While she lay thus ruminating in extreme agitation, momentarily expecting to have her ears assailed with some terrific sound, a pale light dimly illuminated her chamber. It grew brighter. She raised herself up to look towards the door;—the first object which met her eye, was a most horrible form, standing at a little distance from her bedside. Its appearance was tall and robust, wrapped in a tattered white robe, spotted with blood. The hair of its head was matted with clotted gore. A deep wound appeared to have pierced its breast, from which fresh blood flowed down its garment. Its pale face was gashed and gory! its eyes fixed, glazed, and glaring;—its lips open, its teeth set, and in its hand was a bloody dagger.
Melissa, uttering a shriek of terror, shrunk into the bed, and in an
instant the room was involved in pitchy darkness. A freezing ague
seized her limbs, and drops of chilling sweat stood upon her face.
Immediately a horrid hoarse voice burst from amidst the gloom of her
apartment, “Begone! begone from this house!” The bed on which she
lay then seemed to be agitated, and directly she perceived some person
crawling on to its foot.
Every consideration, except present safety, was relinquished; instantaneously she sprang
from the bed to the floor—with convulsed grasp, seized the candle, flew to the fire
and lighted it. She gazed wildly around the room—no new object was
visible. With timid step she approached the bed; she strictly searched
all around and under it, but nothing strange could be found.
A thought darted into her mind to leave the house immediately and
fly to John’s: this was easy, as the keys of the gate and draw-bridge
were in her possession. She stopped not to reconsider her determination,
but seizing the keys, with the candle in her hand, she unlocked her
chamber door, and proceeded cautiously down stairs, fearfully casting
her eyes on each side, as she tremblingly advanced to the outer door.
She hesitated a moment. To what perils was she about to expose herself,
by thus venturing out at the dead of the night, and proceeding such a distance alone?
Her situation she thought could become no more hazardous, and she was
about to unbar the door, when she was alarmed by a deep, hollow sigh. She looked around and
saw, stretched on one side of the hall, the same ghastly form which had
so recently appeared standing by her bedside. The same haggard countenance, the same awful
appearance of murderous death. A faintness came upon her; she
turned to flee to her chamber—the candle dropped from her
trembling hand, and she was shrouded in impenetrable darkness. She
groped to find the stairs: as she came near their foot, a black object, apparently in
human shape, stood before her, with eyes which seemed to burn like coals
of fire, and red flames issuing from its mouth. As she stood fixed a
moment in inexpressible trepidation,
a large ball of fire rolled along the hall, towards the door, and burst
with an explosion which seemed to rock the building to its deepest
foundation. Melissa closed her eyes and sunk senseless to the floor. She
revived and got to her chamber, she hardly knew how; locked her door,
lighted another candle, and after again searching the room, flung
herself into a chair, in a state of mind which almost deprived her of
reason.
Daylight soon appeared, and the cheerful sun darting its enlivening
rays through the crevices and windows of the antique mansion, recovered
her exhausted spirits, and dissipated, in some degree, the terrors which
hovered about her mind. She endeavoured to reason coolly on the events
of the past night, but reason could not elucidate them. Not the least
noise had been heard since she last returned to her chamber: she therefore expected to
discover no traits which might tend to a disclosure of those mysteries. She consoled
herself only with a fixed determination to leave the desolate mansion.
Should John come there that day, he might be prevailed on to permit her
to remain at her aunt’s apartment in his house until her aunt should
return. If he should not come before sunset, she resolved to leave the
mansion and proceed there.
She took some refreshment and went down stairs: she found the
doors and windows all fast as she had left them. She then again searched
every room in the house, both above and below, and the cellar; but she
discovered no appearance of there having been any person there. Not the
smallest article was displaced; every thing appeared as it had formerly
been.—She then went to the gate; it was locked as usual, and the
draw-bridge was up. She
again traversed the circuit of the wall, but found no alteration, or any
place where it was possible the enclosure might be entered. Again she
visited the outer
buildings, and even entered the cemetery, but discovered not the
least circumstance which could conduce to explain the surprising
transactions of the preceding night. She however returned to her room in
a more composed frame of spirit, confident that she should not remain
alone another night in that gloomy, desolate, and dangerous
solitude.
Towards evening Melissa took her usual walk around the enclosure. It was that season of
the year when weary summer is lapsing into the arms of fallow
autumn.—The day had been warm, and the light gales bore revigorating coolness on
their wings as they tremulously agitated the foliage of the western
forest, or fluttered among the
branches of the trees
surrounding the mansion. The green splendours of spring had begun to fade into a yellow
lustre, the flowery verdure of the fields was changed to a russet hue. A robin chirped on a
neighbouring oak, a wren chattered beneath, swallows twittered
around the decayed buildings, the ludicrous mocking bird sung sportively
from the top of the highest elm and the surrounding groves rung with
varying, artless melody; while deep
in the adjacent wilderness the woodcock, hammering on some dry and blasted trees, filled the woods with reverberant
echoes. The Sound was only ruffled by the lingering breezes, as they
idly wandered over its surface. Long Island, now in possession of the
British troops, was thinly enveloped in smoky vapour; scattered along
its shores lay the numerous small craft and larger ships of the hostile
fleet. A few skiffs were passing and repassing the Sound, and
several American gun-boats lay off a point which jutted out from the
main land, far to the eastward. Numberless summer insects mingled their
discordant strains amidst the weedy herbage. A heavy black cloud
was rising in the north west, which seemed to portend a shower, as the
sonorous, distant thunder was at long intervals distinctly heard.
Melissa walked around the yard, contemplating the varying beauties of
the scene: the images of departed joys—the days when Alonzo had
participated with her in admiring the splendours of rural prospects,
raised in her bosom the sigh of deep regret. She entered the garden and
traversed the alleys, now overgrown with weeds and tufted knot-grass.
The flower beds were choaked with the low running bramble and tangling five-finger; tall,
rank rushes, mullens and daisies, had usurped the empire of the kitchen
garden. The viny arbour was broken, and principally gone to decay; yet
the “lonely wild rose” blushed mournfully amidst the ruins. As she
passed from the garden she involuntarily stopped at the cemetery: she
paused in serious reflection:—“Here, said she, in this house of
gloom rest, in
undisturbed silence, my honourable ancestors, once the active tenants of
yonder mansion. Then, throughout these now solitary demesnes, the busy occurrences of life
glided in cheerful circles. Then, these now moss-clad alleys, and this
wild weedy garden, were the resort of the fashionable and the gay. Then,
evening music floated over the fields, while yonder halls and apartments
shone in brilliant
illumination. Now all is sad, solitary and dreary, the haunt of spirits and spectres of
nameless terror. All
that now remains of the head that formed, and the hand that executed, and the bosom that
relished this once happy scenery, is now, alas, only a heap of
dust.”
She seated herself on a little hillock, under a weeping willow, which
stood near the cemetery, and watched the rising shower, which slowly ascended in gloomy pomp, half
hidden behind the western groves, shrouding the low sun in black vapour,
while coming thunders more nearly and more awfully rolled. The shrieking
night hawk*
*
Supposed to be the male whippoorwill; well known in the New-England
states, and answering to the above peculiarity.
soared high into the air, mingling with the lurid van of the approaching storm, which
widening, more
rapidly advanced, until “the heavens were arrayed in blackness.”
The lightning more
broader and brighter flashes, hurling down its forky streaming bolts far in the wilderness, its flaming
path followed by the vollying artillery of the skies. Now bending its
long, crinkling spires over the vallies, now glimmering along the summit
of the hills. Convolving clouds poured smoky volumes through the expansion;
a deep, hollow, distant roar, announced the approach of “summoned
winds.” The whole forest bowed in awful grandeur, as from its dark bosom
rushed the impetuous hurricane, twisting off, or tearing up
by the roots, the stoutest trees, whirling the heaviest branches through
the air with irresistible fury. It dashed upon the sea, tossed it into
irregular mountains, or mingled its white foamy spray with the gloom of
the turbid skies. Slant-wise, the large heavy drops of rain began to
descend. Melissa hastened to the mansion; as she reached the door a very
brilliant flash of lightning, accompanied by a tremendous explosion,
alarmed her. A thunder bolt had entered a large elm tree within the
enclosure, and with a
horrible crash, had shivered it from top to bottom. She unlocked the
door and hurried to her chamber. Deep night now filled the atmosphere;
the rain poured in torrents, the wind rocked the building, and bellowed
in the adjacent groves: the sea raged and roared, fierce lightnings rent
the heavens, alternately involving the world in the sheeted flame of its
many coloured fires; thunders rolled awfully around the firmament, or
burst with horrid din, bounding and reverberating among the surrounding
woods, hills and vallies. It seemed nothing less than the crash of worlds sounding
through the universe.
Melissa walked her room, listening to the wild commotion of the
elements. She feared that if the storm continued, she should
be compelled to pass another night in the lone mansion: if so, she resolved not to go to
bed. She now suddenly recollected that in her haste to regain her
chamber, she had forgotten to lock the outer door. The shock she had
received when the lightning demolished the elm tree, was the cause of
this neglect. She took the candle, ran hastily down, and fastened the
door. As she was returning, she heard footsteps, and imperfectly saw the
glance of something coming out of an adjoining room into the hall.
Supposing some ghastly object was approaching, she averted her eyes and
flew to the stairs. As she was ascending them, a voice behind her exclaimed, “Gracious
heaven! Melissa!” The voice agitated her frame with a confused,
sympathetic sensation. She turned, fixed her eyes upon the person who
had spoken; unconnected ideas floated a moment in her imagination:
“Eternal powers! she cried, it is Alonzo.”
Alonzo and Melissa were equally surprised at so unexpected a meeting. They could scarcely credit their own senses.—How he had discovered her solitude—what led him to that lonely place—how he had got over the wall—were queries which first arose in her mind. He likewise could not conceive by what miracle he should find her in a remote, desolate building, which he had supposed to be uninhabited. With rapture he took her trembling hand; tears of joy choaked their utterance. “You are wet, Alonzo, said Melissa at length; we will go up to my chamber; I have a fire there, where you can dry your clothes.”—“Your chamber; replied Alonzo; who then inhabits this house?” “No one except myself, Alonzo, she answered; I am here alone, Alonzo.” “Alone! he exclaimed—here alone, Melissa! Good God! tell me how—why—by what means are you here alone?” “Let us go up to my chamber, she replied, and I will tell you all.”
He followed her up to her apartment and seated himself by the fire. “You want refreshment,” said Melissa—which was indeed the case, as he had been long without any, and was wet, hungry and weary.
She immediately set about preparing tea and soon had it ready, and a comfortable repast was spread for his entertainment.—And now, reader, if thou art a child of nature, if thy bosom is susceptible of refined sensibility, contemplate for a moment, Melissa and Alonzo seated at the same table, a table prepared by her own hand, in a lonely mansion, separated from society, and no one present to interrupt them. After innumerable difficulties, troubles and perplexities; after vexing embarrassments, and a cruel separation, they were once more together, and for some time every other consideration was lost. The violence of the storm had not abated. The lightning still blazed, the thunder bellowed, the wind roared, the sea raged, the rain poured, mingled with heavy hail: Alonzo and Melissa heard a little of it. She told him all that had happened to her since they parted, except the strange noises and awful sights which had terrified her during her confinement in that solitary building: this she considered unnecessary and untimely, in her present situation.
Alonzo informed her, that as soon as he had learned the manner in which she had been sent away, he left the house of Vincent and went to her father’s to see if he could not find out by some of the domestics what course her aunt and she had taken. None of them knew any thing about it. He did not put himself in the way of her father, as he was apprehensive of ill treatment thereby. He then went to several places among the relatives of the family where he had heretofore visited with Melissa, most of whom received him with a cautious coldness. At length he came to the house of Mr. Simpson, the gentleman to whose seat Alonzo was once driven by a shower, where he accidentally found Melissa on a visit, as mentioned before*. * See page 26. Here he was admitted with the ardour of friendship. They had heard his story: Melissa had kept up a correspondence with one of the young ladies; they were therefore informed of all, except Melissa’s removal from her father’s house: of this they knew nothing until told thereof by Alonzo.
“I am surprised at the conduct of my kinsman, said Mr. Simpson; for
though his determinations are, like the laws of the Medes and Persians,
unalterable, yet I have ever believed that the welfare of his children
lay nearest his heart. In the present instance he is certainly pursuing
a mistaken policy. I will go and see him.” He then ordered his
horse, desiring Alonzo to remain at his house until he returned.
Alonzo was treated with the most friendly politeness by the family; he found that they were deeply interested in his favour and in the welfare of Melissa. At evening Mr. Simpson returned. “It is in vain, said he, to reason with my kinsman; he is determined that his daughter shall marry your rival. He will not even inform me to what place he has sent Melissa. Her aunt however is with her, and they must be at the residence of some of the family relatives.—I will dispatch my son William among our connections, to see if he can find her out.”
The next morning William departed, and was gone two days; but could not obtain the least intelligence either of Melissa or her aunt, although he had been the rounds among the relations of the family.
“There is some mystery in this affair, said Mr. Simpson. I am very little acquainted with Melissa’s aunt. I have understood that she draws a decent support from her patrimonial resources, which, it is said, are pretty large, and that she resides alternately with her different relatives. I have understood also that my kinsman expects her fortune to come into his family, in case she never marries, which, in all probability, she now will not, and that she, in consequence, holds considerable influence over him. It is not possible but that Melissa is yet concealed at some place of her aunt’s residence, and that the family are in the secret. I think it cannot be long before they will disclose themselves: You, Alonzo, are welcome to make my house your home; and if Melissa can be found, she shall be treated as my daughter.”
Alonzo thanked him for his friendship and fatherly kindness. “I must continue, said he, my researches for Melissa; the result you shall know.”
He then departed, and travelled through the neighbouring villages and
adjoining
neighbourhoods, making, at almost every house, such enquiries as he
considered necessary on the occasion. He at length arrived at the inn in
the last little village where Melissa and her aunt had stopped the day
they came to the mansion. Here the inn-keeper informed him that two
ladies, answering his description, had been at his house: he named the
time, which was the day in which Melissa, with her aunt, left her
father’s house. The inn-keeper told him that they purchased some
articles in the village, and drove off to the south. Alonzo then
traversed the country adjoining the Sound, far to the westward, and was returning eastward, when
he was overtaken by the shower. No house being within sight, he betook himself to the forest
for shelter. From a little hilly glade in the wilderness, he discovered
the lonely mansion which, from its appearance, he very naturally
supposed to be uninhabited.—The tempest soon becoming severe, he
thought he would endeavour to reach the house.
When he arrived at the moat, he found it impossible to cross it, or
ascend the wall; and he stood in momentary jeopardy of his life, from
the falling timber, some of which was broken and torn up by the tornado,
and some splintered by
the fiery bolts of heaven.
At length a large, tall
tree, which stood near him, on the verge of the moat, or rather in that
place, river, was hurled
from its foundation, and fell, with a hideous crash, across the moat,
its top lodging on the wall. He scrambled up on the trunk, and made his
way on to the wall. By
the incessant glare of lightning he was able to see distinctly. The top
of the tree was partly broken by the force of its fall, and hung down
the other side of the wall. By these branches he let himself down into
the yard, proceeded to the house, found the door open, which Melissa had
left so in her fright,
and entered into one of the rooms, where he proposed to stay until at
least the shower was over, still supposing the house unoccupied, until
the noise of locking the door, and the light of the candle, drew him
from the room, when, to his infinite surprise, he discovered Melissa, as
before related.
Melissa listened to Alonzo with varied emotion. The fixed obduracy of her father, the generous conduct of the Simpsons, the constancy of Alonzo, filled her heart with inexpressible sensations. She foresaw that her sufferings were not shortly to end—she knew not when her sorrows were to close.
Alonzo was shocked at the alteration which appeared in the features of Melissa. The rose had faded from her cheek, except when it was transiently suffused with a hectic flush. A livid paleness sat upon her countenance, and her fine form was rapidly wasting. It was easy to be foreseen that the grief which preyed upon her heart would soon destroy her, unless speedily allayed.
The storm had now passed into the regions of the east; the wind and rain had ceased, the lightning more unfrequently flashed, and the thunder rolled at a distance. The hours passed hastily;—day would soon appear. Hitherto they had been absorbed in the present moment; it was time to think of the future. After the troubles they had experienced; after so fortunate a meeting, they could not endure the idea of another and an immediate separation. And yet immediately separated they must be. It would not be safe for Alonzo to stay there even until the rising sun, unless he was concealed; and of what use could it be for him to remain there in concealment?
In this dilemma there was but one expedient. “Suffer me, said Alonzo to Melissa, to remove you from this solitary confinement. Your health is impaired. To you, your father is no more a father; he has steeled his bosom to paternal affection; he has banished you from his house, placed you under the tyranny of others, and confined you in a lonely, desolate dwelling, far from the sweets of society; and this only because you cannot heedlessly renounce a most solemn contract, formed under his eye, and sanctioned by his immediate consent and approbation. Pardon me, Melissa, I would not wish unjustly to censure your father; but permit me to say, that after such treatment, you are absolved from implicit obedience to his rigorous, cruel, and stern commands.—It will therefore be considered a duty you owe to your preservation, if you suffer me to remove you from the tyrannical severity with which you are oppressed.”
Melissa sighed, wiping a tear which fell from her eye. “Unqualified obedience to my parents, said she, I have ever considered the first of duties, and have religiously practised thereon——but where, Alonzo, would you remove me?” “To any place you shall appoint,” he answered. “I have no where to go,” she replied.
“If you will allow me to name the place, said he, I will mention Mr. Simpson’s. He will espouse your cause and be a father to you, and, if conciliation is possible, will reconcile you to your father. This can be done without my being known to have any agency in the business. It can seem as if Mr. Simpson had found you out. He will go any just lengths to serve us. It was his desire, if you could be found, to have you brought to his house. There you can remain either in secret or openly, as you shall choose. Be governed by me in this, Melissa, and in all things I will obey you thereafter. I will then submit to the future events of fate; but I cannot Melissa—I cannot leave you in this doleful place.”
Melissa arose and walked the room in extreme agitation. What could
she do? She had, indeed, determined to leave the house, for reasons
which Alonzo knew nothing of. But should she leave it in the way she had proposed, she was not
sure but she would be immediately remanded back, more strictly guarded,
and more severely treated. To continue there, under existing
circumstances, would be impossible, and long to exist. She therefore came to a
determination—“I will go, she said, to Mr. Simpson’s.”
It was then agreed that Alonzo should proceed to Vincent’s, interest them in the plan, procure a carriage, and return at eleven o’clock the next night. Melissa was to have the draw-bridge down, and the gate open. If John should come to the house the succeeding day, she would persuade him to let her still keep the keys. But it was possible her aunt might return. This would render the execution of the scheme more hazardous and difficult. A signal was therefore agreed on; if her aunt should be there, a candle was to be placed at the window fronting the gate, in the room above; if not, it was to be placed against a similar window in the room below. In the first case Alonzo was to rap loudly at the door. Melissa was to run down, under pretence of seeing who was there, fly with Alonzo to the carriage, and leave her aunt to scrape acquaintance with the ghosts and goblins of the old mansion. For even if her aunt should return, which was extremely doubtful, she thought she could contrive to let down the bridge and unlock the gate in the evening without her knowledge. At any rate she was determined not to let the keys go out of her hands, unless they were forced from her, until she had escaped from that horrid and dreary place.
Daylight began to break from the east, and Alonzo prepared to depart. Melissa accompanied him to the gate and the bridge, which was let down: he passed over, and she slowly withdrew, both frequently turning to look back. When she came to the gate, she stopped;—Alonzo stopped also. She waved a white handkerchief she had in her hand, and Alonzo bowed in answer to the sign. She then leisurely entered and slowly shut the gate.—Alonzo could not forbear climbing up into a tree to catch another glimpse of her as she passed up the avenue. With lingering step he saw her move along, soon receding from his view in the gray twilight of misty morning. He then descended, and hastily proceeded on his journey.
Traits of glory now painted the eastern skies. The glittering
day-star, having unbarred the portals of light, began to transmit its
retrocessive lustre. Thin scuds flew swiftly over the moon’s decrescent
form. Low, hollow winds, murmured among the bushes, or brushed the
limpid drops from intermingling foliage. The fire-fly*
*
The American lampyris,
vulgarly called the lightning-bug.
sunk, feebly twinkling, amidst the herbage of the fields. The dusky shadows of
night fled to the deep glens, and rocky caverns of the wilderness. The
American lark soared high in the air, consecrating its matin lay to
morn’s approaching splendours. The woodlands began to ring with native
melody—the forest tops, on high mountains, caught the sun’s first
ray, which, widening and extending, soon gem’d the landscape with
brilliants of a thousand various dies.
As Alonzo came out of the fields near the road, he saw two persons passing in an open chair. They suddenly stopped, earnestly gazing at him. They were wrapped in long riding cloaks, and it could not be distinguished from their dress whether they were men or women. He stood not to notice them, but made the best of his way to Vincent’s, where he arrived about noon.—Rejoiced to find that he had discovered Melissa, they applauded the plan of her removal, and assisted him in obtaining a carriage. A sedan was procured, and he set out to return, promising to see Vincent again, as soon as he had removed Melissa to Mr. Simpson’s. He made such use of his time as to arrive at the mansion at the hour appointed. He found the draw-bridge down, the gate open, and saw, as had been agreed upon, the light at the lower window, glimmering through the branches of trees. He was therefore assured that Melissa was alone. His heart beat; a joyful tremor seized his frame; Melissa was soon to be under his care, for a short time at least.—He drove up to the house, sprang out of the carriage, and fastened his horse to a locust tree: The door was open; he went in, flew lightly up stairs, entered her chamber—Melissa was not there! A small fire was blazing on the hearth, and a candle was burning on the table. He stood petrified with amazement, then gazed around in anxious solicitude. What could have become of her? It was impossible, he tho’t, but that she must still be there.
Had she been removed by fraud or force, the signal candle would not
have been at the window. Perhaps, in a freakish moment, she had
concealed herself for no other purpose than to cause him a little
perplexity. He therefore took the candle and searched every corner of
the chamber, and every room of the house, not even missing the garret
and the cellar. He then placed the candle in a lantern, and went out and examined the
out-houses: he next went round the garden and the yard, strictly
exploring and investigating every place; but he found her not. He
repeatedly and loudly called her by name; he was answered only by the
solitary echoes of the wilderness.
Again he returned to the house, traversed the rooms, there also
calling on the name of Melissa: his voice reverberated from the walls,
dying away in solemn murmurs in the distant empty apartments. Thus did
he continue his anxious scrutiny, alternately in the house and
the enclosure, until day—but no traces could be discovered,
nothing seen or heard of Melissa. What had become of her he could not
form the most distant conjecture. Nothing was removed from the house;
the beds, the chairs, the table, all the furniture remained in the
same condition as when he was there the night before;—the candle,
as had been agreed upon, was at the window, and another was burning on the table:—it
was therefore evident that she could not have been long gone when he
arrived. By what means she had thus suddenly disappeared, was a most deep and
inscrutable mystery.
When the sun had arisen, he once more repeated his inquisitive search, but with the same effect. He then, in extreme vexation and disappointment, flung himself into the sedan, and drove from the mansion. Frequently did he look back at the building, anxiously did he scrutinize every surrounding and receding object. A thrill of pensive recollection vibrated through his frame as he passed the gate, and the keen agonizing pangs of blasted hope, pierced his heart, as his carriage rolled over the bridge.
Once more he cast a “longing, lingering look” upon the premises behind, sacred only for the treasure they lately possessed; then sunk backward in his seat, and was dragged slowly away.
Alonzo had understood from Melissa, that John’s hut was situated about one mile north
from the mansion where she had been confined. When he came out near the road, he left his horse
and carriage, after securing them, and went in search of it.—He
soon discovered it, and knew it from the description given thereof by
Melissa.—He went up and knocked at the door, which was opened by
John, whom Alonzo also knew, from the portrait Melissa had drawn of
him.
John started in amazement. “Understanding, said Alonzo, that you have the charge of the old mansion in yonder field, I have come to know if you can inform me what has become of the young lady who has been confined there.”
“Confined! answered John, I did not know she was confined.”
Recollecting himself, “I mean the young lady who has lately resided there with her aunt,” replied Alonzo.
“She was there last night, answered John; her aunt is gone into the country and has not returned.”
Alonzo then told him the situation of the mansion, and that she was not there. John informed him that she was there about sunset, and according to her request he had left the keys of the gate and bridge with her: he desired Alonzo to tarry there until he ran to the mansion.
He returned in about
half an hour. “She is gone, sure enough, said John; but how, or where,
it is impossible for me to guess.”—Convinced that he knew nothing
of the
matter, Alonzo left him and returned to Vincent’s.
Vincent and his lady were much surprised at Alonzo’s account of Melissa’s sudden disappearance, and they wished to ascertain whether her father’s family knew any thing of the circumstance. Social intercourse had become suspended between the families of Vincent and Melissa’s father, as the latter had taxed the former of improperly endeavouring to promote the views of Alonzo. They therefore procured a neighbouring woman to visit Melissa’s mother, to see if any information could be obtained concerning Melissa; but the old lady had heard nothing of her since her departure with her aunt, who had never yet returned.—Alonzo left Vincent’s and went to Mr. Simpson’s. He told them all that had happened since he was there, of which, before, they had heard nothing. At the houses of Mr. Simpson and Vincent he resided some time, while they made the most dilligent search to discover Melissa; but nothing could be learned of her fate.
Alonzo then travelled into the various parts of the country, making such enquiries as caution dictated of all whom he thought likely to give him information;—but he found none who could give him the least intelligence of his lost Melissa.
In the course of his wanderings he passed near the old mansion house where Melissa had been confined. He felt an inclination once more to visit it: he proceeded over the bridge, which was down, but he found the gate locked. He therefore hurried back and went to John’s, whom he found at home. On enquiring of John whether he had yet heard any thing of the young lady and her aunt; “All I know of the matter, said John, is, that two days after you were here, her aunt came back with a strange gentleman, and ordered me to go and fetch the furniture away from the room they had occupied in the old mansion. I asked her what had become of young madam. She told me that young madam had behaved very indiscreetly, and she found fault with me for leaving the keys in her possession, though I did not know that any harm could arise from it. From the discourse which my wife and I afterwards overheard between madam and the strange gentleman, I understood that young madam had been sent to reside with some friend or relation at a great distance, because her father wanted her to marry a man, and she wishes to marry somebody else.” From John’s plain and simple narrative, Alonzo concluded that Melissa had been removed by her father’s order, or through the agency, or instigation of her aunt. Whether his visit to the old mansion had been somehow discovered or suspected, or whether she was removed by some preconcerted or antecedent plan, he could not conjecture.—Still, the situation in which he found the mansion the night he went to convey her away, left an inexplicable impression on his mind. He could in no manner account how the candle could be placed at the window according to agreement, unless it had been done by herself; and if so, how had she so suddenly been conveyed away?
Alonzo asked John where Melissa’s aunt now was.
“She left here yesterday morning, he answered, with the strange gentleman I mentioned, on a visit to some of her friends.”
“Was the strange gentleman you speak of her brother?” asked Alonzo.
“I believe not, replied John, smiling and winking to his wife;—I know not who he was; somebody that madam seems to like pretty well.”
“Have you the care of the old mansion?” said Alonzo.
“Yes, answered John, I have the keys; I will accompany you thither, perhaps you would like to purchase it; madam said yesterday she thought she should sell it.”
Alonzo told him he had no thoughts of purchasing, thanked him for his information, and departed.
Convinced now that Melissa was removed by the agency of her persecutors, he compared the circumstances of John’s relation. “She had been sent to reside with some friend or relation at a great distance.” This great distance, he believed to be New London, and her friend or relation, her cousin, at whose house Alonzo first saw her, under whose care she would be safe, and Beauman would have an opportunity of renewing his addresses. Under these impressions, Alonzo did not long hesitate what course to pursue—he determined to repair to New London immediately.
In pursuance of his design he went to his father’s. He found the old
gentleman with his man contentedly tilling his farm, and his mother
cheerfully attending to household affairs, as their narrow circumstances
would not admit her to keep a maid without embarrassment. Alonzo’s soul
sickened on comparing the present state of his family with its former
affluence; but it was an unspeakable consolation to see his aged parents
contented and happy in their humble situation; and though the idea could
not pluck the thorn from his own bosom, yet it tended temporarily to assuage the anguish
of the wound.
“You have been long gone, my son, said his father; I scarcely knew what had become of you. Since I have become a farmer I know but little of what is going forward in the world; and indeed we were never happier in our lives. After stocking and paying for my farm, and purchasing the requisites for my business, I have got considerable money at my command: we live frugally, and realize the blessings of health, comfort, and contentment. Our only disquietude is on your account, Alonzo. Your affair with Melissa, I suppose, is not so favourable as you could wish. But despair not, my son; hope is the harbinger of fairer prospects: rely on Providence, which never deserts those who submissively bow to the justice of its dispensations.”
Unwilling to disturb the serenity of his parents, Alonzo did not tell them his troubles. He answered, that perhaps all might yet come to right; but that, as in the present state of his mind he thought a change of situation might be of advantage, he asked liberty of his father to travel for some little time. To this his father consented, and offered him a part of the money he had on hand, which Alonzo refused, saying he did not expect to be long gone, and his resources had not yet failed him.
He then sold off his books, his horses, his carriages, &c. the insignia of his better days, but now useless appendages, from which he raised no inconsiderable sum.—He then took a tender and affectionate leave of his parents, and set out for New London.
Alonzo journeyed along with a heavy heart and in an enfeebled frame of spirits. Through disappointment, vexation, and the fatigues he had undergone in wandering about, for a long time, in search of Melissa, despondency had seized upon his mind, and indisposition upon his body. He put up the first night within a few miles of New Haven, and as he passed through that town the next morning, the scenes of early life in which he had there been an actor, moved in melancholy succession over his mind. That day he grew more indisposed; he experienced an unusual languor, listlessness and debility; chills, followed by hot flashes, heavy pains in the head and back, with incessant and intolerable thirst. It was near night when he reached Killingsworth, where he halted, as he felt unable to go farther: he called for a bed, and through the night was racked with severe pain, and scorched with a burning fever.
The next morning he requested that the physician of the town might be sent for;—he came and ordered a prescription which gave his patient some relief; and by strict attention, in about ten days Alonzo was able to pursue his journey. He arrived at New London, and took lodgings with a private family of the name of Wyllis, in a retired part of the town.
The first object was to ascertain whether Melissa was at her cousin’s. But how should he obtain this information? He knew no person in the town except it was those whom he had reason to suppose were leagued against him. Should he go to the house of her cousin, it might prove an injury to her if she were there, and could answer no valuable purpose if she were not.—The evening after he arrived there he wrapped himself up in his cloak and took the street which led to the house of Melissa’s cousin: he stopped when he came against it, to see if he could make any discoveries. As people were passing and repassing the street, he got over into a small enclosure which adjoined the house, and stood under a tree, about thirty yards from the house: he had not long occupied this station, before a lady came to the chamber window, which was flung up, opposite to the place where he stood; she leaned out, looked earnestly around for a few minutes, then shut it and retired. She had brought a candle into the room, but did not bring it to the window; of course he could not distinguish her features so as to identify them.
He knew it was not the wife of Melissa’s cousin, and from her
appearance he believed it to be Melissa. Again the window opened, again
the same lady appeared;—she took a seat at a little distance
within the room; she reclined with her head upon her hand, and her arm appeared to be
supported by a stand or table. Alonzo’s heart beat violently; he now had a side view of her
face, and was more than
ever convinced that it was Melissa. Her delicate features, though more
pale and dejected than when last he saw her;—her brown hair, which
fell in artless circles around her lily neck; her arched eye-brows and
commanding aspect. Alonzo moved towards the house, with a design, if
possible, to draw her attention, and should it really prove to be
Melissa, to discover himself. He had proceeded but a few steps before
she arose, shut the window, retired, and the light disappeared. Alonzo
waited a considerable time, but she appeared no more. Supposing she had
retired for the night, he slowly withdrew, chagrined at this disappointment, yet pleased
at the discovery he had made.
The family with whom Alonzo had taken lodgings were fashionable and respectable. The following afternoon they had appointed to visit a friend, and they invited Alonzo to accompany them. When they named the family where their visit was intended, he found it to be Melissa’s cousin. Alonzo therefore declined going under pretence of business. He however waited with anxiety for their return, hoping he should be able to learn by their conversation, whether Melissa was there or not.—When they returned he made some enquiries concerning the families in town, until the conversation turned upon the family they had visited. “The young lady who resides there, said Mrs. Wyllis, is undoubtedly in a confirmed decline; she will never recover.”
Alonzo started, deeply agitated. “Who is the young lady?” he asked. “She is sister to the gentleman’s wife where we visited, answered Mr. Wyllis;—her father lives in Newport, and she has come here for her health.” “Do you not think, said Mrs. Wyllis, that she resembles their cousin Melissa, who resided there some time ago?” “Very much indeed, replied her husband, only she is not quite so handsome.”
Again was Alonzo disappointed, and again did he experience a melancholy pleasure: he had the last night hoped that he had discovered Melissa; but to find her in a hopeless decline, was worse than that she should remain undiscovered.
“It is reported, said Mrs. Wyllis, that Melissa has been upon the verge of matrimony, but that the treaty was somehow broken off; perhaps Beauman will renew his addresses again, should this be the case.” “Beauman has other business besides addressing the ladies, answered Mr. Wyllis. He has marched to the lines near New-York with his new raised company of volunteers.”*
* New-York was then in possession of the British troops.
From this discourse, Alonzo was convinced that Melissa was not the person he had seen at her cousin’s the preceding evening, and that she was not there. He also found that Beauman was not in town. Where to search next, or what course to pursue, he was at a loss to determine upon.
The next morning he rose early and wandered about the town. As he
passed by the house of Melissa’s cousin, he saw the lady, who had
appeared at the window, walking in the garden. Her air, her figure, had
very much the appearance of Melissa; but the lineaments of her
countenance were, when viewed by the light of day, widely dissimilar.
Alonzo felt no strong
curiosity farther to examine her features, but passing on, returned to
his lodgings.
How he was now to proceed, Alonzo could not readily decide. To return
to his native place, appeared to be as useless as to tarry where he was.
For many weeks had
he travelled and searched every place where he thought it probable
Melissa might be found, both among her relatives and elsewhere. He had made every effort to obtain some
clue to her removal from the old mansion, but he could learn nothing but
what he had been told by John. If his friends should ever hear of her,
they could not inform him thereof, as no one knew where he was. Would it
not, therefore, be best for him to return back, and consult with his
friends, and if nothing had been heard of her, pursue some other mode of
enquiry? He might, at least, leave directions where his friends might
write to him, in case they should have any thing whereof to apprise
him.
An incident tended to confirm this resolution. He one night dreamed that he was sitting in a strange house, contemplating on his present situation, when Melissa suddenly entered the room. Her appearance was more pale, sickly and dejected, than when he last saw her. Her elegant form had wasted away, her eyes were sunk, her cheeks fallen, her lips livid. He fancied it to be night, she held a candle in her hand, smiling languidly upon him;—she turned and went out of the room, beckoning him to follow: he thought he immediately arose and followed her. She glided through several winding rooms, and at length he lost sight of her, and the light gradually fading away, he was involved in deep darkness.—He groped along, and at length saw a faint distant glimmer, the course of which he pursued, until he came into a large room, hung with black tapestry, and illuminated by a number of bright tapers. On one side of the room appeared a hearse, on which some person was laid: he went up to it—the first object that arrested his attention was the lovely form of Melissa, shrouded in the sable vestments of death! Cold and lifeless, she lay stretched upon the hearse, beautiful even in dissolution; the dying smile of complacency had not yet deserted her cheek. The music of her voice had ceased; her fine eyes had closed for ever. Insensible to objects in which she once delighted; to afflictions which had blasted her blooming prospects, and drained the streams of life, she lay like blossomed trees of spring, overthrown by rude and boisterous winds. The deep groans which convulsed the distracted bosom, and shocked the trembling frame of Alonzo, broke the delusive charm: he awoke, rejoiced to find it but a dream, though it impressed his mind with doleful and portentous forebodings.
It was a long time before he could again close his eyes to sleep; he at length fell into a slumber, and again he dreamed. He fancied himself with Melissa, at the house of her father, who had consented to their union, and that the marriage ceremony between them was there performed. He thought that Melissa appeared as she had done in her most fortunate and sprightly days, before the darts of adversity, and the thorns of affliction, had wounded her heart. Her father seemed to be divested of all his awful sternness, and gave her to Alonzo with cheerful freedom. He awoke, and the horrors of his former dream were dissipated by the happy influences of the last.
“Who knows, he said, but that this may finally be the case; but that
the sun of peace may yet dispel the glooms of these distressful hours!” He arose,
determined to return home in a few days. He went out and enjoyed his
morning walk in a more composed frame of spirits than he had for some
time experienced. He returned, and as he was entering the door he saw
the weekly newspaper of the town, which had been published that morning,
and which the carrier had just flung into the hall.——The family had not yet arisen. He took up
the
paper, and carried it to
his chamber, and opened it to read the news of the day. He ran his eye
hastily over it, and was about to lay it aside, when the death list arrested his
attention, by a display of broad black lines. The first article he read
therein was as follows:
“Died, of a consumption, on the 26th ult. at the seat of her uncle, Col. W. D—, near Charleston, South Carolina, whither she had repaired for her health, Miss Melissa D——, the amiable daughter of J—— D——, Esq. of *******, Connecticut, in the eighteenth year of her age.”
The paper fell from the palsied hand—a sudden faintness came upon him—the room grew dark—he staggered, and fell senseless upon the floor.
For variations on the death notice, see end of e-text.
The incidents of our story will here produce a pause.——The fanciful part of our readers may be ready to cast it aside in chagrin and disappointment. “Such an event,” may they say, “we were not prepared to expect.—After so many, and such various trials of heart; after innumerable difficulties surmounted; almost invincible objects overcome, and insuperable barriers removed—after attending the hero and heroine of your tale through the diversified scenes of anxiety, suspense, hope, disappointment, expectation, joy, sorrow, anticipated bliss, sudden and disastrous woe——after elevating them to the threshold of happiness, by the premature death of one, to plunge the other, instantaneously, in deep and irretrievable despair, must not, cannot be right.—Your story will hereafter become languid and spiritless; the subject will be uninteresting, the theme unengaging, since the genius which animated and enlivened it is gone for ever.”
Reader of sensibility, stop. Are we not detailing facts? Shall we gloss them over with false colouring? Shall we describe things as they are, or as they are not? Shall we draw with the pencil of nature, or of art? Do we indeed paint life as it is, or as it is not? Cast thine eyes, reader, over the ephemeral circle of passing and fortuitous events; view the change of contingencies; mark well the varied and shifting scenery in the great drama of time;—seriously contemplate nature in her operations; minutely examine the entrance, the action, and the exit of characters on the stage of existence—then say, if disappointment, distress, misery and calamitous woe, are not the inalienable portion of the susceptible bosom. Say, if the possession of refined feeling is enviable——the lot of Nature’s children covetable—whether to such, through life, the sprinklings of comfort are sufficient to give a zest to the bitter banquets of adversity—whether, indeed, sorrow, sighing, and tears, are not the inseparable attendants of all those whose hearts are the repositories of tender affections and pathetic sympathies.
But what says the moralist?—“Portray life as it is. Delude not the senses by deceptive appearances. Arouse your hero? call to his aid stern philosophy and sober reason. They will dissipate the rainbow-glories of unreal pleasure, and banish the glittering meteors of unsubstantial happiness. Or if these fail, lead him to the holy fane of religion: she will regulate the fires of fancy, and assuage the tempest of the passions: she will illuminate the dark wilderness, and smooth the thorny paths of life: she will point him to joys beyond the tomb—to another and a better world; and pour the balm of consolation and serenity over his wounded soul.”
Shall we indeed arouse Alonzo? Alas! to what paths of grief and wretchedness shall we arouse him! To a world to him void and cheerless—a world desolate, sad and dreary.
Alonzo revived. “Why am I, he exclaimed, recalled to this dungeon of torment? Why was not my spirit permitted to take its flight to regions where my guardian angel is gone? Why am I cursed with memory? O that I might be blessed with forgetfulness! But why do I talk of blessings?—Heaven never had one in store for me. Where are fled my anticipated joys? To the bosom, the dark bosom of the oblivious tomb! There lie all the graces worthy of love in life—all the virtues worthy of lamentation in death! There lies perfection; perfection has here been found. Was she not all that even Heaven could demand?—Fair, lovely, holy and virtuous. Her tender solicitudes, her enrapturing endearments, her soul-inspiring blandishments,—gone, gone for ever? That heavenly form, that discriminate mind—all lovely as light, all pure as a seraph’s—a prey to worms—mingled with incorporeal shadows, regardless of former inquietudes or delights, regardless of the keen anguish which now wrings tears of blood from my despairing heart!
“Eternal Disposer of events! if virtue be thy special care, why is the fairest flower in the garden of innocence and purity blasted like a noxious weed? Why is the bright gem of excellence trampled in the dust like a worthless pebble?—Why is Melissa hurried to the tomb?”
Thus raved Alonzo. It was evident that delirium had partially seized his brain. He arose and flung himself on the bed in unspeakable agony. “And what, Alas! he again exclaimed, now remains for me? Existence and unparalleled misery. The consolation even of death is denied me. But Melissa! she—ah, where is she! Oh, reflection insupportable! insufferable consideration! Must that heavenly frame putrify, moulder, and crumble into dust? Must the loathsome spider nestle on her lily bosom? the odious reptile riot on her delicate limbs? the worm revel amid the roses of her cheek, fatten on her temples, and bask in the lustre of her eyes? Alas! the lustre has become dimmed in death; the rose and the lily are withered; the harmony of her voice has ceased; the graces, the elegancies of form, the innumerable delicacies of air, all are gone, and I am left in a state of misery which defies mitigation or comparison.”
Exhausted by excess of grief, he now lay in a stupifying anguish, until the servant
summoned him to breakfast. He told the servant he was indisposed and
requested he might not be disturbed. Mr. Wyllis and his lady came up,
anxious to yield him any assistance in their power, and advised him to
call a physician. He thanked them, but told them it was unnecessary; he
only wanted rest. His extreme distress of mind brought on a relapse of
fever, from which he had but imperfectly recovered. For several
days he lay in a very dangerous and doubtful state. A physician was
called, contrary to his choice or knowledge, as for the most part of the time his mind was
delirious and sensation imperfect. This was, probably the cause of
baffling the disorder. He was in a measure insensible to his woes. He
did not oppose the prescriptions of the physician. The fever abated; nature triumphed over
disease of body, and he slowly recovered, but the malady of his
mind was not removed.
He contemplated on the past. “I fear, said he, I have murmured
against the wisdom of Providence. Forgive, O merciful Creator!
Forgive the frenzies of distraction!” He now recollected that Melissa
once told him that she had an uncle who resided near Charleston in South
Carolina*;
See Barometer No. 110.
See page 39.
thither he supposed she had been sent by her father, when she was
removed from the old mansion, in order to prevent his having access to
her, and with a view to compel her to marry Beauman. Her appearance had
indicated a deep decline when he last saw her. “There, said he, far
removed from friends and acquaintance, there did she languish, there did
she die—a victim to excessive grief, and cruel parental
persecution.”
As soon as he was able to leave his room,
he walked out one evening, and in deep contemplation roved, he knew not
where. The
moon shone brilliantly from her lofty throne; the chill, heavy dews of
autumn glittered on the decaying verdure. The cadeat* croaked hoarsely
among the trees; the dircle*
*
Local names given to certain American insects, from their sound. They
are well known in various parts of the United States; generally make
their appearance about the latter end of August, and continue until
destroyed by the frost. The notes of the first are hoarse, sprightly,
and discordant; of the last, solemn and mournfully pleasing.
sung mournfully on the
grass.—Alonzo heard them not; he was insensible to all external
objects, until he had imperceptibly wandered to the rock on the point of
the beach, verging the Sound, to which he had attended Melissa the first
time he saw her at her cousin’s.†
See Barometer No. 105. See
also...
See page 7. See also...
†
See page 8. See also allusions
to this scene in several subsequent parts of the story.
Had the whole artillery of Heaven burst, in sheeted flame, from the
skies—had raging winds mingled the roaring waves with the
mountains—had an instantaneous earthquake burst beneath his feet,
his frame would not have been so shocked, his soul so
agitated!—Sudden as the blaze darts from the electric cloud was he
aroused to a lively sense of blessings entombed! The memory of departed
joys passed with rapidity over his imagination; his first meeting with
Melissa; the evening he had attended her to
that place; her frequent allusions to the scenery there displayed, when
they had traversed the fields, or reclined in the bower on her favourite
hill; in fine, all the vicissitudes through which they had passed, were
called to his
mind. His fancy saw her—he felt her gently leaning on his arm, while he tremblingly
pressed her hand.—Again he saw smiling health crimsoning the
lilies of her cheek; again he saw the bright soul of sympathetic
feelings sparkling in her eye; the air of ease; the graces of attitude;
her brown locks circling the borders of her snowy robe. Again he was enraptured by the melody
of her voice.—Once more would he have been happy, had not fancy
changed the scene. But, alas! she shifted the curtain. He saw Melissa
stretched on the sable hearse, wrapped in the dreary vestments of the
grave; the roses withered; the lilies faded; motionless; the graces
fled; her eyes fixed, and sealed in the glaze of death! Spontaneously he
fell upon his knees, and thus poured forth the overcharged burden of
his anguished
bosom.
“Infinite Ruler of all events! Great Sovereign of this ever changing world! Omnipotent Controller of vicissitudes! Omniscient dispenser of destinies! The beginning, the progression, the end is thine. Unsearchable are thy purposes! mysterious thy movements! inscrutable thy operations! An atom of thy creation, wildered in the mazes of ignorance and woe, would bow to thy decrees. Surrounded with impenetrable gloom, unable to scrutinize the past, incompetent to explore the future——fain would he say, THY WILL BE DONE! And Oh, that it might be consistent with that HIGH WILL to call this atom from a dungeon of wretchedness, to worlds of light and glory, where his only CONSOLATION is gone.”
Thus prayed the heart-broken Alonzo. It was indeed a worldly prayer;
but perhaps as pure and as acceptable as many of our modern professors
would have made on a similar occasion. He arose and repaired to his lodgings. One
determination only he had now fallen upon—to bury himself and his
griefs from all with whom he had formerly been acquainted. Why should he
return to the scenes of his former bliss and anxiety, where every countenance would tend to renew
his mourning; where every door would be inscribed with a
memento mori, and where every object would be shrouded in crape? He therefore turned his
attention to the army; but the army was far distant, and he was too
feeble to prosecute a journey of such an extent.
There were at that time preparations for fitting out a convoy, at private expense, from various parts of the United States, for the protection of our European trade; they were to rendezvous at a certain station, and thence proceed with the merchantmen under their care to the ports of France and Holland, where our trade principally centered, and return as convoy to some other mercantile fleet.
One of these ships of war was then nearly fitted out at New-London. Alonzo offered himself to the captain, who, pleased with his appearance, gave him the station of commander of marines.
Alonzo prepared himself with all speed for the voyage. He sought, he wished no acquaintance. His only place of resort, except to his lodgings and the ship, was to Melissa’s favourite rock: there he bowed as to the shrine of her spirit, and there he consecrated his devotions.
As he was one day passing through the town, a gentleman stepped out of an adjoining house and accosted him. Alonzo immediately recognized him to be the cousin of Melissa, at whose house he had first seen her. He was dressed in full mourning, which was a sufficient indication that he was apprised of her death. He invited Alonzo to his house, and he could not complaisantly refuse the invitation. He therefore accepted it, and passed an hour with him, from whom he learnt that Melissa had been sent to her uncle’s at Charleston, for the recovery of her health, where she died. “Her premature death, said her cousin, has borne so heavily upon her aged father, that it is feared he will not long survive.”——“Well may it wring his bosom, thought Alonzo;——his conscience can never be at peace.” Whether Melissa’s cousin had been informed of the particulars of Alonzo’s unfortunate attachment, was not known, as he instituted no conversation on the subject. Neither did he enquire into Alonzo’s prospects; he only invited him to call again. Alonzo thanked him, but replied it would be doubtful, as he should shortly leave town. He made no one acquainted with his intentions.
The day at length arrived when the ship was to sail, and Alonzo to leave the shores of America. They spread their canvass to propitious gales; the breezes rushed from their woody coverts, and majestically wafted them from the harbour.
Slowly the land receded; fields, forests, hills, mountains, towns and villages leisurely withdrew, until they were mingled in one common mass. The ocean opening, expanded and widened, presenting to the astonished eyes of the untried mariner its wilderness of waters. Near sunset, Alonzo ascended the mast to take a last view of a country once so dear, but whose charms were now lost forever. The land still appeared like a simicircular border of dark green velvet on the edge of a convex mirror. The sun sunk in fleecy golden vapours behind it. It now dwindled to discoloured and irregular spots, which appeared like objects floating, amidst the blue mists of distance, on the verge of the main, and immediately all was lost beneath the spherical, watery surface.
Alonzo had fixed his eyes, as near as his judgment could direct, towards Melissa’s favourite rock, till nothing but sea was discoverable. With a heart-parting sigh he then descended. They had now launched into the illimitable world of billows, and the sable wings of night brooded over the boundless deep.
A new scene was now
opened to Alonzo in the wonders of the mighty deep. The sun rising from
and setting in the ocean; the wide-spread region of watery waste, now
smooth as
polished glass, now urged into irregular rolling hillocks, then
swelled to