”

“That day can never arrive, Sir,” answered
Alonzo. “I have had time for deliberate
reflection since the melancholy event
occurred; 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, the most dignified titles of fame, or
the most alluring blandishments of pleasure.”

The young officer sat for some minutes 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, as
it was certainly with the purest motives. May
comfort and happiness be yet restored to your
bosom.”

“To you and your fair friend,” returned
Haventon, “I consider myself under the highest
obligations. The gratitude I feel can be but
feebly expressed. Believe me, Sir, when I
tell you, and it is all I can do, that though I
am fit only to associate with my afflictions, yet
your ingenuous conduct has left impressions in
my breast which can never be obliterated till
the current of life ceases to flow.” The stranger
held out his hand, which Alonzo ardently
pressed; they were silent, but their eyes spoke
sympathy, and they parted.

Haventon immediately prepared, and was
soon ready to depart. As he was stepping
into his carriage he saw the officer returning;
when he came up, “I must intrude a few
moments longer,” he said, “and will then 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

but speak to you, joy and felicity would ensue.
Confident that this indication may comprise
some mystery, for with all her accomplishments
she is a little superstitious, she requests a short
interview. You have nothing to fear, Sir; she
would not for the wealth of worlds yield
you her hand, unless in return you could give
her your heart. Nor was I to inform you that
she made this request, but to introduce you
as by my own invitation. Conscious however
that you would thus far humour the caprice
of a lady, I chose to tell you the truth. She
resides near by, and it will not detain you
long.”

“It is capriciousness in the extreme,”
thought Alonzo; but he assured the stranger
he would accompany him, who immediately
took a seat in the carriage, and they drove by
his direction to an elegant building 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 be
with him in a moment,” said he to the man,
who instantly withdrew. Turning to Haventon,
“A person is in waiting,” he said, “on

urgent business; excuse me therefore if it is
with reluctance I retire a few moments after
having announced you. I will soon be with
you again.”

They then ascended a flight of stairs, and
after winding through two or three rooms, the
officer opened the door of a chamber—“The
gentleman I mentioned to you, Madam,” he
said. Alonzo entered; the officer closed
the door and retired.

The lady was sitting by a window at the
opposite side of the room, but arose as Haventon
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; a purple
silk 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 inexpressible

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 recollection. She
advanced towards him and turned aside her
veil. Her eyes were suffused; 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!”