But though he had thus become possessed of what he esteemed most

valuable, what right had he to withhold it from the lawful owner, could

the owner indeed be found? Perhaps the person who had lost it would part

with it; perhaps the money contained in the purse was of more value to

that person than the miniature. At any rate, justice required that he

should endeavour to find to whom it belonged: this he might do by

advertising, which he immediately concluded upon, resolving, should the

owner appear, to purchase the miniature, if possibly within his power.

Passing into another street, he saw several hand-bills stuck up on the

walls of houses; stepping up to one, he read as follows:

"Lost, between the hours of nine and ten last evening, in the _Rue de

Loir_, a small silk purse, containing a few pieces of money, and a

lady's miniature. One hundred crowns will be given to the person who may

have found it, and will restore it to the owner at the _American Hotel_,

near the _Louvre_, Room No. 4."

It was printed both in the French and English languages. By the reward

here offered, Alonzo was convinced that the miniature belonged to some

person who set a value upon it. Determined to explicate the mystery,

he proceeded immediately to the place, found the room mentioned in the

bill, and knocked at the door. A servant appeared, of whom Alonzo

enquired for the lodger. The servant answered him in French, which

Alonzo did not understand: he replied in his own language, but found it

was unintelligible to the servant. A grave middle aged gentleman then

came to the door from within the room and ended their jabbering at each

other: he, in the English language, desired Alonzo to walk in. It was an

apartment, neatly furnished; no person was therein except the gentleman

and servant before mentioned, and a person who sat writing in a corner

of the room, with his back towards them.

Alonzo informed the gentleman that he had called according to the

direction in a bill of advertisement to enquire for the person who the

preceding night, had lost a purse and miniature. The person who was

writing had hitherto taken no notice of what had passed; but at the

sound of Alonzo's voice, after he had entered the room, he started and

turned about, and at mention of the miniature, he rose up. Alonzo fixed

his eyes upon him: they both stood for a few moments silent: for a short

time their recollection was confused and imperfect, but the mists of

doubt were soon dissipated. "Edgar!"--"Alonzo!" they alternately

exclaimed. It was indeed Edgar, the early friend and fellow student of

Alonzo--the brother of Melissa! In an instant they were in each others

arms.

* * * * *

Edgar and Alonzo retired to a separate room. Edgar informed Alonzo that

the news of Melissa's death reached him, by a letter from his father,

while with the army; that he immediately procured a furlough, and

visited his father, whom, with his mother, he found in inconsolable

distress.--"The letter which my uncle had written, said Edgar,

announcing her death, mentioned with what patience and placidity she

endured her malady, and with what calmness and resignation she met the

approach of death. Her last moments, like her whole life, were unruffled

and serene. She is in heaven Alonzo--she is an angel!"--Swelling grief

here choaked the utterance of Edgar; for some time he could proceed no

farther, and Alonzo, with bursting bosom, mingled his tears.

"My father, resumed Edgar, bent on uniting her to Beauman or at least of

preventing her union with you, had removed her to a desolate family

mansion, and placed her under the care of an aunt. At that place, he

either suspected, or really discovered that you had recourse to her

while my aunt was absent on business. She was therefore no longer

entrusted to the care of her aunt, but my father immediately formed and

executed the plan of sending her to his brother in South Carolina, under

pretence of restoring her to health by change of climate, as her health

in reality had began rapidly to decay. There it was designed that

Beauman should shortly follow her, with recommendations from my father

to her uncle, urging him to use all possible means which might tend to

persuade her to become the wife of Beauman. But change of climate only

encreased the load of sorrows, and she soon sunk beneath them. The

letter mentioned nothing of her troubles: possibly my uncle's family

knew nothing of them: to them, probably,

----"She never told her love,

But sat like Patience on a monument

Smiling at grief; while sad concealment,

Like a worm in the bud,

Fed on her damask cheek.

"My father's distress was excessive: often did he accuse himself of

barbarity, and he once earnestly expressed a wish that he had consented

to her union with you. My father, I know, is parsimonious, but he

sincerely loved his children. Inflexible as is his nature, the untimely

death of a truly affectionate and only daughter will, I much fear,

precipitate him, and perhaps my mother also, to a speedy grave.

"As soon as my feelings would permit, I repaired to your father's, and

made enquiry concerning you. I found your parents content in their

humble state, except that your father had been ill, but was recovering.

Of you they had heard nothing since your departure, and they deeply

lamented your absence. And from Vincent I could obtain no farther

information.

"Sick of the world, I returned to the army. An American consul was soon

to sail for Holland:--I solicited and obtained the appointment of

secretary. I hoped by visiting distant countries, in some measure to

relieve my mind from the deep melancholy with which it was oppressed. We

were to proceed first to Paris, where we have been a few days; to-morrow

we are to depart for Holland. The consul is the man who introduced you

into the room where you found me.

"Last evening I lost the miniature which I suppose you have found: the

chain to which it was suspended around my neck, had broken while I was

walking the street. I carefully wrapped it in paper and deposited it in

my purse, which I probably dropped on replacing it in my pocket, and did

not discover the loss until this morning. I immediately made diligent

search, but not finding it, I put up bills of advertisement. The

likeness was taken in my sister's happiest days. After I had entered

upon my professional studies in New-York, I became acquainted with a

miniature painter, who took my likeness. He afterwards went into the

country, and as I found he was to pass near my father's, I engaged him

to call there and take my sister's likeness also. We exchanged them soon

after. It was dear to me, even while the original remained; but since

she is gone it has become a most precious and valuable relique."

All the tender powers of Alonzo's soul were called into action by

Edgar's recital. The "days of other years"--the ghosts of sepulchered

blessings, passed in painful review. Added to these, the penurious

condition of his parents, his father's recent illness, and his probable

inability to procure the bread of his family, all tended more deeply to

sink his spirits in the gulf of melancholy and misery. He however

informed Edgar of all that had happened since they parted at

Vincent's--respecting the old mansion Melissa's extraordinary

disappearance therefrom, the manner in which he was informed of her

death, his departure from America, capture, escape, Beauman's death,

arrival in France, and his finding the miniature. To Edgar as well as

Alonzo, Melissa's sudden and unaccountable removal from the mansion was

mysterious and inexplicable.

As Edgar was to depart early the next morning, they neither slept nor

separated that night.

"If it were not for your reluctance to revisit your native country, said

Edgar, I should urge you to accompany me to Holland, and thence return

with me to America. Necessity and duty require that I should not be long

absent, as my parents want my assistance, and they are now childless."

"Suffer me, answered Alonzo, to bury myself in this city for the

present: should I ever again awake to real life, I will seek you out if

you are on the earth;--but now, I can only be a companion to my

miseries."

The next morning as they were about to depart, Alonzo took Melissa's

miniature from his bosom, contemplated the picture a few moments with

ardent emotion, and presented it to Edgar. "Keep it, said Edgar, it is

thine. I bestow it upon thee as I would the original, had not death

become the rival of thy love, and my affection.--Suffer not the sacred

symbol too tenderly to renew your sorrows. How swiftly, Alonzo, does

this restless life fleet away!--How soon shall we pass the barriers of

terrestrial existence! Let us live worthy of ourselves, of our holy

religion, of Melissa--Melissa, whom, when a few more suns have arisen

and set, we shall meet in regions where all tears shall be eternally

wiped from every eye."

With what unspeakable sensibilities was it returned to Alonzo's bosom!

Edgar offered Alonzo pecuniary assistance, which the latter refused:

"I am in business, said he, which brings me a decent support, and that

is sufficient." They agreed to write each other as frequently as

possible, and then affectionately parted: Edgar sailed for Holland,

and Alonzo returned to his business at Mr. Grafton's.

Some time after this Alonzo received a message from Dr. Franklin,

requiring his attendance at his house, which summons he immediately

obeyed. The doctor introduced him into his study, and after being

seated, he earnestly viewed Alonzo for some time, and thus addressed

him:

"Young man, your views, your resolutions, and your present conduct, are

totally wrong. Disappointment, you say, has driven you from your native

country. Disappointment in what? In obtaining the object on which you

most doated. And suppose this object had been obtained, would your

happiness have been complete? Your own reason, if you coolly consult it,

will convince you of the contrary. Do you not remember when an infant,

how you cried, and teazed your nurse, or your parents, for a rattle, or

some gay trinket?--Your whole soul was fixed upon the enchanting bauble;

but when obtained, you soon cast it away, and sighed as earnestly for

some other trifle, some new toy. Thus it is through life; the fancied

value of an object ceases with the attainment; it becomes familiar, and

its charm is lost.

"Was it the splendours of beauty which enraptured you? Sickness may, and

age must destroy the symmetry of the most finished form--the brilliancy

of the finest features. Was it the graces of the mind? I tell you, that

by familiarity, these allurements are lost, and the mind, left vacant,

turns to some other source to supply _vacuum_.

"Stripped of all their intrinsic value, how poor, how vain, and how

worthless, are those things we name pleasures, and enjoyments.

"Besides, the attainment of your wishes might have been the death of

your hopes. If my reasoning is correct, the ardency of your passion

might have closed with the pursuit. An every day suit, however rich and

costly the texture, is soon worn threadbare. On your part, indifference

would consequently succeed: on the part of your partner, disappointment,

jealousy, and disgust. What might follow is needless for me to

name;--your soul must shudder at the idea of conjugal infidelity!

"But admitting the most favourable consequences; turn the brightest side

of the picture; admitting as much happiness as the connubial state will

allow: how might your bosom have been wounded by the sickness and death

of your children, or their disorderly and disobedient conduct! You must

know also, that the warmth of youthful passion must soon cease, and it

is merely a hazardous chance whether friendship will supply the absence

of affection.

"After all, my young friend, it will be well for you to consider,

whether the all-wise dispensing hand of Providence, has not directed

this matter which you esteem so great an affliction, for your greatest

good, and most essential advantage. And suffer me to tell you, that in

all my observations on life, I have always found that those connections

which were formed from inordinate passion, or what some would call pure

affection, have been ever the most unhappy. Examine the varied circles

of society, you will there see this axiom demonstrated; you will there

see how few among the sentimentally refined are even apparently at ease;

while those, insusceptible of what you name tender attachments, or who

receive them only as things of course, plod on through life, without

even experiencing the least inconvenience from a want of the pleasures

they are _supposed_ to bestow, or the pains they are sure to create.

Beware, then, my son, beware of yielding the heart to the effeminacies

of passion. Exquisite sensibilities are ever subject to exquisite

inquietudes. Counsel with correct reason, place entire dependence on the

SUPREME, and the triumph of fortitude and resignation will be yours."

Franklin paused. His reasonings, however they convinced the

understanding, could not heal the wounds of Alonzo's bosom.--In Melissa

he looked for as much happiness as earth could afford, nor could he see

any prospect in life which could repair the loss he had sustained.

"You have, resumed the philosopher, deserted an indulgent father, a fond

and tender mother, who must want your aid; now, perhaps, unable to toil

for bread; now, possibly laid upon the bed of sickness, calling, in

anguish or delirium, for the filial hand of their only son to administer

relief."----All the parental feelings of Alonzo were now called into

poignant action.----"You have left a country, bleeding at every pore,

desolated by the ravages of war, wrecked by the thunders of battle, her

heroes slain, her children captured. This country asks--she demands--you

owe her your services: God and nature call upon you to defend her, while

here you bury yourself in inglorious inactivity, pining for a hapless

object, which, by all your lamentations, you can never bring back to the

regions of mortality."

This aroused the patriotic flame in the bosom of Alonzo; and he

voluntarily exclaimed, "I will go to the relief of my parents--I will

fly to the defence of my country!"

"In former days, continued Franklin, I was well acquainted with your

father. As soon as you informed me of his failure, I wrote to my

correspondent in England, and found, as I expected, that he had been

overreached by swindlers and sharpers.----The pretended failure of the

merchants with whom he was in company, was all a sham, as, also the

reported loss of the ships in their employ. The merchants fled to

England: I have had them arrested, and they have given up their effects

to much more than the amount of their debts. I have therefore procured a

reversion of your father's losses, which, with costs, damages, and

interests, when legally stated, he will receive of my agent in

Philadelphia, to whom I shall transmit sufficient documents by you, and

I shall advance you a sum equal to the expenses of your voyage, which

will be liquidated by the said agent. A ship sails in a few days from

Havre, for Savannah in Georgia: it would, indeed, be more convenient

were she bound to some more northern port, but I know of no other which

will sail for any part of America for some time. In her therefore I

would advise you to take passage: it is not very material on what part

of the continent you are landed; you will soon reach Philadelphia,

transact your business, restore your father to his property, and be

ready to serve your country."

If any thing could have given Alonzo consolation, it must have been this

noble, generous and disinterested conduct of the great Franklin in

favour of his father, by which his family were restored to ease and to

independence. Ah! had this but have happened in time to save a life far

dearer than his own! The reflection was too painful. The idea, however,

of giving joy to his aged parents, hastened his departure. Furnished

with proper documents and credentials from Franklin, his benefactor, he

took leave of him, with the warmest expressions of gratitude, as also of

Mr. Grafton, and sailed for Savannah, where he arrived in about eight

weeks.

Intent on his purpose, he immediately purchased a carriage and proceeded

on for Philadelphia. As he approached Charleston, his bosom swelled with

mournful recollections. He arrived in that city in the afternoon, and at

evening he walked out, and entered a little ale house, which stood near

the large burial ground. An elderly woman and two small children were

the only persons in the house, except himself. After calling for a pint

of ale, he enquired of the old lady, if Col. D----, (Melissa's uncle)

did not live near the city. She informed him that he resided about a

mile from the town, where he had an elegant seat, and that he was very

rich.

"Was there not a young lady, asked Alonzo, who died there about eighteen

months ago?"

"La me! said she, did you know her? Yes: and a sweeter or more handsome

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

bones before she died. She was not Col. D----'s daughter, only somehow

related: she came here in hopes that a change of air might do her good.

She came from--la me! I cannot think of the name of the place;--it is a

crabbed name though."

"Connecticut, was it not?" said Alonzo.

"O yes, that was it, replied she. Dear me! then you knew her, did you,

sir?--Well, we have not her like left in Charleston; that we han't;--and

then there was such ado at her funeral; five hundred people, I dare say,

with eight young ladies for pall-bearers, all dressed in white, with

black ribbons, and all the bells tolling."

"Where was she buried?" enquired Alonzo.

"In the 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 in the whole burying-ground; and so, indeed,

they ought to be, for never was there a person who deserved them more."

Tired with the old woman's garrulity, and with a bosom bursting with

anguish, Alonzo paid for his ale without drinking it, bade her good

night, and slowly proceeded to the church-yard. The moon, in full

lustre, shone with solemn, silvery ray, on the sacred piles, and funeral

monuments of the sacred dead; the wind murmured mournfully among the

weeping willows; a solitary nightingale[A] sang plaintively in the

distant forest; and a whippoorwill, Melissa's favourite bird, whistled

near the portico of the church. The large white tomb-stones soon caught

the eye of Alonzo. 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 D----,

Whose remains are deposited here, and

whose ethereal part became a seraph,

October 26, 1776,

In the 18th year of her age.

[Footnote A: This bird, though not an inhabitant of the northern

states, is frequently to be met with in Georgia and the Carolinas.]

Alonzo bent, kneeled, he prostrated himself, he clasped the green turf

which enclosed 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, blessed 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 yon evening star descend. One moment

leave the celestial regions of glory--leave, one moment, thy sister

beatitudes, and glide, in entrancing beauty, before me: wave, benignly

wave thy white hand, and assuage the anguish of despairing sorrow! Alas!

in vain my invocation! A curtain, impenetrable, is drawn betwixt me and

thee, only to be disclosed by the dissolution of nature."

He arose and walked away: suddenly he stopped. "Yet, said he, if spirits

departed lose not the power of recollection;--if they have knowledge of

present 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, how tenderly does she beam her lovely eye

upon me! How often have I drank delicious extacy from the delicacy of

those unrivalled charms! How often have they taught me to anticipate

superlative and uninterrupted bliss! Mistaken and delusive hope!

[_returning the miniature to his bosom._] Vain and presumptuous

assurance. Then [_pointing to the grave_] there behold how my dearest

wishes, my fondest expectations are realized!----Hallowed turf! lie

lightly on her bosom!--Sacred willows! sprinkle the dews gently over her

grave, while the mourning breezes sigh sadly amid your branches! Here

may the "widowed wild rose love to bloom!" Here may the first placid

beams of morning delight to linger; from hence, the evening ray

reluctantly withdraw!--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 beatifick transport! May my enraptured

ear catch the first holy whisper of her consecrated lips."

* * * * *

Alonzo having thus poured out the effusions of an overcharged heart,

pensively returned to the inn, which he entered and seated himself in

the common room, in deep contemplation. As usual at public inns, a

number of people were in the room, among whom were several officers of

the American army. Alonzo was too deeply absorbed in melancholy

reflection, to notice passing incidents, until a young officer came,

seated himself by him, and entered into conversation respecting the

events of the war. He appeared to be about Alonzo's age; his person was

interesting, his manners sprightly, his observations correct.--Alonzo

was, in some degree, aroused from his abstractedness;--the manners of

the stranger pleased him. His frankness, his ease, his understanding,

his urbanity, void of vanity or sophistication, sympathetically caught

the feelings of Alonzo, and he even felt a sort of solemn regret when

the stranger departed. He soon retired to bed, determining to proceed

early in the morning.

He arose about daylight; the horizon was overcast, and it had begun to

rain, which before sunrise had encreased to a violent storm. 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 inn-keeper, that the theatre, which had been closed

since the commencement of the war, was to be opened 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 hours with swifter speed," Alonzo determined to go to the

theatre, and at the hour appointed he repaired thither.

As he was proceeding to take his seat, he passed the box where sat the

young officer, whose manners had so prepossessed him the preceding

evening at the inn. He immediately arose: they exchanged salutations,

and Alonzo walked on and took his seat. The evening was warm, and the

house exceedingly crowded. After the tragedy was through, and before the

after-piece commenced, the young officer came to Alonzo's box, and made

some remarks on the merit of the actors. While they were discoursing, a

bustle took place in one part of the house, and several people gathered

around a box, at a little distance from them. The officer turned, left

Alonzo, and hastened to the place. To the general enquiry, "_what's the

matter?_" it was answered, that "a lady had fainted." She was led out,

and the tumult subsided.

As soon as the after-piece was closed, Alonzo returned to the inn. As he

passed along he cast his eyes toward the church-yard, where lay the

"wither'd blessings of his richest joys." Affection, passion,

inclination, urged him to go and breathe a farewell sigh, to drop a

final tear over the grave of Melissa. Discretion, reason, wisdom forbade

it--forbade that he re-pierce 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

book which, in happier days, had been the solace of many a gloomy, many

a lucid hour. He took it up and the first lines he cast his eyes upon

were the following:

"Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy: this group

Of bright ideas--flowers of Paradise,

As yet unforfeit! in one blaze we bind.

Kneel, and present it to the skies; as all

We guess of Heaven! And _these_ were all her own

And she was mine, and I was--was most blest--

Like blossom'd trees o'erturn'd by vernal storm,

Lovely in death the beauteous ruin lay--

Ye that e'er lost an angel, pity me."

His tears fell fast upon the book! He replaced it and flung himself into

bed. Sleep was far from him; he closed not his eyes till the portals of

light were unbarred in the east, when he 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, when the stranger thus addressed Alonzo:

"From our short acquaintance, you may, sir, consider it singular that I

should attempt to scrutinize your private concerns, and more

extraordinary you may 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 tell me

so."

Alonzo assured him he would treat him candidly. "This I believe, said

the young officer; I take the liberty therefore to ask if you are an

American?"----"I am," answered Alonzo. "I presume, said the

stranger--the question is a delicate one--I presume your family is

respectable?" "Sacredly so," replied Alonzo. "Are you married, sir?"

"I am not, and have ever been single." "Have you any prospects of

connecting in marriage?" "I have not, sir." "I may then safely proceed,

said the stranger; I trust you will hear me attentively; you will judge

maturely; you will decide correctly, and I am confident that you will

answer me sincerely.

"A young lady of this city, with whom I am well acquainted, and to whom,

indeed, I am distantly related, whose father is affluent, whose

connections are 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; numberless suitors 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 her dream the youth who possessed

the power to inspire her with this passion. In her dream she saw a young

gentleman whose interesting manners and appearance, impressed her so

deeply that she found she must be unhappy without him. She thought it

was in a mixed company she saw him, but that she could not get an

opportunity to speak to him. It seemed that if she could but speak with

him, all difficulties would at once be removed. At length he approached

her, and just as he was about to address her, she awoke.

"This extraordinary dream she had communicated to several of her

acquaintance.--Confident that she should some time or other behold the

real person whose semblance she had seen in her dream, she has never

since been perfectly at ease in her mind. Her father, who has but two

children, one beside herself, being dotingly fond of her, has promised

that if ever she meets this unknown stranger, he will not oppose their

union, provided he is respectable, and that, if worthy of her hand,

he will make him independent.

"On my return from the inn the evening I first saw you, I told my

sister--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 that I had seen her _invisible beau_, as we used

to call the gentleman of the dream. 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 little of it. At the play last

night, I had just been speaking to 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. We

conveyed her home, when she informed me that you was the person she had

seen in her dream!

"To me only, she preferred disclosing the circumstance at present, for

reasons which must be obvious to your understanding.--Even her father

and mother are not informed of it, and should my mission prove

unsuccessful, none except you, sir, she and myself, I hope and trust,

will ever know any thing of the matter.

"Now, sir, it is necessary for me farther to explain. As singular as the

circumstances which I have related may appear to 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 is

the condition of the lady. She enquires not into the state of your

property! she asks not riches:--If she obtains 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.

"Perhaps, said the stranger, you may consider the _mode_ of this message

as bearing the appearance of indecorum. If so, I presume, on reviewing

the incidents which to--which _enforced it_, as the most safe, the

_only_ means of sure 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, said Alonzo, so far from considering the message indecorous, I

esteem it a peculiar honour, both as respects the lady and yourself. Nor

is it necessary that I should visit the lady, to confirm the truth of

what you have related. You will not, sir, receive it as an adulatory

compliment, when I say, that although our acquaintance is short, yet my

confidence in your 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 candour. I assured you

that I was unmarried, and had no prospect of entering into matrimonial

engagements; this is indeed the fact: but it is also true that my

affections--my first, my earliest affections were engaged, unalienably

engaged, to an object which is now no more. Perhaps you may esteem it

singular; perhaps 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 the

clouds of anguish, and the rays of comfort and consolation will beam

upon the soul. I wish not to be considered importunate, but the day may

arrive when you may change your present determination, and then will you

not regret that you refused so advantageous an overture?"

"That day will never arrive, sir answered Alonzo: I have had time for

deliberate reflection since the melancholy event took place. I have

experienced a sufficient change of objects and 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, or the most dignified titles of fame."

The young officer sat for some time 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,

since it was with the purest designs. May consolation, comfort, and

happiness, yet be yours."

"To you and your fair friend, said Alonzo, I consider myself under the

highest obligations. The gratitude I feel I can but feebly express.

Believe me, sir, when I tell you, (and it is all I can say,) that your

ingenuous conduct has left impressions in my bosom which can never be

obliterated."

The stranger held out his hand, which Alonzo ardently grasped. They were

silent, but their eyes spoke sympathy, and they parted.

Alonzo immediately prepared, and was soon ready to depart. As he was

stepping into his carriage, he saw the young officer returning. As he

came up, "I must detain you a few moments longer, he said, and I will

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 speak with you, all difficulties would

be removed. Conscious that this may be the case, (for with all her

accomplishments she is a little superstitious,) she desires to see you.

You have nothing to fear, sir; she would not for the world yield you her

hand, unless in return you could give her your heart. Nor was she

willing you should know that she made this request, but wished me to

introduce you, as it were by stratagem. Confident, however, that you

would thus far yield to the caprice of a lady, I chose to tell you the

truth. She resides near by, and it will not hinder you long."

"It is capriciousness in the extreme," thought Alonzo; but he told the

stranger he would accompany him--who immediately stepped into the

carriage, and they drove, by his direction, to an elegant house 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 wait on him in a moment," said he to the servant,

who instantly withdrew. Turning to Alonzo, "a person is in waiting, said

he, on urgent business; excuse me, therefore, if it is with reluctance I

retire a few moments, after I have announced you; I will soon again be

with you."

They then ascended a flight of stairs: the stranger opened the door of a

chamber--"The gentleman I mentioned to you madam," he said. Alonzo

entered; the stranger closed the door and retired. The lady was sitting

by a window at the lower end of the room, but arose as Alonzo 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, according to the mode of those times; a silken 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

inconceivable 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 imagination!

She advanced towards him and turned aside her veil. Her eyes were

suffused, and 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!"

* * * * *

Again will the incidents of our history produce a pause. Our sentimental

readers will experience a recurrence of sympathetic sensibilities, and

will attend more eagerly to the final scene of our drama.----"Melissa

alive!" may they say--"impossible! Did not Alonzo see her death in the

public prints? Did not her cousin at New-London inform him of the

circumstances, and was he not in mourning? Did not the dying Beauman

confirm the melancholy fact? And was not the unquestionable testimony of

her brother Edgar sufficient to seal the truth of all this? Did not the

sexton's wife who knew not Alonzo, corroborate it? And did not Alonzo

finally read her name, her age, and the time of her death, on her

tomb-stone, which exactly accorded with the publication of her death in

the papers, and his own knowledge of her age? And is not this sufficient

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 his description,

in painting reanimated nature, he is no magician, or if he is, he cannot

raise the dead.

"Melissa has long since mouldered into dust, and he has raised up some

female Martin Guerre, or Thomas Hoag--some person, from whose near

resemblance to the deceased, he thinks to impose upon us and upon Alonzo

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, find in her representative those

alluring graces, that pensive sweetness, those unrivalled virtues and

matchless worth which he found in Melissa, 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 he could not distinguish the difference,

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 of the reader, which in novel

writing is certainly wrong. It is proved as clearly as facts can prove,

that he has suffered 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? Shall we disguise or discolour truth to please

_your_ taste? Have we not told you that disappointments are the lot of

life? 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 these Alonzo 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 glimpse of, as she walked up the avenue to the old

mansion, after they had 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 intermingling 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 their situation.----"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 bow. 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 cannot but applaud your determination."

"The laws of honour, said Alonzo, smiling, compel me to submit to become

the subject of your raillery and deception; I am in your power."

"I acknowledge, said the officer, that I have a little deceived you,

my story was fiction founded on truth--the novel style: but for the

deceptive part, you may thank your little gipsey 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 with our

first parents, and so it is still. But you must remember that Alonzo is

yet to hear my story; there, sir, I have the advantage of you."

"Then I confess, said he, looking at Alonzo, you will be too hard for

me, and so I will say no more about it."

Melissa then introduced the young officer to Alonzo, by the appellation

of Capt. Wilmot. "He is the son of my deceased uncle, said she, a cousin

to whom I am much indebted, as you shall hereafter know."

A coach drove up to the door, which Melissa informed Alonzo was her

uncle's, and was sent to convey Alfred and her home. "You will have no

objection to breakfast with me at my uncle's, said Alfred, if it be only

to keep our cousin Melissa in countenance."

Alonzo did not hesitate to accept the invitation: They immediately

therefore entered the coach, a servant took care of Alonzo's carriage,

and they drove to the seat of Col. D----, who, with his family, received

Alonzo with much friendship and politeness. Alfred had apprized them of

Alonzo's arrival in town, and of course he was expected.

Col. D---- was about fifty years old, his manners were majestically

grave, and commanding, yet polished and polite. His family consisted of

an amiable wife, considerably younger than himself, and three children:

the eldest son, about ten years of age, and two daughters, one seven,

the other four years old. Harmony and cheerfulness reigned in his

family, which diffused tranquillity and ease to its members and its

guests.

It was agreed that Alonzo should pass a few days at the house of

Melissa's uncle, when Melissa was to accompany him to Connecticut.

Alfred, with some other officers, was recruiting for the army, where his

regiment then lay, and which he was shortly to join. He could not,

therefore, be constantly at his uncle's, though he was principally there

while Alonzo staid: but being absent the day after his arrival, Melissa

and Alonzo having retired to a room separate from the family, she gave

him the following account of what happened after they had parted at the

old mansion.

"The morning after you left me, she said, John came to the bridge and

called to be let in:--I immediately went to the gate, opened it, and let

down the bridge. John informed me that my aunt had suddenly and

unexpectedly arrived that morning in company with a strange gentleman,

and that he had come for the keys, as my aunt was to visit the mansion

that day. I strove to persuade John to leave the keys in my possession,

and that I would make all easy with my aunt when she arrived. This,

though with much reluctance, he at length consented to, and departed.

Soon after this my aunt came, and without much ceremony demanded the

keys, insinuating that I had obtained them from John by imposition, and

for the basest purposes. This aroused me to indignation, and I answered

by informing her that whatever purposes the persecution and cruelty of

my family 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 John. I told her that I had been placed

there by my father, and should not consent to a removal unless by his

express orders. She then left me, intimating that she would soon let me

know that her authority was not to be thus trampled upon with impunity.

"I immediately raised the bridge, and made fast the gate, determining,

on no considerations, to suffer it to be opened until evening. The day

passed away without any occurrence worthy of note, and as soon as it was

dark, I went, opened the gate, and cautiously let down the bridge.

I then returned to the mansion, and placed the 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,

as I had no other idea but that it was you, Alonzo, who was approaching.

The carriage stopped near the door of the mansion; 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 mansion--which command, with

the assistance of the servants, I obeyed with a heart too full for

utterance.

"As 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 drove, as near as I could judge, about ten miles, when we

stopped 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 your aunt, which put him in a terrible flutter:--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 contrived 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 that 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; but she knew

nothing of my father's late conduct.

"The next morning we proceeded, and I was hurried on by rapid stages to

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 and his family received me with much tenderness: the servant

delivered a package of letters to my uncle from my father. The carriage

with one servant (the driver) had returned from the Chesapeak to

Connecticut.

"My father had but one brother and two sisters, of which my uncle here

is the youngest. One of my aunts, the old maid, who was my _protectress_

at the old mansion, you have seen at my father's. The other was the

mother of Alfred:--she married very young, to a gentleman in Hartford,

of the name of Wilmot, who fell before the walls of Louisburg, in the

old French war. My aunt 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 Alfred, their only child, then an infant, to the

protection of his relations, who as soon as 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, who was then young and unmarried, to Hartford,

for the purpose of transacting the necessary business. Here he became

acquainted with a young lady, eminent for beauty and loveliness, but

without fortune, the daughter of a poor mechanic. As soon as my

grandfather was informed of this attachment, he, in a very peremptory

manner, ordered my uncle to break off the connection on pain of his

highest displeasure. But such is the force of early impressions,

(Melissa sighed) that my uncle found it impossible to submit to these

firm injunctions; a clandestine marriage ensued, and my grandfather's

maledictions in consequence. The union was, however, soon dissolved; my

uncle's wife died in about twelve months after their marriage, and soon

after the birth of the first child, which was a daughter. Inconsolable

and comfortless, my uncle 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

to 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 see.

"His daughter by his first wife, when she became of proper age, was sent

to a respectable boarding-school in Boston, where she remained until

within about two years before I came here.

"Alfred was educated at Harvard College: as soon as he had graduated, he

came here on my uncle's request, and has since remained in his 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 connection. I wish you to give me a true

statement of the matter, and if any thing can be done to reconcile you

to your father, you may depend upon my assistance. I have seen some

troubles in this way myself, in my early days; perhaps my counsel may be

of some service."

"I immediately gave a correct account of every particular circumstance,

from the time of my first acquaintance with you until my arrival at this

house. He sat some time silent, and then told me that my father, he

believed, had drawn the worst side of the picture; and that he had urged

him to exert every means in his power to reclaim me to obedience: That

Beauman was to follow me in a few months, and that, if I still refused

to yield him my hand, my father positively and solemnly declared that he

would discard me forever, and strenuously enjoined it upon him to do the

same. "I well know my brother's temper, continued my uncle; the case is

difficult, but something must be done. I will immediately write to your

father, desiring him not to proceed too rashly; in the mean time we must

consider what measures to pursue. You must not, my niece, you must not

be sacrificed." So saying, he left me, highly consoled 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, by his first wife, was of a very delicate and

sickly constitution, and her health evidently decreasing. After she came

to this place, she was sent to a village on one of the high hills of

Pedee, where she remained a considerable 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

to 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 on my father, by passing off my

cousin's death as my own. This would, at least, deter Beauman from

prosecuting his intended journey to Charleston; 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

designed purpose.

"My uncle was too deeply overwhelmed in grief to be particularly

consulted on this plan. He however entrusted Alfred to act with full

powers, and to use his name for my interest, if necessary. Alfred

therefore procured a publication, as of my death, in the Connecticut

papers, particularly at New London, the native place of Beauman. In

Charleston it was generally supposed that it was the niece, and not the

daughter of Col. D----, who had died.--This imposition was likewise

practised upon the sexton, who keeps the register of deaths.[A] 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 tombstone was likewise so devised that it would with equal

propriety apply either to her or to me.

[Footnote A: This was formerly the case.]

* * * * *

"To undeceive you, Alonzo, continued Melissa, was the next object. I

consulted with Alfred how this should be done.----"My sister, he said,

(in our private circles he always called me by the tender name of

sister,) 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 Alonzo,

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

pursue."

"I requested him to unfold the deception to my mother, and, if he found

it expedient, to Vincent and Mr. Simpson, in whose friendship and

fidelity I was sure he might safely confide.

"He soon departed, and returned in about two months. He found my father

and mother in extreme distress on account of my supposed death: my

mother's grief had brought her on the bed of sickness; but when Alfred

had undeceived her she rapidly revived. My father told Alfred that he

seriously regretted opposing my inclinations, and that, were it possible

he could retrace the steps he had taken, he should conduct in a very

different manner, as he was not only deprived of me, but Edgar also, who

had gone to Holland in an official capacity, soon after receiving the

tidings of my death. "I am now childless," said my father in tears.

Alfred's feelings were moved, and could he then have found you, he would

have told my father the truth; but lest he should relapse from present

determinations, he considered it his duty still with him, to continue

the deception.

"On enquiring at your father's, at Vincent's, and at Mr. Simpson's,

he could learn nothing of you, except that you had gone to New London,

judging possibly that you would find me there. Alfred therefore

determined to proceed to that place immediately. He then confidentially

unfolded to your father, Vincent, and Mr. Simpson, the scheme, desiring

that if you returned you would proceed immediately to Charleston. My

father was still to be kept in ignorance.

"Alfred proceeded immediately to New London: from my cousin there he was

informed of your interview with him; but from whence you then came, or

where you went, he knew not; and after making the strictest enquiry, he

could hear nothing more of you. 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; and returned to

Charleston.

"Alfred learnt from my friends the circumstances which occasioned my

sudden removal from the old mansion. The morning you left me you was

discovered by my aunt, who was passing the road in a chair with a

gentleman, whom she had then but recently become acquainted with. My

aunt knew you. They immediately drove to John's hut. On finding that

John 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;

and as she succeeded no better than John, she returned and dispatched a

message to my father, informing him of the circumstances, and her

suspicions of your having been to the mansion, and that, from my having

possession of the keys and refusing to yield them up, there was little

doubt but that 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 I have before

informed you.

"I ought to have told you, that the maid and man servant who attended me

to Charleston, not liking the country, and growing sickly, were sent

back by my uncle, after they had been there about two months."

Alonzo found by this narrative that John had deceived him, when he made

his enquiries of him concerning his knowledge of Melissa's removal. But

this was not surprising: John was tenant to Melissa's aunt, and

subservient to all her views;--she had undoubtedly given him

instructions how to act.

"But who was the strange gentleman with your aunt?" enquired Alonzo.

"This I will also tell you, answered Melissa, tho' it unfolds a tale

which reflects no great honour to my family.

"Hamblin was the name which this man assumed: he said he had been an

eminent merchant in New York, and had left it about the time it was

taken by the British. He lodged at an inn where my aunt frequently

stopped when she was out collecting her rents, where he first introduced

himself to her acquaintance, and ingratiated himself into her favour by

art and insidiousness. He accompanied her on her visits to her tenants,

and assisted her in collecting her rents. He told her, that when the war

came on, he had 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 cut the story as short as

possible, he finally initiated himself so far in my aunt's favour that

she accepted his hand, and, contrary to my father's opinion, she married

him, and he soon after persuaded her to sell her property, 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 found that his real name was Brenton; that he had

left a wife and family in Virginia in indigent circumstances, where he

had spent an ample fortune, left him by his father, in debauchery, 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 went into a

decline, and died about six months ago.

"After Alfred returned from Connecticut, he wrote frequently to Vincent

and Mr. Simpson, 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 had kept me in crape until, at

the instance of Alfred, I put it off yesterday morning at my uncle's

house, which Alfred had proposed for the scene of action, after he had

discovered the cause of my fainting at the theatre. I did not readily

come into Alfred's plan to deceive you: "Suffer me, he said, to try the

constancy of your _Leander_;----I 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 that happened to him

from the time of their parting at the old mansion until he met with her

the day before. At the mention of Beauman'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 told Melissa that he had received a letter from Edgar, after he

arrived in Holland, and that he had written him an answer, just as he

left Paris, informing him of his reasons for returning to America.

When the time arrived that Alonzo and Melissa were to set out for

Connecticut, Melissa's uncle and Alfred accompanied them as far as

Georgetown, where an affectionate parting took place: The latter

returned to Charleston, and the former proceeded on their journey.

Philadelphia was now 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 proceeded immediately

to his father's.

The friends of Alonzo and Melissa were 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.

Alonzo found his parents in penurious circumstances; indeed, his father

having the preceeding summer, been too indisposed to manage his little

farm with attention, and being unable to hire laborers, 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

Alonzo, 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 pressed than usual; but having now recovered my health, I trust

that that difficulty will soon be removed."

Alonzo asked his father if he ever knew Dr. Franklin.

"We were school-mates, 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 to his father all the incidents of his travels,

minutely particularizing the disinterested conduct of Franklin, and then

presented his father with the reversion of his estate. The old man fell

on his knees, and with tears streaming down his withered cheeks, offered

devout thanks to the great Dispenser of all mercies.

Alonzo then visited Melissa's father, who received him with much

complacency. "I have injured, said he, my young friend, deeply injured

you; but in doing this, I have inflicted a wound still deeper in my own

bosom."

Alonzo desired him not to renew his sorrows. "What is past, said he, is

beyond recal; but a subject of some importance to me, is the object of

my present visit.--True it is, that your daughter was the object of my

earliest affection--an affection which my bosom must ever retain; but

being separated by the will of Providence--for I view Providence as

overruling all events for wise purposes--I betook myself to travel.

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 gain 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 anticipations; I shall receive her in the character of

Melissa."

"Ah! said Melissa's father, were it in my power--could I but give you

the original; But how vain that wish! Yes, my young friend, your request

shall be punctually complied with: 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 bowed his head in gratitude; and after appointing that day week,

he 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 informed of Alonzo's reasons for preferring the celebration at

her father's.

The evening before the day on which the marriage was to take place,

Alonzo and Melissa 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 the imagination to depict the scene

of an affectionate brother, meeting a tender and only sister, whom he

had long since supposed to be dead! He had been at his father's, and his

mother had 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 had reached home

that day. He informed them that Mr. Simpson and family had arrived at

his father's, and some relatives whom his mother had invited.

The next morning ushered in the day in which the hero and heroine of our

story were to consummate their felicity. No _cross purposes_ stood ready

to intervene their happiness, 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 adorned with her

sweetest perfumes. The sun blended its mild lustre with the landscape's

lovely green; silk-winged breezes frolicked amidst the flowers; the

spring birds carolled in varying strains:

"The air was fragrance, and the world was love."

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

officiating clergyman.

"To tie those bands which nought but death can sever."

When the hour arrived, they repaired to the house of Melissa's father,

where numerous guests had assembled. Melissa was introduced into the

bridal apartment, and took her seat among a brilliant circle of ladies.

She was attired in robes "white as the southern clouds," spangled with

silver, and trimmed with deep gold lace; her hair hung loosely upon her

shoulders, encircled by a wreath of artificial flowers. She had regained

all her former loveliness; the rose and the lily again blended their

tinges in her cheek; again _pensive sprightliness_ sparkled in her eye.

Alonzo was now introduced, and took his seat at the side of Melissa. His

father and mother came next, who were placed at the right hand of the

young couple: Melissa's parents followed, and were stationed at the

left. Edgar then came and took his seat in front; after which the guests

were summoned, who filled the room. Edgar then rising, motioned to the

intended bride and bridegroom to rise also. He next turned to Alonzo's

father for his sanction, who bowed assent. Then addressing his own

father, with emotions that scarcely suffered him to articulate. "Do you,

sir, said he, give this lady to that gentleman?" A solemn silence

prevailed in the room. Melissa was extremely agitated, as her father

slowly rising, and with down-cast eyes,

"Where tides of heavy sorrow swell'd,"

took her trembling hand, and conveying it into Alonzo's, "May the smiles

of heaven rest upon you, he said; may future blessings crown your

present happy prospects; and may your latter days never be embittered by

the premature loss of near and dear----"

Pungent grief here choaked his utterance, and at this moment Melissa,

falling 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

sunk back in his chair.--"My daughter! he cried--God of mysterious

mercy! it is 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 I

receive thee as from the dead! he said. I am anxious to hear the mighty

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."

"But you are apprised, sir, said Alonzo, of my inability to support your

daughter according to her deserts."

"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 knot was tied:

they sat down to the wedding feast, and mirth and hilarity danced in

cheerful circles.

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 father had regained his 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.

* * * * *

Alonzo's father was soon in complete repossession of his former

property. The premises from which he had been driven by his unfeeling

creditors, were yielded up without difficulty, and to which he

immediately removed. He not only recovered the principal of the fortune

he had lost, but the damages and the interest; so that, although like

Job, he had seen affliction, like him his latter days were better than

his beginning. But wearied with the bustles of life, he did not again

enter into the mercantile business, but placing his money at interest in

safe hands, lived retired on his little farm.

A few days after the wedding, as Melissa was sitting with Alonzo, Edgar

and her parents, she asked her father whether the old mansion was

inhabited.

"Not by human beings, he replied.----Since it has fallen into my hands I

have leased it to three or four different families, who all left it

under the foolish pretence or impression of hearing noises and seeing

frightful objects, and such is the superstition of the people that no

one now, will venture to try it again, though I suppose its inhabitants

to consist only of rats and mice."

Melissa then informed them of all that had happened when she was there,

the alarming noises and horrible appearances she had been witness to,

and in which she was confident her senses had not deceived her.

Exceedingly astonished at her relation; it was agreed that Edgar and

Alonzo, properly attended, should proceed to the mansion, in order to

find whether any discoveries could be made which might tend to the

elucidation of so mysterious an affair.

For this purpose they chose twenty men, armed them with muskets and

swords, and proceeded to the place, where they arrived in the dusk of

the evening, having chosen that season as the most favourable to their

designs.

They found the drawbridge up, and the gate locked, as Edgar's father

said he had left them. They entered and secured them in the same manner.

When they came to the house, they cautiously unlocked the door, and

proceeded to the chamber, where they struck a fire and lighted candles,

which they had brought with them. It was then agreed to plant fifteen of

the men at suitable distances around the mansion, and retain five in the

chamber with Alonzo and Edgar.

The men, who were placed around the house, were stationed behind trees,

stumps or rocks, and where no object presented, lay flat on the ground,

with orders not to stir, or discover themselves, let what would ensue,

unless some alarm should be given from the house.

Alonzo and Edgar were armed with pistols and side arms, and posted

themselves with the five men in the chamber, taking care that the lights

should not shine against the window shutters, so that nothing could be

discovered from without. Things thus arranged, they observed almost an

implicit silence, no one being allowed to speak, except in a low

whisper.

For a long time no sound was heard except the hollow roar of winds in

the neighbouring forest, their whistling around the angles of the

mansion, or the hoarse murmers of the distant surge. The night was dark,

and only illuminated by the feeble twinkling of half clouded stars.

They had watched until about midnight, when they were alarmed by noises

in the rooms below, among which they could distinguish footsteps and

human voices. Alonzo and Edgar, then taking each a pistol in one hand,

and a drawn sword in the other, ordered their men to follow them,

prepared for action. Coming to the head of the stairs, they saw a

brilliant light streaming into the hall; they therefore concluded to

take no candles, and to prevent discovery they took off their shoes.

When they came into the hall opposite the door of the room from whence

the light and noises proceeded, they discovered ten men genteelly

dressed, sitting around a table, on which was placed a considerable

quantity of gold and silver coin, a number of glasses and several

decanters of wine. Alonzo and his party stood a few minutes, listening

to the following discourse, which took place among this _ghostly_

gentry.

"Well, boys, we have made a fine haul this trip."----"Yes, but poor Bob,

though, was plump'd over by the d----d skulkers!"----"Aye, and had we

not tugged bravely at the oars, they would have hook'd us."----"Rascally

cow-boys detained us too long."----"Well, never mind it; let us knock

around the wine, and then divide the spoil."

At this moment, Alonzo and Edgar, followed by the five men, rushed into

the room, crying. "_Surrender, or you are all dead men!_" In an instant

the room was involved in pitchy darkness; a loud crash was heard, then a

scampering about the floor, and a noise as if several doors shut to,

with violence. They however gave the alarm to the men without, by loudly

shouting "_Look out_;" and immediately the discharge of several guns was

heard around the mansion. One of the men flew up stairs and brought a

light; but, to their utter amazement, no person was to be discovered in

the room except their own party. The table, with its apparatus, and the

chairs on which these now invisible beings had sat, had disappeared, not

a single trace of them being left.

While they stood petrified with astonishment, the men from without

called for admittance. The door being unlocked, they led in a stranger

wounded, whom they immediately discovered to be one of those they had

seen at the table.

The men who had been stationed around the mansion informed, that some

time before the alarm was made, they saw a number of persons crossing

the yard from the western part of the enclosure, towards the house; that

immediately after the shout was given, they discovered several people

running back in the same direction: they hailed them, which being

disregarded, they fired upon them, one of whom they brought down, which

was the wounded man they had brought in. The others, though they pursued

them, got off.

The prisoner's wound was not dangerous, the ball had shattered his arm,

and glanced upon his breast. They dressed his wound as well as they

could, and then requested him to unfold the circumstances of the

suspicious appearance in which he was involved.

"First promise me, on your honour, said the stranger, that you will use

your influence to prevent my being punished or imprisoned."

This they readily agreed to, on condition that he would conceal nothing

from them--and he gave them the following relation:

That they were a part of a gang of _illicit traders_; men who had

combined for the purpose of carrying on a secret and illegal commerce

with the British army on Long Island, whom, contrary to the existing

laws, they supplied with provisions, and brought off English goods,

which they sold at very extortionate prices. But this was not all; they

also brought over large quantities of counterfeit continental money,

which they put off among the Americans for live stock, poultry, produce,

&c. which they carried to the Island. The counterfeit money they

purchased by merely paying for the printing; the British having obtained

copies of the American emission, struck immense quantities of it in

New-York, and insidiously sent it out into the country, in order to sink

our currency.

This gang was likewise connected with the cow-boys, who made it their

business to steal, not only milch cows, and other cattle, but also hogs

and sheep, which they drove by night to some convenient place on the

shores of the Sound, where these _thief-partners_ received them, and

conveyed them to the British.

"In our excursions across the Sound, continued the wounded man, we had

frequently observed this mansion, which, from every appearance, we were

convinced was uninhabited:--we therefore selected it as a suitable place

for our future rendezvous, which had therefore been only in the open

woods. To cross the moat, we dragged up an old canoe from the sea shore,

which we concealed in the bushes as soon as we recrossed from the old

mansion. To get over the wall we used ladders of ropes, placing a flat

of thick board on the top of the spikes driven into the wall. We found

more difficulty in getting into the house:--we however at length

succeeded, by tearing away a part of the back wall, where we fitted in a

door so exactly, and so nicely painted it, that it could not be

distinguished from the wall itself. This door was so constructed, that

on touching a spring, it would fly open, and when unrestrained, would

shut to with violence. Finding the apartment so eligible for our

purpose, and fearing that at some future time we might be disturbed

either by the owner of the building or some tenant, we cut similar doors

into every room of the house, so that on an emergency we could traverse

every apartment without access to the known doors. Trap-doors on a

similar construction, communicated with the cellar:--the table, which

you saw us sitting around, stood on one of those, which, on your abrupt

appearance, as soon as the candles were extinguished, was with its

contents, precipitated below, and we made our escape by those secret

doors, judging, that although you had seen us, if we could get off, you

would be unable to find out any thing which might lead to our discovery.

"A circumstance soon occurred, which tended to embarrass our plans, and

at first seemed to menace their overthrow. Our assembling at the mansion

was irregular, as occasion and circumstances required; often not more

than once a week, but sometimes more frequent, and always in the

night.--Late one night, as we were proceeding to the mansion, and had

arrived near it, suddenly one of the chamber windows was opened and a

light issued from within. We entered the house with caution, and soon

discovered that some person was in the chamber from whence we had seen

the light. We remained until all was silent, and then entered the

chamber by one of our secret doors, and to our inexpressible surprise,

beheld a beautiful young lady asleep on the only bed in the room. We

cautiously retired, and reconnoitering all parts of the mansion, found

that she was the only inhabitant except ourselves. The singularity of

her being there alone, is a circumstance we have never been able to

discover, but it gave us fair hopes of easily procuring her ejectment.

We then immediately withdrew, and made preparations to dispossess the

fair tenant of the premises to which we considered ourselves more

properly entitled, as possessing a prior incumbency.

"We did not effect the completion of our apparatus under three or four

days. As soon as we were prepared, we returned to the mansion. As we

approached the house, it appears the lady heard us, for again she

suddenly flung up a window and held out a candle: we skulked from the

light, but feared she had a glimpse of us.--After we had got into the

house we were still until we supposed her to be asleep, which we found

to be the case on going to her chamber.

"We then stationed one near her bed, who, by a loud rap on the floor

with a cane, appeared to arouse her in a fright. Loud noises were then

made below, and some of them ran heavily up the stairs which led to her

chamber; the person stationed in the room whispering near her bed--she

raised herself up, and he fled behind the curtains. Soon after she again

lay down; he approached nearer the bed with a design to lay his hand,

on which he had drawn a thin sheet-lead glove, across her face; but

discovering her arm on the out side of the bedclothes, he grasped

it--she screamed and sprang up in the bed; the man then left the room.

"As it was not our intention to injure the lady, but only to drive her

from the house, we concluded we had sufficiently alarmed her, and having

extinguished the lights, were about to depart, when we heard her

descending the stairs. She came down and examined the doors, when one of

our party, in a loud whisper, crying "_away! away_;" she darted up

stairs, and we left the house.

"We did not return the next night, in order to give her time to get off;

but the night after we again repaired to the mansion, expecting that she

had gone, but we were disappointed. As it was late when we arrived, she

was wrapped in sleep, and we found that more forcible measures must be

resorted to before we could remove her, and for such measures we were

amply prepared."

The stranger then unfolded the mysteries of that awful night, when

Melissa was so terrified by horrible appearances. One of the tallest and

most robust of the gang, was attired, as has been described, when he

appeared by her bed side. The white robe was an old sheet, stained in

some parts with a liquid red mixture; the wound in his breast was

artificial, and the blood issuing therefrom was only some of this

mixture, pressed from a small bladder, concealed under his robe. On his

head and face he wore a mask, with glass eyes----the mask was painted to

suit their purposes. The bloody dagger was of wood, and painted.

Thus accoutred, he took his stand near Melissa's bed, having first blown

out the candles she had left burning, and discharged a small pistol.

Perceiving this had awakened her, a train of powder was fired in the

adjoining room opposite the secret door, which was left open, in order

that the flash might illuminate her apartment; then several large cannon

balls were rolled through the rooms over her head, imitative of thunder.

The person in her room then uttered a horrible groan, and gliding along

by her bed, took his stand behind the curtains, near the foot. The

noises below, the cry of murder, the firing of the second pistol, and

the running up stairs, were all corresponding scenes to impress terror

on her imagination. The pretended ghost then advanced in front of her

bed, while lights were slowly introduced, which first shone faintly,

until they were ushered into the room by the private door, exhibiting

the person before her in all his horrific appearances. On her shrieking,

and shrinking into the bed, the lights were suddenly extinguished, and

the person, after commanding her to be gone in a hoarse voice, passed

again to the foot of the bed, shook it violently, and made a seeming

attempt to get upon it, when, perceiving her to be springing up, he fled

out of the room by the secret door, cautiously shut it, and joined his

companions.

The operators had not yet completed their farce, or rather, to Melissa,

tragedy. They had framed an image of paste-board, in human shape,

arrayed it in black, its eyes being formed of large pieces of what is

vulgarly called _fox-fire_,[A] made into the likeness of human eyes,

some material being placed in its mouth, around which was a piece of the

thinnest scarlet tiffany, in order to make it appear of a flame colour.

They had also constructed a large combustible ball, of several

thicknesses of paste-board, to which a match was placed. The image was

to be conveyed into her room, and placed, in the dark, before her

bed;--while in that position, the ball was to be rubbed over with

phosphorus, the match set on fire, and rolled across her chamber, and

when it burst, the image was to vanish, by being suddenly conveyed out

of the private door, which was to close the scene for that night. But as

Melissa had now arisen and lighted candles, the plan was defeated.

[Footnote A: A sort of decayed or rotten wood, which in the night

looks like coals of fire, of a bright whitish colour. It emits a

faint light.]

While they were consulting how to proceed, they heard her unlock her

chamber door, and slowly descend the stairs. Fearing a discovery, they

retired with their lights, and the person who had been in her chamber,

not having yet stripped off his ghostly habiliments, laid himself down

on one side of the hall. The man who had the image, crowded himself with

it under the stairs she was descending. On her dropping the candle, when

she turned to flee to her chamber, from the sight of the same object

which had appeared at her bed-side, the person under the stairs

presented the image at their foot, and at the same instant the

combustible ball was prepared, and rolled through the hall; and when on

its bursting she fainted, they began to grow alarmed; but on finding

that she recovered and regained her chamber, they departed, for that

time, from the house.

"Our scheme, continued the wounded man, had the desired effect. On

returning a few evenings after, we found the lady gone and the furniture

removed. Several attempts were afterwards made to occupy the house, but

we always succeeded in soon frightening the inhabitants away."

Edgar and Alonzo then requested their prisoner to show them the springs

of the secret doors, and how they were opened. The springs were sunk in

the wood, which being touched by entering a gimblet hole with a piece of

pointed steel, which each of the gang always had about him, the door

would fly open, and fasten again in shutting to. On opening the

trap-door over which the gang had sat when they first discovered them,

they found the table and chairs, with the decanters broken, and the

money, which they secured. In one part of the cellar they were shown a

kind of cave, its mouth covered with boards and earth--here the company

kept their furniture, and to this place would they have removed it, had

they not been so suddenly frightened away. The canoe they found secreted

in the bushes beyond the canal.

* * * * *

It was then agreed that the man should go before the proper authorities

in a neighbouring town, and there, as state's evidence, make affidavit

of what he had recited, and as complete a developement of the characters

concerned in the business as possible, when he was to be released. The

man enquired to what town they were to go, which, when they had informed

him, "Then, said he, it will be in my power to perform one deed of

justice before I leave the country, as leave it I must, immediately

after I have given in my testimony, or I shall be assassinated by some

of those who will be implicated in the transaction I have related."

He then informed them, that while he, with the gang, was prosecuting the

illicit trade, a British ship came and anchored in the Sound, which they

supplied with provisions, but that having at one time a considerable

quantity on hand, the ship sent its boat on shore, with an officer and

five men, to fetch it; the officer came with them on shore, leaving the

men in the boat: "As we were about to carry the provisions on board the

boat, continued the man, a party of Americans fired upon us, and wounded

the officer in the thigh, who fell: "I shall be made prisoner, said he,

taking out his purse; keep this, and if I live and regain my liberty,

perhaps you may have an opportunity of restoring it:--alarm the boat's

crew, and shift for yourselves." The boat was alarmed, returned to the

ship, and we saved ourselves by flight.

"This happened about four months ago; the ship soon after sailed for New

York, and the officer was imprisoned in the gaol of the town to which we

are to go; I can therefore restore him his purse."

The man farther informed them, that they had several times come near

being taken, and the last trip they were fired upon, and one of their

party killed.

They immediately set out for the aforesaid town, after having dismissed

their fifteen men; and when they arrived there, Alonzo and Edgar

accompanied their prisoner to the gaol. On making the proper enquiries,

they were conducted into a dark and dirty apartment of the gaol, where

were several prisoners in irons. The British officer was soon

distinguished among them by his regimentals. Though enveloped in filth

and dust, his countenance appeared familiar to Alonzo; and on a few

moments recollection, he recognized in the manacled officer, the

generous midshipman, Jack Brown, who had so disinterestedly relieved

him, when he escaped from the prison in London!

In the fervency of his feelings, Alonzo flew to him and clasped him in

his arms. "What do I behold! he cried. My friend, my brave deliverer,

in chains in my own country!"

"The fortune of war, boy! said Jack--it might have been worse. But my

lad, I am heartily glad to see you; how has it fared with you since you

left Old England?"--"We will talk of that by and by," said Alonzo.

There were then some American officers of distinction in town, with whom

Edgar was acquainted, to whom he applied for the relief of the noble

sailor;----and as there were several other British prisoners in gaol

it was agreed that a cartel should be immediately sent to New York to

exchange them. Alonzo had, therefore, the satisfaction to see the irons

knocked off of his liberal hearted benefactor, and his prison doors

opened.

The man they had taken at the mansion, returned him his purse,

containing only twenty-five guineas, of which Jack gave him ten. "There,

boy, said he, you have been honest, so I will divide with you."

They then repaired to an inn. Jack, whose wound was healed, was put

under the hands of a barber, cleaned, furnished with a change of

clothes, and soon appeared in a new attitude.

He informed Alonzo, that soon after he left England, his ship was

ordered for America: that the price of provisions growing high, it had

taken almost all his wages to support his family; that he had sent home

his last remittance just before he was taken, reserving only the

twenty-five guineas which had been restored him that day.--"But I have

never despaired, said he; the great Commodore of life orders all for the

best. My tour of duty is to serve my king and country, and provide for

my dear Poll and her chicks, which, if I faithfully perform, I shall

gain the applause of the Commander."

When the cartel was ready to depart, Alonzo, taking Jack apart from the

company, presented him with a draught of five hundred pounds sterling,

on a merchant in New York, who privately transacted business with the

Americans. "Take this, my friend, said he; you can ensure it by

converting it into bills of exchange on London. Though you once saw me

naked, I can now conveniently spare this sum, and it may assist you in

buffeting the billows of life."--The generous tar shed tears of

gratitude, and Alonzo enjoyed the pleasure of seeing him depart, calling

down blessings on the head of his reciprocal benefactor.

The man who came with Alonzo and Edgar from the mansion, then went

before the magistrates of the town, and gave his testimony and

affidavit, by which it appeared that several eminent characters of

Connecticut were concerned in this illicit trade. They then released

him, gave him the money they had found in the cellar at the mansion, and

he immediately left the town. Precepts were soon after issued for a

number of those traders; several were taken, among whom were some of the

gang, and others who were only concerned--but most of them absconded,

so that the company and their plans were broken up.

When Alonzo and Edgar returned home and related their adventure, they

were all surprised at the fortitude of Melissa in being enabled to

support her spirits in a solitary mansion, amidst such great, and so

many terrors.

It was now that Alonzo turned his attention to future prospects. It was

time to select a place for domestic residence. He consulted Melissa, and

she expressively mentioned the little secluded village, where

"Ere fate and fortune frown'd severe,"

they projected scenes of connubial bliss, and planned the structure of

their family edifice. This intimation accorded with the ardent wishes of

Alonzo. The site formerly marked out, with an adjoining farm, was

immediately purchased, and suitable buildings erected, to which Alonzo

and Melissa removed the ensuing summer.

The clergyman of the village having recently died in a _good old age_,

Edgar was called to the pastoral charge of this unsophisticated people.

Here did Melissa and Alonzo repose after the storms of adversity were

past. Here did they realize all the happiness which the sublunary hand

of time apportions to mortals. The varying seasons diversified their

joys, except when Alonzo was called with the militia of his country,

wherein he bore an eminent commission, to oppose the enemy; and this was

not unfrequent, as in his country's defence he took a very conspicuous

part. Then would anxiety, incertitude, and disconsolation possess the

bosom of Melissa, until dissipated by his safe return. But the happy

termination of the war soon removed all cause of these disquietudes.

Soon after the close of the war, Alonzo received a letter from his

friend, Jack Brown, dated at an interior parish in England,--in which,

after pouring forth abundance of gratitude, he informed, that on

returning to England he procured his discharge from the navy, sold his

house, and removed into the country, where he had set up an inn with the

sign of _The Grateful American_. "You have made us all happy, said he;

my dear Poll blubbered like a fresh water sailor in a hurricane, when I

told her of your goodness. My wife, my children, all hands upon deck are

yours. We have a good run of business, and are now under full sail, for

the land of prosperity."

Edgar married to one of the Miss Simpsons, whose father's seat was in

the vicinity of the village. The parents of Alonzo and Melissa were

their frequent visitors, as were also Vincent and his lady, with many

others of their acquaintance, who all rejoiced in their happy situation,

after such a diversity of troubles. Alfred was generally once a year

their guest, until at length he married and settled in the mercantile

business in Charleston, South Carolina.

To our hero and heroine, the rural charms of their secluded village were

a source of ever pleasing variety. Spring, with its verdured fields,

flowery meads, and vocal groves: its vernal gales, purling rills, and

its evening whippoorwill: summer, with its embowering shades, reflected

in the glassy lake, and the long, pensive, yet sprightly notes of the

solitary strawberry-bird;[A] its lightning and its thunder; autumn with

its mellow fruit, its yellow foliage and decaying verdure; winter, with

its hoarse, rough blasts, its icy beard and snowy mantle, all tended to

thrill with sensations of pleasing transition, the feeling bosoms of

_Alonzo and Melissa_.

[Footnote A: A bird which, in the New England states, makes its

first appearance about the time strawberries begin to ripen. Its

song is lengthy, and consists of a variety of notes, commencing

sprightly, but ending plaintive and melancholy.]

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