Chapter V: Part 5

When Alonzo called the next morning, he perceived an alarming alteration in Beauman. His extremities were cold, a chilling, clammy sweat stood upon his face, his respiration was short and interrupted, his pulse weak and intermitting. He took the hand of Alonzo, and feebly pressing it,--"I am dying, said he in a faint voice. If ever you return to America, inform my friends of my fate." This Alonzo readily engaged to do, and told him also that he would not leave him.

Beauman soon fell into a stupor; sensation became suspended; his eyes rolled up and fixed. Sometimes a partial revival would take place, when he would fall into incoherent muttering, calling on the names of his deceased father, his mother and Melissa; his voice dying away in imperfect moanings, till his lips continued to move without sound. Towards night he lay silent, and only continued to breathe with difficulty, till a slight convulsion gave the freed spirit to the unknown regions of immaterial existence. Alonzo followed his remains to the grave: a natural stone was placed at its head, on which Alonzo, unobserved, carved the initials of the deceased's name, with the date of his death, and left him to moulder with his native dust.

A few days after this event, Jack Brown informed Alonzo that he had procured the means of his escape. "A person with whom I am acquainted, said he, and whom I suppose to be a smuggler, has agreed to carry you to France. There, by application to the American minister, you will be enabled to get to your own country, if that is your object. About midnight I will pilot you on board, and by to-morrow's sun you may be in France."

At the time appointed, Jack set out bearing a large trunk on his shoulder, and directed Alonzo to follow him. They proceeded down to a quay, and went on board a small skiff. "Here, said Jack to the captain, is the gentleman I spoke to you about," and delivered him the trunk. Then taking Alonzo aside, "in that trunk, said he, are a few changes of linen, and here is something to help you till you can help yourself." So saying, he slipped ten guineas into his hand. Alonzo expressed his gratitude with tears. "Say nothing, said Jack, we were born to help each other in distress, and may Jack never weather a storm or splice a rope, if he permits a fellow creature to suffer with want while he has a luncheon on board." He then shook Alonzo by the hand, wishing him a good voyage, and went whistling away. The skiff soon sailed, and the next morning Alonzo was landed in France. Alonzo proceeded immediately to Paris, not with a view of returning to America; he had yet no relish for revisiting the land of his sorrows, the scenes where at every step his heart must bleed afresh, though to bleed it had never ceased. But he was friendless in a strange land: perhaps, through the aid of the American minister, Dr. Franklin, to whose fame Alonzo was no stranger, he might be placed in a situation to procure bread, which was all he at present hoped or wished.

He therefore presented himself before the doctor, whom he found in his study.--To be informed that he was an American and unfortunate, was sufficient to arouse the feelings of Franklin. He desired Alonzo to be seated, and to recite his history. This he readily complied with, not concealing his attachment to Melissa, her father's barbarity, her death in consequence, his own father's failure, with all the particulars of his leaving America, his capture, escape from prison, and arrival in France; as also the town of his nativity, the name of his father, and the particular circumstances of his family; concluding by expressing his unconquerable reluctance to return to his native country, which now would be to him only a gloomy wilderness, and that his present object was only some means of support.

The doctor enquired of Alonzo the particular circumstances and time of his father's failure. Of this Alonzo gave him a minute account. Franklin then sat in deep contemplation for the space of fifteen minutes, without speaking a word. He then took his pen, wrote a short note, directed it, and gave it to Alonzo: "Deliver this, said he, to the person to whom it is directed; he will find you employment, until something more favourable may offer."

Alonzo took the note, thanked the doctor, and went in search of the person to whom it was addressed. He soon found the house, which was situated in one of the most popular streets in Paris. He knocked at the door, which was opened by an elderly looking man: Alonzo enquired for the name to whom the note was addressed. The gentleman informed him that he was the man. Alonzo presented him the note, which having read, he desired him to walk in, and ordered supper. After supper he informed Alonzo that he was an English bookseller; that he should employ him as a clerk, and desired to know what wages he demanded. Alonzo replied that he should submit that to him, being unacquainted with the customary salary of clerks in that line of business. The gentleman told him that the matter should be arranged the next day. His name was Grafton.

The next morning Mr. Grafton took Alonzo into his bookstore, and gave him his instructions. His business was to sell the books to customers, and a list of prices was given him for that purpose. Mr. Grafton counted out twenty crowns and gave them to Alonzo: "You may want some necessaries, said he; and as you have set no price on your services, we shall not differ about the wages if you are attentive and faithful."

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

As he was walking out early one morning, he discovered something lying in the street, which he at first supposed to be a small piece of silk: he took it up and found it to be a curiously wrought purse, containing a few guineas with some small pieces of silver, and something at the bottom carefully wrapped in a piece of paper; he unfolded it, and was thunderstruck at beholding an elegant miniature of Melissa! Her sweetly pensive features, her expressive countenance, her soul-enlivening eye! The shock was almost too powerful for his senses. Wildered in a maze of wonders, he knew not what to conjecture. Melissa's miniature found in the streets of Paris, after she had some time been dead! He viewed it, he clasped it to his bosom.--"Such, said he, did she appear, ere the corroding cankers of grief had blighted her heavenly charms! By what providential miracle am I possessed of the likeness, when the original is no more? What benevolent angel has taken pity on my sufferings, and conveyed to me this inestimable prize?"

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.