University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

Freneau.

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

despair, must not, cannot be right.
Your history will hereafter become languid
and spiritless; the subject will be uninteresting,
the theme unengaging, since the geni
which animated and enlivened it, is gone for
ever.”

Reader of sensibility, reflect.—Are we not
detailing facts? Shall we gloss them over
with false colouring? Must we describe things
as they are, or as they are not? Shall we draw
with the pencil of nature, or of art? Do we
indeed paint life as it is, or as it is not? Cast
thine eyes, reader, over the ephemeral circle
of passing and fortuitous events; view the
change of contingencies; mark well the varied
and shifting scenery in the great drama of
Time; seriously contemplate Nature in her
operations; minutely examine the entrance,
the action, and the exit of characters on the
stage of existence; then say, if disappointment,
distress, misery and calamitous woe, are
not the inalienable portion of the susceptible
bosom. Say, if the possession of refined feelings
be desirable, the lot of Nature's children
enviable; whether to these, through life, the
sprinklings of comfort are sufficient to give a
zest to the bitter banquets of adversity; whether,
indeed, sorrow, sighing, and tears, are

not the inseparable attendants of all those
whose hearts are the repositories of tender affections
and pathetic sympathies. But what
says the moralist?—“Portray life as it is;
delude not the senses by deceptive appearances.
Arouse your hero; call to his aid
stern philosophy and sober reason; they will
dissipate the rainbow glories of unreal pleasure,
and banish the glittering meteors of unsubstantial
happiness: or if these fail, lead
him to the mild presence of holy religion; she
will regulate the fires of fancy, and assuage the
tempest of the passions; she will illuminate the
dark wilderness, and smooth the thorny paths
of life; will point him to worlds where sorrows
never approach, to joys beyond the
tomb, and pour the balm of consolation and serenity
over his wounded soul.”

Shall we indeed arouse Alonzo? Alas! to
what pathos of grief, what sublimity of
wretchedness must we awake him! To a
world, void and cheerless to his heart, desolate
and dreary to his soul.

Alonzo revived—“Why am I,” he exclaimed,
“recalled to this dungeon of torment! Why
was not my spirit permitted to take its flight

to regions where my guardian angel has gone?
Why am I cursed with memory!—O that I
might be blessed with forgetfulness! But
why think of blessings? Heaven never had
one in store for me. Where are fled my anticipated
joys? To the bosom, the dark bosom
of the oblivious tomb! There lie all the
graces worthy of love in life; all the virtues
deserving lamentation in death. There rests
perfection—perfection has here been found,
and, Oh! for ever lost! Was she not all that
even Heaven could demand—fair, lovely, holy,
virtuous? Her tender solicitudes—her enrapturing
endearments—her soul-inspiring
blandishments; gone—irrevocably gone!
That celestial form—that discriminate mind—
unsullied as light—chaste as seraphs; a prey to
worms—mingled with incorporeal shadows—
regardless of former inquietudes or delights;
regardless of the keen anguish which now
wrings tears of blood from my despairing
heart! Eternal Disposer of events! if virtue
be thy special care, why is the fairest
flower in the garden of innocence and purity,
blasted like a noxious weed! Why is the
brightest gem of excellence trampled in the
dust like a worthless pebble?—Why is Melissa
hurried to the tomb!” Thus raved Alonzo,
it was evident that delirium had partially
seized his intellect.

He arose and flung himself on the bed, in
indiscribable agony. “And what, alas!” he
again exclaimed, “now remains for me!
Existence, and unparalleled misery. The
consolation even of death, is denied me! O
that I were an insect, that the first passing
foot might crush me! then could I die, and be
with Melissa.—But she—Ah! where is she?
Oh! reflection insupportable! insufferable
consideration! Must that heavenly frame
putrify, moulder, and crumble into dust!
Must the loathsome spider nestle on her snowy
bosom! the odious reptile riot on her delicate
limbs! the worm revel amidst the roses
of her cheek, fatten on her temples, and
bask in the lustre of her eyes!—Great God!
what a thought! Alas! the lustre has been
dimmed in death; the bloom decayed, the
harmony of her voice has ceased, the graces
—the elegancies of form—the innumerable
delicacies of air—all are gone, and I am left
in a state of misery which defies mitigation or
comparison.

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

He contemplated on the past. “I fear,”
said he, “I have murmured against the wisdom
of Providence. Forgive, O merciful
Creator! forgive the frenzies of distraction!”
He now recollected that Melissa once told

him she had an uncle who resided at Charleston,
in South Carolina: thither he supposed
she had been sent by her father when she was
removed from the old mansion, in order to
prevent his having access to her, and with a
view to compel her to marry Bowman. Her
appearance indicated a deep decline when
he last saw her. “There,” said he, “far
removed from friends and acquaintance—
there did she languish, there did she die, a
victim to excessive grief and cruel parental
persecution!”

Soon as he was able to leave his room, he
walked out one evening, and in deep contemplation
roved he knew not whither. The
moon shone brilliantly from her throne of
glory; the chill, heavy dews of autumn glittered
on the decaying verdure. The Kadeatt
[1] croaked hoarsely among the trees; the
Dirkle [1] sang mournfully in the grass. Alonzo
heard them not; he was insensible to all
external objects, until he had imperceptibly

wandered to the ROCK on the point of the
beach, verging the Sound, to which he
once attended Melissa from the house of
Glenford.

Had the whole artillery of heaven exploded
in sheeted flame from the skies—had raging
winds hurled the roaring waves over the tops
of mountains—had an instantaneous earthquake
burst beneath his feet, his frame would
not have been so shocked, his soul so agitated!
Sudden as the blaze darts from electric
clouds, was he aroused to a lively sense
of blessings entombed! The memory of departed
joys passed with rapidity over his
imagination; his first meeting with Melissa;
the evening he attended her to that place;
her frequent allusions to the scenery there displayed,
when they were traversing the fields,
or reclining in the bower on her favourite hill;
in fine, all the vicissitudes through which
they had passed, were recalled to his mind.
His fancy saw her—felt her gently leaning on

his arm, while he tremblingly pressed her hand.
Again he saw smiling health crimsoning the
lilies of her cheek; again he perceived the
bright soul of exquisite feeling sparkling in her
eye—the air of ease—the graces of attitude
—her brown hair circling the borders of her
snowy robe: again was he enraptured by the
melody of her voice: once more would he
have been happy, had not fancy inverted the
scene—but alas! she shifted the curtain—he
saw Melissa stretched on the sable hearse,
wrapped in the dreary vestments of the grave
—the roses withered—the lilies faded—motionless—the
graces fled—her eyes fixed, and
sealed in the glaze of death! Spontaneously
he sank upon his knees, and thus poured
forth the overcharged burden of his anguished
bosom:

“Infinite Ruler of all events! Great Sovereign
of this ever changing world! Omnipoten
Controller of vicissitudes! Omniscient
Dispenser of destinies! The beginning—the
progression—the end, are thine. Unsearchable
are thy purposes! mysterious thy movements!
inscrutable thy operations! An atom
of thy creation, wildered in the mazes of ignorance
and unparalleled affliction, would bow

to thy decrees. Surrounded with impenetrable
glooms—unable to scrutinize the past—incompetent
to explore the future—fain would
he say—Thy will be done!—And O, that
it might be consistent with that high will,
to call this atom from regions of wretchedness
and woe, to worlds of light and glory, where
his only consolation is gone!”

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

A convoy was at that time preparing from
various parts of the United States for the
protection of our European trade; they were
to rendezvous at a certain station, and thence
proceed with the merchantmen under their
care to the ports of France and Holland,
where our commerce principally centred,
and return with some other mercantile fleet
in charge. One of these ships of war was
then nearly fitted out at New-London. Haventon
offered himself to the captain, who,
pleased with his appearance, gave him the
station of commander of marines.

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

As he was one day passing through the
town, a gentleman stepped out of an adjoining
house and accosted him: he immediately recognized
the person to be Glenford, whose
dress of full mourning sufficiently indicated
that he had been apprized of Melissa's
death. Glenford invited Haventon to his

house, who could not complaisantly refuse
the invitation; he therefore accepted it, and
passed an hour with him, from whom he
learnt that Melissa had been sent to her uncle's
at Charleston for the recovery of her
health, as Glenford understood, where she
died. “Her premature death,” said he,
has borne so heavily upon her aged father,
that it is feared he will not long survive.”
“Well may it wring his bosom,” thought Alonzo;
“how can his conscience ever be at
peace!” Whether Glenford had been informed
of the particulars of Alonzo's unfortunate attachment,
was not known, as he said nothing
on the subject; neither did he inquire into
Haventon's prospects; he only invited him to
call again. Alonzo thanked him, but replied
it would be doubtful, as he should shortly
leave town. He made no one acquainted
with his intentions.

The day at length arrived when the ship
was to sail, and Haventon to leave the shores
of America. They spread their canvas to
propitious gales; the breezes rushed from
their woody coverts, and majestically wafted
them from the harbour. Slowly the land receded;
fields, forests, hills, mountains, towns
and villages leisurely withdrew, until they

were mingled in one common mass; the
ocean opening, expanded and widened, presenting
to the astonished eyes of the untried
mariner its wilderness of waters. Near
sunset Alonzo ascended the mast to take a
last view of a country once so dear, but
whose charms were now lost for ever. The
land still appeared like a semicircular border
of dark green velvet on the edge of a convex
mirror; the sun sank in fleecy golden vapour
behind it; it soon dwindled to discoloured
and irregular spots, which seemed like objects
floating amidst the blue mists of distance,
on the verge of the main, and immediately
all was lost beneath the spherical,
watery surface. Alonzo fixed his eyes as
nearly as his judgment could direct towards
Melissa's favourite rock, till nothing but sea
was discoverable. With a heart-parting sigh
he then descended. They had now launched
into the illimitable world of billows, and the
sable wings of night brooded over the boundless
main.

A new scene opened to Alonzo in the wonders
of the mighty deep. The sun rising
from and setting in the ocean; the widespread
region of watery waste, now smooth

as polished glass, now urged into irregular,
rolling hillocks, then swelled to

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

Favourable breezes wafted them for many
days over the bosom of the Atlantic. At
length the atmosphere indicated a storm; the
wind began to blow strongly from the south-west,
and soon came on a violent gale; the
“dingy scud” first flew swiftly along the sky;
then dark and heavy clouds filled the atmosphere,
mingling with the topgallant streamers
of the ship. Night hovered over the ocean,
rendered horrible by the intermitting blaze
of lightning, the awful crash of thunder,
and the deafening roar of winds and waves.
The sea was rolled into mountains, capped

with foaming fire. Now the ship was soaring
among the thunders of heaven, now sinking in
the abyss of waters.

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

The next morning they discovered a sail
which they fondly hoped might prove to be
one of their own fleet, and accordingly made
for it. The chase shortened sail, and towards
noon, wore round and bore down upon them,
when they perceived that it was not one of
their convoy. It appeared to be of about equal
force and dimensions with those of their own
ship; they therefore, in order to prepare for
the worst, got ready with all speed for action.
They slowly approached each other, manœuvring
for the advantage, till the strange ship
ran up British colours, and fired a gun, which
was immediately answered by the other, under
the flag of the United States. They now
found her to be a forty-four gun frigate;
the American carried but forty. The cannonade

shortly became general, nor was it
long before a close and severe action took
place.

The roar of cannon, the crash of musketry,
the shouts of the combatants, the groans of
the wounded and dying, inspired Alonzo's bosom
with the ardour of battle. He was fighting
in the cause of freedom and his country.
Both ships were completely enveloped in
smoke and flame. The main and mizzenmasts
of the British frigate went by the board,
as did also the foremast of the American ship.
At length Haventon heard the command of
his captain, to “Board!” Instantly the Briton
was laid along side, and seized by grapplings.
Then Destruction rioted on human
carcases; then Slaughter swam in gore. Alonzo,
fixing a stern eye on death, drew his
sword, and rushed into the midst of the conflict.
The Americans sprang over the sides
of the British vessel; a terrible contest ensued,
but they were driven back with loss,
and in their turn boarded by the English, who
were instantly cut to pieces. Pikes contended
with bayonets, and swords clashed upon
daggers. The decks were piled with carnage,
and the scuppers spouted blood! Again

blazed the musketry, again thundered the artillery,
and again the brave American crew surged
upon the deck of the enemy: the shock was
resistless; the Britons fell or were driven below;
their colours were struck, they yielded
to capture, and the storm of battle ceased.

Both ships were wrecks; not a mast was
standing on either; their rigging cut, their
sails in fritters, and their hulks much damaged.
Such was their shattered condition
that neither could manage a single gun with
celerity. The British had lost their captain,
first and second lieutenants, with several other
officers, and more than half their crew, most
of the remainder being wounded. The second
American officer was slain, and their
loss in men, both killed and wounded, was
nearly equal to that of the enemy. It was
soon perceived that the British frigate must
sink, as she had received several shots between
wind and water; all hands were therefore
set to work to remove the prisoners on
board the American ship. While thus employed
they discovered a large sail bearing
down upon them, which soon came up and
proved to be an English ship of the line.
The victorious Americans, unable to resist,

were immediately captured, and with their
prisoners, so dearly vanquished, taken on
board the English ship. The British frigate
shortly went down, and was for ever buried
beneath mountains of ponderous waves.

Six glasses measured the duration of this
terrible conflict. Alonzo was slightly wounded
by a musket ball which grazed his left
side, and with a sabre in the arm. The Briton,
with the American ship in tow, soon made
sail, and in a few days reached England.
The wounded prisoners were sent to a hospital,
but the others were confined in a strong
prison within the precincts of London.

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

mind. Haventon sympathetically sought his
acquaintance, and discovered therein a unison
of woe. One evening when the prisoners
were retired to rest, the stranger, upon Alonzo's
request, recited the following incidents
of his life:

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

“My name is Henry Malcomb; my father
was a clergyman in the west of England, and
descended from one of the most respectable
families in those parts. I received a classical
education, and then entered the military
school, as I was designed for the army, to
which my earliest inclinations led. Soon as
my education was considered complete, an
ensign's commission was procured for me in
one of the regiments destined for India: previous
to its departure I became acquainted
with a Miss Vernon, who was a few years
younger than myself, and the daughter of a
gentleman farmer who had recently purchased

and removed to an estate in my father's parish.
Every thing that was graceful and
lovely appeared centred in her person; all
that was virtuous and excellent in her mind.
I sought her hand: our souls soon became
united in the indissoluble bonds of the sincerest
love; and as there existed no parental
or other impediments to our union, it was
agreed that when I returned from India,
where it was expected my stay would be
short, the marriage solemnities should be performed.
Solemn oaths of constancy passed
between us, and I sailed with my regiment.

“While in India I received from her and
returned letters filled with the tenderest expressions
of anxiety and regret of absence.
At length the time came when we were to reembark
for England, where we arrived after
an absence of about eighteen months. The
moment I reached land I hastened to the house
of Mr. Vernon to visit the object I most
valued on earth. She received me with all
the ardency of affection, and even shed tears
of joy in my presence. I pressed her to
name the day which was to perfect our union
and happiness, and the next Sunday, four
days only distant, was agreed upon for me to

lead her to the altar. How did my heart
bound at the prospect of making Miss Vernon
my own; of possessing in her all that could
render life agreeable! I hastened home to
my family and informed them of my approaching
bliss, who all sympathized in the
anticipations of felicity which swelled my
bosom.

“I had a sister, wild, thoughtless and gay,
who was several years younger than myself;
she had been the friend and confident of my
mistress while I was absent; Miss Vernon
passed an afternoon with her at my father's
one day; when she had departed my sister requested
me to attend her in a private room;
we therefore retired, and she thus addressed
me:

“`Henry, you know that to promote your
welfare, your happiness and your peace has
ever been the boast and pride of my heart:
nothing except this could extort the secret
which I shall now disclose, and which has
yet remained deposited in my own bosom;
my duty to a brother whom I esteem dear as
life, forbids me to remain silent. As an affectionate
sister, I cannot tacitly see you

thus imposed upon: I cannot see you the
dupe and slave of an artful and insidious woman,
who does not sincerely return your love;
nor can I bear to witness your marriage with
one whose soul and affections are placed upon
another object.'

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

“`About six or eight months after your departure,'
she continued, `it was reported to
Miss Vernon that she had a rival in India;
that you had there found an American beauty
on whom you lavished those endearments
which belonged of right to her alone. This
news made at first a deep impression on her
mind, but it soon wore away, and whether
from this cause, from fickleness of disposition,
or that she never sincerely loved you,
I know not, but this I do know, that a youth
has been, for some time past, her almost constant
companion.'

“Again she hesitated. I laughed convulsively,
and requested her to continue.

“`To convince you of this,' she proceeded,
`you need only tomorrow evening about

sunset, conceal yourself among the laurels near
the long avenue by the side of the rivulet
back of Mr. Vernon's house, where you will
undoubtedly surprise Miss Vernon and her
companion in their usual evening excursion.
If I should be mistaken I will submit to your
censure; but should you find it as I have
stated, you have only to rush from your concealment,
charge her with her perfidy, and
renounce her for ever.'

“Of all the plagues, the torments, the
ourses, which torture the soul, suspicion of a
rival in love is the worst. Enraged, confounded,
astonished, it seemed as if my
bosom would have instantaneously burst. To
hide my emotions I left my sister's apartment,
after having thanked ner for her information
and promised to obey her injunctions. I retired
to my own room and there poured out
my execrations. `Cursed woman!' I exclaimed,
`is it thus you requite my tender
love? Could a vague report of my inconstancy
drive you to infidelity? Did not my
continual letters breathe constant adoration?
And did not yours portray the same sincerity
of affection? No; it was not this that caused
you to perjure your plighted vows. It was

that damnable passion for novelty, which
more or less holds a predominancy over your
whole sex. To a new coat, a new face, a
new lover, you will sacrifice honour, principle
and virtue; and for these, when allied
with magnificent power and splendid wealth,
you will perjure your most sacred engagements,
though sealed in the sanctuary of
Heaven.' Thus did I rave through a sleepless
night.

“On the morrow, which was the day previous
to our appointed marriage, I walked
into the fields, and before the time my sister
appointed had arrived, my feelings were
wrought up almost to the frenzy of distraction.
I repaired however to the spot and
concealed myself in the place she had named,
which was a tuft of laurels by the side of the
walk. I soon perceived Miss Vernon strolling
down the avenue, arm in arm with a youth
elegantly dressed, and of singularly delicate
appearance. They were earnestly conversing
in a low tone of voice; the hand of my false
mistress was gently pressed in that of the
stranger. Soon as they had passed me they
turned aside and seated themselves in a little
arbour a few yards distant from the place where

I stood. The stranger clasped Miss Vernon in
his arms: `Dearest angel!' he exclaimed,
`what an interruption to our bliss is the return
of my hated rival!'

“With fond caresses and endearing blandishments,
`Fear nothing,' she replied; `I
have promised and must yield him my hand,
but you shall never be excluded from my
heart: we shall find sufficient opportunities
for private conference.'

“I could restrain myself no longer—My
brain was on fire. Quick as lightning I
sprang from my covert, and presenting a pistol
which I had concealed under my robe,
`Die!' I exclaimed, `thou false and perjured
wretch, by the hand thou hast dishonoured,
a death too mild for so foul a crime!'
and immediately shot Miss Vernon through
the head, who fell dead at my feet! Then
suddenly drawing my sword, `And thou, perfidious
contaminator and destroyer of my
bliss,' cried I, `go! attend thy companion in
infamy to the black regions of everlasting
torment!' So saying, I plunged my sword
into his bosom!

“A screech of agony, attended by the exclamation—`
Henry!—your wife!—your sister!'
awoke me too late to terrors unutterable
—to anguish unspeakable—to woes irretrievable,
and insupportable despair! It was indeed
my affianced wife—It was indeed my
affectionate sister, arrayed in man's habit!
The one lay dead before me—the other, weltering
in her blood! With a feeble and expiring
voice my sister informed me that in a
gay and inconsiderate moment they had concerted
this plan to try my jealousy, determining
to discover themselves soon as they
had made the experiment. `I forgive you—
Henry!' she said, `I forgive—your mistake'
—and closed her eyes for ever in death!

“What a scene for sensibilities like mine!
to paint or describe it exceeds the power of
language or imagination. I instantly turned
the sword against my own bosom; an unknown
hand arrested it, and prevented its entering
my heart. The report of the pistol,
and the dying screech of my sister, had alarmed
Mr. Vernon's family, who arrived
at that moment, one of whom seized my
arm, and thus hindered me from destroying

my own life. I submitted to be bound and
conveyed to prison. My trial came on at the
last assizes; I made no defence, and was
condemned to death. Eight weeks from tomorrow
is the day appointed for my execution.
I shall cheerfully meet my fate, for
who would endure life when rendered so
peculiarly, so eminently miserable!”

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

Alonzo seriously reflected on the incidents
and events of this tragical story. Conscience
whispered him, Are not Malcomb's miseries superior
to thine? candour and correct reason
must have answered YES. “Melissa perished,”
said he, “but not by the hand of her
lover; she expired, but not through the mistaken
frenzy of him who adored her; she
died, conscious of the unfeigned love I bore
her.”

Haventon submitted to his fate with fortitude
and firmness. All places, every scene
was to him equally alike. In a palace or a
prison, in bed or in battle, the thorn of woe
still rankled at his heart. He sought not to
prolong life, but religion taught him not to
destroy it. Happiness in this world he now
never expected. He did not even wish for
consolation or comfort, for without Melissa
he could not attain or enjoy them, if spread
around him, and she was low in the grave.
In whatever state or station, therefore, he
wore away life, was totally unimportant and
immaterial.

He and his fellow prisoners had been robbed
when they were captured, of every thing
except the clothes they wore. Their allowance
of provisions was scanty and poor. They
were confined in the third story of a lofty
prison, without fire, and with no other bedding
than a little straw. Time rolled away;
no prospect appeared of their liberation, either
by exchange or parole. Some of the
prisoners were removed, as new ones were
introduced, to other places of confinement,
until not one American was left but Alonzo.

Meantime the day appointed for the execution
of Malcomb drew near. His past and
approaching fate filled the breast of Haventon
with sympathetic sorrow. He saw his
venerable father, his mother, his friends and
acquaintance, with several pious clergymen,
alternately enter the prison to console and
comfort him, and to prepare him for the unchangeable
state on which he was soon to enter.
He perceived his mind softened by their
advice and counsel; frequently would he
burst into tears; often in the solitary hours
of night was he heard addressing the throne of
grace for mercy and forgiveness. But deep
and inconsolable sorrow consumed and wasted
him away; a slow but deleterious fever
had consequently implanted itself in his constitution;
exhausted nature could make but
a weak resistance against disease and affliction
like his, and about a week previous to
the day appointed for his execution, he expired
in peace and penitence, trusting in the
mercy of his Creator through the merits of a
Redeemer.

Shortly after this event orders came for removing
some of the prisoners to a most loathsome
place of confinement, in the suburbs of

the city: it fell to Alonzo's lot to be one.
This incident aroused him from his lethargy
and he formed a project for escaping. He
had observed that the gratings in one of the
windows of the apartment were loose, and
could easily be removed. One night when
the prisoners were asleep, he stripped off his
clothes, every article of which he cut into narrow
slips, twisted them into ropes, tied them
together, and fastening an end thereof to one
of the strongest gratings, removed the others
until he had made an opening large enough
to crowd himself out; he then, by the rope
he had thus made, let himself down into the
yard of the prison. There he found a piece
of long timber, which he dragged to the wall,
clambered up thereon, and sprang over into
the street. His shoes and hat he left in
the prison, as useless encumberances without
his clothes, all of which he had converted into
the means of escape, so that he was literally
stark naked. He stood a moment to reflect—
“Here am I,” said he, “freed from my local
prison indeed, but in the midst of an enemy's
country, without a friend, without the means
of obtaining one day's subsistence, surrounded
by the darkness of night, destitute of a
single article of clothing, and even unable to
form a resolution, what step next to take.—
The ways of Heaven are marvellous.—May
I silently bow to its dispensations!”