University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

Darby.

Again will the incidents of our history
produce a pause. Our sentimental readers
will experience a recurrence of sympathetic
sensibilities, and 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 circumstance, and was he not in
mourning? Did not the dying Bowman confirm
the melancholy event? And was not the
unquestionable testimony of her brother Edgar
sufficient to establish the fact? Did
not the sexton's wife, who knew not Haventon,
corroborate it? And did not Alonzo
himself finally read her name, her age, and

the time of her death, on her tomb-stone,
which exactly accorded with the publication in
the papers, and his own knowledge of her age?
And is not all this competent 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 description;
in painting inanimate nature, he is
no magician; or if he is, he cannot raise the
dead. Melissa has long since mouldered into
dust, and he has conjured up some female Martin
Guerre, or Thomas Hoag[1] —some person
from whose near resemblance to the deceased
he thinks to impose upon us, and upon Haventon
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
realize in her representative those alluring
graces, that pensive sweetness, those unrivalled
virtues and that matchless worth, which
he found in her, 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 the difference
could not be distinguished, 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, which in novel writing is
certainly wrong. It is proved, as clearly as
facts can prove, that he has permitted Melissa
to die, 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? that we held the pencil of nature?
that our portraits were true to life? Shall we
disguise or discolour truth to please your taste?
Have we not told you that disappointments
are the lot of life, the inseparable attendants

of man? 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 them he 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 view of, as she walked up the avenue
to the old mansion, after they 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 immingling
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
it. “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 yield. 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 must
really applaud your discrimination and discernment.”

“The laws of honour,” said Alonzo, smiling,
“compel me to submit to your raillery
and deception—I am in your power, Sir.”

“I acknowledge,” returned the officer,
“that I have a little deceived you; my story
was fiction founded on truth—the true novel,
or lover style. But for the deceptive part,
you may thank your little gipsy of a nymph
there, (pointing to Melissa;) she planned
and I executed.”

“How ready you gentlemen are,” replied
Melissa, “when accused of impropriety, to
cast the blame on the defenceless! So it was
in the beginning, and so it is still. But you
must remember that Alonzo has yet to hear
my story; there, Sir, I have the advantage
of you.”

“There, I confess,” said he, looking at
Haventon, “you will be too hard for me, and
so I will dismiss the subject.”

Melissa then introduced the young officer
to Alonzo by the appellation of Captain Wilmot.
“He is the son of a deceased uncle,”

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

A coach drove up to the door. “We must
prepare for a short ride,” said Wilmot to Haventon;
“this is our uncle's house in town,
where he resides in winter, but in summer
is kept by his steward. We chose it for the
scene of our late comedy. I will now introduce
you to Col. Bloomfield at his villa, about
two miles from the city; you will have no
objection to breakfast with us there, if it be
only to keep our cousin Melissa in countenance.”

Haventon 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
country seat of Col. Bloomfield, who with his
family received Alonzo with much friendship
and politeness. Wilmot had apprized them
of Haventon's arrival in town, and of course
he was expected.

Col. Bloomfield was about fifty years old;
his manners were majestically grave and commanding,
yet polished and polite. He was

a member of the state legislature, and Colonel
of the city guards, which stations he had
held for several years. His family consisted
of an amiable wife considerably younger than
himself, and two sons; the eldest about ten
years of age, the other seven. Harmony
and cheerfulness reigned in this family, which
diffused tranquility and ease to all its members
and its guests.

It was agreed that Alonzo should pass a
few days at the house of Melissa's uncle,
when she was to accompany him to Connecticut.
Capt. Wilmot, with some other officers,
was recruiting for the army, where his regiment
then lay, and which he was shortly to rejoin.
He could not therefore be constantly at
his uncle's, though he was principally there
while Haventon stayed, but being absent the
day after the latter arrived, Melissa and Alonzo
having retired to a room separate from the
family, she gave him the following account of
what happened after they parted at the old
mansion.

“The morning after you left me,” she said,
“Jeffrey came there early and called to be
let in; I immediately went to the gate, opened

it, and let down the bridge. He informed
me my aunt had suddenly and unexpectedly
returned that morning, in company with
a strange gentleman, and had sent him for the
keys, as she intended to visit me immediately.
I endeavoured to persuade him to leave the
keys in my possession, engaging to make
all easy with my aunt when she arrived. This,
though with much reluctance, he at length
consented to, and departed. Soon after aunt
Martha came herself, and without much ceremony,
demanded the keys, insinuating that I
had obtained them from Jeffrey by imposition,
and for dishonourable purposes. This aroused
my spirit, and I answered by assuring
her that whatever purposes persecution and
cruelty 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 Jeffrey. I told her that as I
had been placed there by my father, I should
not consent to a removal unless by his express
orders. She instantly left me, declaring
she would soon let me know her authority
was not thus to be trampled upon with impunity.

“I immediately raised the bridge and made
fast the gate, determining they should so remain
until evening. The day passed away
without other occurrence worthy of note, and
soon as it was dark, I opened the gate, and
cautiously let down the bridge, then returned
to the building, and placed a 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,
having no other idea but that it was you,
Alonzo, who was approaching. The carriage
stopped near the door, a footstep 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 house, which command,
I obeyed with a heart too full for utterance.
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 proceeded as near as I could
judge about ten miles, when we halted 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 Miss
Martha, 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 planned 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 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; whether my father had apprized
her of his intention to remove me, the maid
could not tell.

“The next morning we pursued our journey,
and I was hurried on by rapid stages until
we reached 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 with his family
received me with much tenderness; the
servant delivered him a package of letters
from my father. The carriage with one servant
had returned from the Chesapeak to
Connecticut. The maid and the other servant
experiencing ill health, and not liking
the country, returned home in about two
months.

“My father had but one brother and two
sisters; my uncle here is the youngest of the
family. One of my aunts, she who was my
protectress at the old mansion, you have seen;
the other was the mother of Wilmot; she
married very young to a gentleman in Hartford,
of that name, who fell before the walls
of Louisbourg, in the old French war; his
lady 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 their only child,
then an infant, whom they named Alfred, to
the protection of his relations, who, when
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, then young and unmarried, to Hartford
for the purpose of transacting the necessary
business: there he became acquainted
with and addressed a young lady eminent for
beauty and loveliness, but without fortune,
the daughter of a poor mechanic. His father
when informed of this attachment, in a very
peremptory manner, ordered him to break off
the connexion on pain of his highest displeasure.
But such is the force of early impressions,
[Melissa sighed,] that he found it
impossible to submit to these stern injunctions;
a clandestine marriage ensued, and my grandfather's
maledictions in consequence. The
union was however soon dissolved; my
uncle's lady died in about twelve months
after their marriage, and shortly after the birth

of their first child, which was a daughter.
Inconsolable and comfortless, he 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
an amiable and respectable woman,
whose tenderness, though it did not entirely
remove, yet 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 experience. His daughter,
by his first wife, when she became of proper
age, was placed at an eminent boarding-school,
where she remained until within about two
years before I came here, when her father
sent and brought her home. She it was who,
as I once informed you, I expected to pass the
summer with me at Bloomfield Vale, but ill
health prevented her visit. Alfred was educated
at Harvard College; after having graduated
he came to this place on our uncle's request,
and has since remained in the 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 attachment;
I wish you to give me a true statement
of the matter, and if any thing can be
done to effect a reconciliation, you may depend
upon my assistance. I have seen some
troubles in this way myself, in early days;
perhaps my counsel may be of service.'

“I immediately gave a correct account of
every particular circumstance from the time
of my first acquaintance with you until my
arrival at his house. He sat some time silent,
and then told me that my father, he believed,
had drawn the worst side of the picture; that
he had urged him to exert every means in his
power to reclaim me to obedience; that Bowman
was to follow me within a few months,
and that if I still refused to yield him my
hand, my father positively and solemnly declared
he would discard me for ever, and
strenuously enjoined it upon him to do the
same. `I well know my brother's temper,'
continued he; `the case is difficult, but something
must be done. I shall immediately
write to your father, advising him not to proceed
too rashly; in the mean time we will
consider what measures to pursue. You must
not, my niece, you must not be sacrificed.'

“So saying, he left me, with the consolation
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 was of a very delicate
and sickly constitution, and her health evidently
decreasing after coming to this place, she
was sent to a village on the high hills of Santee,
where she remained some 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 towards 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 upon my father by passing off my
cousin's death as my own. This would at least
deter Bowman from prosecuting his intended
journey to this place; 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 desired purpose.

“My uncle was too seriously overwhelmed
with grief to be particularly consulted on this
plan. He however intrusted Alfred to act
with full powers, and to use his name for my
interest if necessary. Wilmot therefore procured
a publication of my cousin's death in
the Connecticut papers, particularly at New-London,
the native place of Bowman. In
Charleston it was generally supposed that it
was the niece, and not the daughter of my uncle,
who had died; this imposition was likewise
practised on the sexton, who keeps the register
of deaths. 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
would with equal propriety apply either
to her or to me, as would also the account
of her death in the gazettes.

“Confident that the news must reach you,
our next object was to give you correct information
respecting the facts. I consulted
with Alfred how this might be done. `My
dear cousin,' said he, `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 Haventon, 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 be
adopted.' I requested him to unfold the deception
to my mother, and if he found it expedient,
to Vincent also and the Berghers, on
whose friendship and confidence I was sure
he might safely rely.

“He soon departed, and returned in about
two months. He found my parents in extreme
distress on account of my supposed
death; my mother's grief had brought her
on the bed of sickness; but when Alfred
undeceived her she rapidly recovered. My
father observed to Wilmot that he seriously
regretted opposing my inclinations, and that
were it possible the steps he had taken could
be retraced he should act in a very different
manner, as he was not only deprived of me,
but of Edgar also, who had gone to Holland
in an official capacity, soon after receiving
the tidings of my death. `I am now childless,'
he said, in tears. Alfred's feelings
were moved, and could you then have
been found, he would have disclosed to my
father the facts as they really were; but lest
he should relapse into former prejudices and
austerities, Wilmot dare not reveal to him
the secret.

“On inquiring at your father's, at Vincent's
and at Bergher's, he could learn nothing
of you, except that you had departed
in search of me. Vincent conjectured you
had gone to New-London, on the supposition
that I might be there. Alfred therefore determined

to proceed to that place immediately.
He then confidentially unfolded the
scheme to your family, to Vincent and the
Berghers, desiring that if you returned you
would repair instantly to Charleston. My father
was still to be kept in ignorance.

“Alfred went on to New-London: by
Glenford he was informed of your interview
with him, but from whence you then came,
or whither you went, he knew not; and after
making the strictest inquiry he could learn
nothing more. 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; he then returned
to Charleston.

“Wilmot was apprized by our friends of the
circumstances which occasioned my sudden
removal from the old mansion. The morning
you left me you were discovered by my aunt
who was passing the road in a chair attended
by a gentleman with whom she had then but
recently become acquainted. They immediately
drove to Jeffrey's hut; finding that he
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, but as
she succeeded no better than her messenger,
she returned and secretly despatched an express
to my father, informing him of the circumstances,
adding her suspicions of our
having had an interview, and that from my
refusing to yield the keys, there was little
doubt but 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
previously stated.”

“But who was the strange gentleman with
your aunt?” inquired Alonzo.

“This I will also tell you,” answered Melissa,
“though it unfolds a tale which reflects
no great honour on my family.

“Hamblin was the name which this man
assumed; he said he had been an eminent
merchant in New-York, and left it about the
time it was taken by the British. He lodged
at an inn where my aunt frequently called
when she was out collecting rents; there he
first introduced himself, and gained her esteem
by art and insidiousness. He accompanied

her on visits to the tenants, and assisted
in settling her accounts. He told her that
when the war came on, he 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 make the story short as
possible, he finally so far seduced her affections
that she accepted his hand, and contrary
to my father's advice, married him; he shortly
persuaded her to sell her possessions 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 discovered that his real name
was Brenton; that he had left a wife and family
in Virginia in indigent circumstances,
where by dissipation he had wasted an ample
fortune inherited from his father, 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 fell into a
decline, and died about six months ago.

“After Alfred returned from Connecticut,
he wrote frequently to Vincent and also to
Bergher, 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
kept me in crape until at the instance of
Wilmot I put it off yesterday morning at my
uncle's house in town, which Alfred proposed
for the scene of action, after he discovered
the cause of my fainting at the theatre.
I did not readily come into his plan to deceive
you: `Suffer me,' he said, `to try the constancy
of your Leander; I much 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 the events he had experienced from the
time of their separation until he met with her
the preceding day. At the mention of Bowman'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
farther told her that he received a letter
from Edgar after his arrival in Holland, and
that he wrote him an answer just as he left
Paris, informing him of his reasons for returning
to America.

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

Philadelphia was then 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 repaired immediately to his
father's.

Their friends were most 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.

Haventon found his parents in penurious
circumstances indeed. His father having the
preceding summer been too much 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
their son, 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 straitened than
usual, but having now recovered my health,
I trust that difficulty will soon be removed.”

Haventon asked his father if he had ever
known Doctor Franklin.

“We were schoolmates,” 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 all the incidents of his
travels, minutely particularizing the disinterested
conduct of Franklin, and presented to
his father the vouchers and documents testifying
the restoration of his property. The
old man fell on his knees, and with streaming
tears offered devout thanks to the great Dispenser
of all mercies.

Haventon next visited Melissa's father who
received him with much complacency: “I
have injured you,” said he, “my young
friend, deeply injured you; but in doing this
have inflicted a wound still deeper in my
own breast; a wound which can never be
healed.”

“Permit not a renewal of your sorrows,
Sir,” said Alonzo; “the past is beyond recall.
A subject of some importance to me is the
design of my present visit: true it is that
your daughter was the object of my earliest
affection, an affection which my heart must
ever retain; but being separated by the will

of Providence—for I view Providence as
overruling all events for wise purposes—I left
my country and wandered through distant
lands. 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 obtain 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 happy anticipations; I shall
receive her in the character of Melissa.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Col. Bloomfield, “were
it in my power—could I but give you the original!—But
how vain that wish!—Yes, my
young friend, your request is freely granted;
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
expressed thankful 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 apprized of Haventon's
avowed reasons for preferring the celebration
at the house of Col. Bloomfield.

The evening before the day on which the
marriage was to take place, Haventon and
Miss Bloomfield 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 imagination
to depict the scene of an affectionate brother
meeting a tender and only sister whom he
supposed long since dead! He had been at
his father's and his mother 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
reached home that day. Wilmot's letter he
never received. He informed them that the

Berghers were at his father's, and also some
relatives whom his mother had invited.

The next morning ushered in the day on
which the hero and heroine of our story were
to consummate their felicity. No cross purposes
approached 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 odoured with her sweetest perfumes. The
sun blended its mild lustre with the landscape's
lovely green; light-winged breezes
frolicked amidst the flowers; the spring-birds
caroled in varying strains,

Evening was appointed for the ceremony,
and Edgar was to be the officiating clergyman,

When the hour arrived they repaired to the
house of Col. Bloomfield where numerous
guests had assembled. Melissa was ushered
into the bridal apartment and seated in advance

of a brilliant circle of ladies. She was
attired in robes `white as southern clouds,'
spangled with silver, and fringed with deep
gold lace; her hair flowed in artless ringlets,
decorated by a wreath of flowers; a rich gem
blazed upon her bosom, and a diamond clasped
the green girdle which encircled her waist.
She had regained all her former loveliness;
the rose and the lily again mingled their tinges
in her cheek; again pensive sprightliness
beamed in her eye, and the undulations of
beauty played in tremulous colourings over
her fine features. Alonzo was then introduced
and took his station at the side of Melissa;
his father and mother came next, who
were placed at their right hand; Melissa's
parents followed and were stationed at their
left. Edgar then came and took his seat in
front, when the guests were summoned, who
filled the room.

After a short pause, the intended bride, the
brideg room and Edgar arose; the latter turning
to Alonzo's parents, asked their sanction
to the proposed union; they bowed assent;
then addressing his own father with emotions
that scar cely suffered him to articulate, “Do

you, Sir,” said he, “present this lady to that
gentleman?”

A solemn silence prevailed in the room.
Melissa was extremely agitated as her father,
slowly rising, with downcast eyes and mournful
aspect, took her trembling hand, and conveyed
it into Alonzo's; “May the smiles of
Heaven rest upon you,” he sadly said; “may
future blessings crown your present happy
prospects—and may your latter days never
be imbittered by the premature loss of near
and dear—”

Pungent grief here choked his utterance;
bitter sighs swelled his bosom, and large
drops coursed down his furrowed cheeks—

At that moment Melissa sank 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, and fell back into his
chair.—“My daughter!” he cried; “merciful
Heaven! 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 do I receive thee, my child,
from the dead?” he said; “I am anxious to
hear the 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.”

“As you are acquainted with my circumstances,”
said Alonzo, “will you not esteem
it ungenerous to take advantage of your present
feelings, Sir, seeing I am unable to support
your daughter according to her deserts
and your own expectations?”

“Leave that to me, my young friend,” replied
her father; “I have enough; my children
are restored, and I am happy.”

Melissa soon resumed her former station;
the indissoluble union was cemented; they sat
down to the wedding feast, while joy and felicity
glowed in every countenance.

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
parents had regained their 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.