Mitchell, I. (Isaac), ca. 1759-1812 [1811], The asylum, or, Alonzo and Melissa. An American tale, founded on fact, volume 1 (Joseph Nelson, Poughkeepsie) [word count] [eaf281v1].
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Front matter
Covers, Edges and Spine
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Preliminaries
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Title Page
THE ASYLUM;
OR,
ALONZO AND MELISSA.
AN AMERICAN TALE,
FOUNDED ON FACT.
BY I. MITCHELL.
............ By strong affections driven,
Let no fond wish oppose the choice of Heaven;
For God's high acts unerring wisdom guides,
And boundless love his every choice decides:
Hence all events, and hence all beings right,
Best in their places, to best ends unite;
Hence from deep ills unmeasured good shall flow,
Hence joys unnumber'd spring from every woe.
Dwight.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
POUGHKEEPSIE:
PUBLISHED BY JOSEPH NELSON.
C. C. Adams and Co. Printers.
1811.
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Acknowledgment
[figure description] Printer's Imprint.[end figure description]
DISTRICT OF NEW-YORK, ss.
BE IT REMEMBERED, That on the second day of December,
in the thirty-fifth year of the Independence of the United States of
America, JOSEPH NELSON, of the said District, hath deposited in
this office, the title of a Book, the right whereof he claims as Proprietor,
in the words following, to wit:
“THE ASYLUM, or Alonzo and Melissa. An American Tale,
founded on fact.
BY I. MITCHELL.
............ By strong affections driven,
Let no fond wish oppose the choice of Heaven;
For God's high acts unerring wisdom guides,
And boundless love his every choice decides:
Hence all events, and hence all beings right,
Best in their places, to best ends unite:
Hence from deep ills unmeasured good shall flow,
Hence joys unnumber'd spring from every woe.
Dwight.
IN TWO VOLUMES.”
IN conformity to the Act of the Congress of the United States, entitled
“An Act for the encouragement of Learning, by securing the
Copies of Maps, Charts, and Books, to the Authors and Proprietors
of such Copies, during the times therein mentioned,” and also to an
Act, entitled, “An Act supplementary to an Act, entitled, an Act for
the encouragement of Learning, by securing the Copies of Maps,
Charts, and Books, to the Authors and Proprietors of such Copies,
during the times therein mentioned, and extending the benefits
thereof, to the Arts of Designing, Engraving, and Etching, Historical
and other Prints.”
CHARLES CLINTON, Clerk of the District of New-York.
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INTRODUCTION.
[figure description] Introduction iii.[end figure description]
—“BUT are you confident your
work will meet with success?” inquired
my friend. He was truly my friend; not
in empty professions, but had proved
himself so on trying occasions. He called
in to pass a social hour; we had filled
our glasses, lit our segars, and taken up
our subject. He sat leaning his elbow
upon the table, his cheek resting upon his
hand. I thought his countenance expressed
doubt and solicitude, when fixing his
eyes upon mine, he asked, “Are you
confident your work will meet with success?”
“Not confident,” I replied. “I think,
however, it will, or I would never incur
the expense of publication.”
“I hope it may; but should it not,
your paper-maker, your printer, and your
binder will engross the whole profits.”
-- IV --
[figure description] Introduction iv.[end figure description]
It was a discouraging remark—I was
silent.
“And then what do you not hazard in
becoming an author!” he continued.
“The loss or gain of time and money.”
“Nothing beside? Writers generally
aspire to fame, or, at least, hope for applause.”
“True; but I have an advantage—
there are no Critical Reviewers to bribe, in
this country.”
My friend smiled—“So much the
worse,” said he, “all your readers will
be reviewers.”
“So much the better; they must read
before they can review.”
-- V --
[figure description] Introduction v.[end figure description]
“But a few of your first readers may
be incompetent judges, and unjustly condemn
the work.”
“Such characters are as likely to decide
on the right side as the wrong; to
extol as to decry. There again, you perceive
I have a chance. But it is by people
of sentiment and taste that I expect to
be tried.”
“Then, I trust you have judiciously
constructed your plot, and have not lost
sight of unity of design, in your plan.”
“A fig for your plots and unities of
design,” I peevishly answered; “mere
formalities; fetters to pathos and sublimity;
a sort of puzzling cards to perplex
the reader, raising expectations which are
never realized. Animated narrative,
striking incident, glowing description,
and an interesting denouement, are the
true costume of novel.—Though, on
-- VI --
[figure description] Introduction vi.[end figure description]
reflection, I think you will find I have
done pretty well in what you style plot,
and unity of design.”
“There are very few American productions
of this kind entitled to merit.”
“And that is one of my reasons for
publishing. You will consider this as a
mark of vanity. Perhaps it is so.”
“But why,” resumed my friend after
a long pause, “why have you chosen novel
for your subject? or why, indeed,
have you entered upon the profession of
an author at all?”
“As to your first question,” I replied,
“why did Cervantes, Fielding, Richardson,
Dr. Smollet, Le Sage, Voltaire, Rosseau,
Goldsmith, Sterne, Dr. Johnson,
Swift, St. Pierre, Marmontel, Fenelon,
Dr. Moore, Walpole, Gesner, Gothie,
Lewis, Miss Smith— Seward— West
-- VII --
[figure description] Introduction vii.[end figure description]
—Burney—Williams—Owenson—Porter--Mrs.
Radcliffe, and hundreds of others,
select novel for their subject? Why did
Homer write poetry, Euclid the elements of
mathematics, Franklin on electricity, Vattel
on the law of nations? Why have other
authors written the histories of Johny Gilpin,
Tommy Thumb, Jack-a-Dandy,
and Whittington's Cat? Is not a writer
the best judge of his own abilities, and
most capable of choosing his subject?
“To your second inquiry, various answers
might apply. Suppose I should
say amusement was the stimulus; to relieve
the mind from melancholy depression;
the acquisition of property, of literary
fame, or merely a penchant for writing,
or all these, would you believe me?
You know that by the fate of battle[1] I
have lost a station, which, if not lucrative,
yet admitted free employment for the pen,
and probably you conjecture I am
-- VIII --
[figure description] Introduction viii.[end figure description]
unwilling to relinquish it. Or would you rather
impute the cause to necessity? If so, I
can appeal to high precedent, as the lawyer
would say. I have, somewhere, read
the following story:
“The famous Goldsmith, after writing
and publishing several valuable works, was
reduced to actual penury. From comfortable
and fashionable lodgings, he suddenly
retired to a miserable hovel, in a by-lane,
and took a sorry garret therein, the furniture
of which consisted only of a flock-bed,
two stools and a table. One window,
whose broken panes were `eked with tatters
gay,' afforded him light. As he, one
day, sat `poring over the black volume
of his fate,' the illustrious Dr. Johnson
appeared abruptly before him. Alternate
surprise ensued. Goldsmith had made
none of his friends acquainted with his
circumstances, but, in withdrawing himself,
had, as he supposed, taken his measures
so secretly as to prevent discovery.
-- IX --
[figure description] Introduction ix.[end figure description]
Johnson was then compiling his Dictionary,
and, in pecuniary matters, was, in
reality, no better off than Goldsmith,
whom he had found by mere accident, after
the strictest search and inquiry, the object
of which was to borrow a few guineas
to aid him in the execution of his work.
Goldsmith informed Johnson that a single
guinea was all the earthly property he possessed,
and that, besides, he was deeply
in debt. Mutual explanation and consultation
succeeded. They called in a bottle
of wine and a cold cut, over which they
discussed future prospects and proceedings.
Johnson advised Goldsmith to write
a novel, to which, after some hesitation,
he consented. The guinea was then
changed to pay for the entertainment, and
the remainder divided between them.
Johnson departed; Goldsmith immediately
commenced his labour, and in due
time produced that excellent monument
of his genius, The Vicar of Wakefield,
the profits of which not only saved him
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[figure description] Introduction x.[end figure description]
from wretchedness and a prison, but enabled
him to assist his friend Johnson in
completing his stupendous fabric of scientific
crudition, and rich treasure of instruction.
“You will probably think I have not
yet answered your queries—Of course
I must refer you to my preface.”
My friend sighed as he took his hat to
depart. It was the sigh of affection. He
felt for my situation. He feared lest disappointment
should wither my hopes, and
blast my expectations.
eaf281v1.n1[1] A political conflict.
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PREFACE. COMPRISING A SHORT DISSERTATION ON NOVEL.
[figure description] Introduction xi.[end figure description]
THE eighteenth century, says a writer,
may be peculiarly and emphatically called
the Age of Novels.[2] The remark is undoubtedly
applicable, from the number
which appeared within that period, and the
avidity with which they were sought and
read. Among these, some were from authors
of distinguished abilities, and will
long be celebrated; others are but miserable
imitations, destined never to receive
a second impression.
Novel, or Romance,† is a species of
narrative in which either the principal characters
are real, and the incidents compounded
of fiction and truth, or where the
actors, the scenery and the drama, are
-- XII --
[figure description] Introduction xii.[end figure description]
entirely imaginary. When embellished
with national characteristics, that of the
former class cannot fail of claiming preference,
as the most interesting.
The days of chivalry afforded ample
scope and materials for Romance. To
the knights errant the most absurd and
improbable exploits and achievements
were ascribed, such as the demolition of
impregnable castles, the destruction of
monsters and mighty giants. Even dæ
mons were put to flight, enchantments
broken, and the powers of darkness vanquished,
by these all-conquering, roving,
gentry. Extravagant as these fabulous
stories were, and abounding, as they did,
with licentiousness and impurity, yet, in
those gloomy and superstitious times,
they, for a long season, held an unbounded
influence over public taste, which, in
all ages, has fondly relished the wonderful
and the marvellous. But the shafts of ridicule,
from the quiver of genius, finally
demolished the magic structure, destroyed
the fantastic apparatus, and effected a
reform in general sentiment; since which,
fictitious narrative has experienced various
improvements and modifications,
-- XIII --
[figure description] Introduction xiii.[end figure description]
until it received the costume in which it
now appears.
But though Novel is divested of some
of its objectional qualities, it yet retains
many irregularities and disproportionate
features. In general, its characters are
incorrectly drawn, its incidents improbable,
its descriptive colourings artificial and
unnatural. To the discriminating eye, a
distorted portrait is ever disgusting.
Another fault is the multiplicity of character
introduced, through a mistaken notion
of producing variety, by which, not
only the reader, but frequently the writer
himself, is plunged into a wilderness of
intricate mazes, from whence, with extreme
difficulty and embarrassment, the
chain of events leads to the final catastrophe,
through inextricable confusion, and
impenetrable obscurity. Diversity of incident
may be happily effected, without
involving the plot in a host of personage.
But the most important objection to
these productions, is their immoral tendency.
Nor can the objection be esteemed
unfounded, when we consider the
-- XIV --
[figure description] Introduction xiv.[end figure description]
manner in which they are commonly written.
In most of our modern novels, seduction
forms the prominent feature.—
On the one hand, all the faculties, every
active power, all the affections, are concentrated
and drawn to a point—the indulgence
of a single passion. Wealth,
reputation, honour, health, are considered
as trifling sacrifices to the attainment of
the object pursued, which, no sooner is
possessed than abandoned, without a sigh
of regret, though its transition from innocence
to infamy be the consequence. On
the other side, youth, beauty, loveliness,
virtue, with all the fascinating graces of
female excellence, are set in battle array
against the formidable foe. The conflict
is minutely described, offensive by the
former party, defensive by the latter,
which, notwithstanding its inferiority in
strength and tactic skill, makes a brave
resistance against clandestine intrigue and
open force, external and internal adversaries;
and though driven to the last extremity,
refuses to surrender, on offer of the
most liberal and flattering terms; and
when finally vanquished, it is by surprise,
by escalade, by bribing the guards, or by
lulling them asleep with some soporific
-- XV --
[figure description] Introduction xv.[end figure description]
preparation. In this representation the
language glows with the `sorcery of sentiment,
' the scenery with meretricious voluptuousness,
serving as incentives to indelicate
passion, as stimuli to licentious
principle. To portraitures like these,
few, if any originals, ever existed.
There is another class of novelists, perhaps
equally dangerous. These affect to
follow nature, and to draw their characters
from real life. Thus, as a contrast to
the virtuous and worthy qualifications
which their principal personages are made
to possess, they must also exhibit their
foibles, their frailties, and their vices; and
as they never fail to make the former predominate,
the reader, as he becomes interested
in the story, loses his aversion to
the evil actions and propensities, in the
splendour and brilliancy of the meritorious
exploits and achievements, and is finally
induced to venerate the hero, though
`black with murder, sacrilege and crime.'
On this point, the writer is of opinion, that
real pictures of life and manners, are the
province of history; of novel, to portray
characters as they probably might be.
-- XVI --
[figure description] Introduction xvi.[end figure description]
Previous to the age of chivalry, so far
as we have any evidence, the general, character
of Romance was less exceptionable
than even under the boasted refinement of
the present day. The most ancient which
has fallen within the writer's knowledge, is
the Ethiopics of Heliodorus, a bishop of
Thessaly, written about the year A. D.
350. Who that has read it, but must
have felt a deep and sympathetic interest
in the delicate and sentimental disquietudes,
the tender loves, and affectionate vicissitudes,
of Theagines and Chariclea,
the principal personages in the work?
Who but must admire the beauty of scenery,
the correctness of descriptive drapery,
therein displayed? It was a chaste
and virtuous production, yet such were the
superstition and fanaticism of the day, that
the bishop was not only deprived of his
office, but excommunicated the church,
for refusing to suppress it.
It would be difficult to point out the
novels which have obtained the greatest
popularity, so various and so different are
public taste and opinion. In the field of
satire, perhaps, the Don Quixote of Cervantes
leads the van, from which,
-- XVII --
[figure description] Introduction xvii.[end figure description]
probably, Butler took the hint for forming the
drama of his famous Hudibras. The
Tom Jones of Fielding has generally
been considered as a finished production,
yet it abounds with indelicacy, grossness
and profanity, abhorrent to a correct mind.
For incident, Brookes' Fool of Quality,
is, by many, styled eminent; and as a
compilation of truth and fiction, the Travels
of Cyrus, is highly esteemed. As a
philosophical performance, the Rasselas,
of Dr. Johnson, is justly celebrated, as is
Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield, for its
chastity and moral tendency, though, by
some, it has been objected to, on account
of its uniformity, want of incident, and of
variety.
But of all the novels extant, none has
been considered more dangerous to youthful
morals and principles than Rosseau's
Nouvelle Heloise, Like the poems of Anacreon
Moore, its blandishing, florid, and
seductive style, irresistibly interests the
heart, and enlists the passions and the affections.
Sentimentally voluptuous, and licentiously
descriptive, its glowing pages
fascinate the intellectual powers, and like
the dæmon in an angel's form, charm, and
-- XVIII --
[figure description] Introduction xviii.[end figure description]
allure, but to destroy. It is said that the author,
when he wrote this singular work, did
not intend it for publication, but that adverse
circumstances, in his advanced years,
induced him to commit it to the press.
Dr. Miller justly observes that the novels
most esteemed for their chastity and
purity, are those written by ladies; among
these may be named the Children of
the Abbey, Camilla, and other productions
from the same pens, as also the works of
Miss Seward, Williams, C. Smith, Owenson,
Mrs. Sheridan, Brooke, and some
others. The historic Romances of Miss
Porter, particularly her Thaddeus of Warsaw,
and her Scottish Chiefs, are peculiarly
celebrated; the former of which has already
run through several editions. But
no writer, ancient or modern, has yet equalled
Mrs. Radcliffe, in the field of Romance.
In pathos, incident, in interesting
narrative, and particularly in sublime
description, mingled with wild romantic
scenery, and solemn terrific imagery, she
has no rival; added to these, her style is
elegant, natural and easy, and her pages
unsullied by a stain. The unfortunate
fate of this lady is deeply to be lamented
-- XIX --
[figure description] Introduction xix.[end figure description]
by every friend to genius and sentimental
literature.[3]
Few novelists of any eminence, have
appeared in this country. Indeed the only
one who can lay much claim to originality,
is Brown, of Philadelphia. His
writings evince rich invention, lively description,
and classical diction. Some,
however, have complained of their sameness
in rapidity of style. Miss Warren,
of Boston, has written a work of considerable
merit, entitled The Gamesters;
Glencairne, also, by the author of The
Lawyer, is no mean production.
In fictitious narrative the scenery
should be natural, the sentiment pure, the
story probable, and explicit; not loaded
with inexplicated incidents, nor involved
in mysteries unelucidated by the catastrophe.
Indecorous stimulants ought, on
no occasion, to be admitted, profanity
-- XX --
[figure description] Introduction xx.[end figure description]
never personified, nor should carricatura be
freely indulged, unless the performance be
farcical. In description, the portraits
should be drawn from familiar objects, the
paintings correct, the colours regular:
they may glow, but not dazzle; strike,
but not confound. The pictures, though
taken from nature, yet ought not to represent
either the brightest or the darkest
traits in the originals. Gross and immoral
imagery should ever be avoided.
That romantic history may be so written
as to be productive of real usefulness
and advantage, cannot, with propriety be
denied. When properly executed, it
tends to purify and elevate the affections;
to improve the mind, while it amuses the
fancy; to amend, as well as to interest the
heart, and thus enlarge the sphere of knowledge,
and promote the cause of moral
and social virtue. There are, indeed,
some novels which may lay claim to this
distinction; but these are, comparatively,
so few, and those of a contrary tendency
so numerous, that the general character of
Novel has been brought into disrepute.
To assist in retrieving the reputation of
sentimental story, has been the author's
-- XXI --
[figure description] Introduction xxi.[end figure description]
aim in the ensuing work; a reputation tarnished,
not by integral defect, or constitutional
depravity, but by a deviation, like
the true church, from its original, correct,
and orthodox standard. The fine gold
has become debased, and rendered impure
by the copious mixture of alloy.
As an exemplification to preceding observations,
it may not be improper here to
remark, that the most sublime specimens
of fine writing, the most splendid productions
of belleslettres genius, of either ancient
or modern date, have been presented
to us in the form of Novel. The Iliad of
Homer, the ænead of Virgil, Ossian's
Fingal, Milton's Paradise, Dwight's Conquest,
Barlow's Columbiad, and several
other similar performances, are, in fact,
epic novels, possessing the polished and
superior advantages of lofty and majestic
numbers. They have their unities of design,
their plots, and their catastrophes.
They are systems of ingenious fiction,
built on truth, embellished with incident,
description, sentiment, and with all the
grand apparatus of heroic romance. Of
the comic, and tragi-comic class, instances
might be adduced. Writers on
-- XXII --
[figure description] Introduction xxii.[end figure description]
other subjects, from the earliest times,
have adopted this mode for conveying
wise and useful information to man.
But what wilt thou say, moral reader,
should the author inform thee that thy Bible
contains specimens of this species of
writing? Yet be assured that such is the
fact. The sacred writers, the holy seers,
and the inspired prophets, frequently had
recourse to this method, for the purpose
of revealing, and instilling into the mind
the most solemn and important truths.
Even the great founder of the Christian religion,
often inculcated its principles by
similitude, or parable; a convincing proof
of its utility in gaining access to the heart.
It is not, therefore, the essential, or
radical principle, but the perverted use,
or abuse, of this kind of composition,
which admits just cause of complaint;
and to similar abuses and complaints are
the best and wisest of human inventions
and institutions ever liable.
Then let not the moralist or the Divine,
turn, fastidiously, from our pages, before
he has given them a perusal. Let not
-- XXIII --
[figure description] Introduction xxiii.[end figure description]
prejudice condemn the book, merely because
it may be considered as coming under
the class of Novel. Permit it to speak
for itself; let it be its own advocate; read
it, and then decide according to its merits.
From preceding remarks, the general
plan on which the following work is attempted,
may be perceived. One point,
the author has endeavoured to establish,
that a firm reliance on Providence, however
the affections and the passions may be at
war with its dispensations, is the only real
source of consolation in the gloomy hours
of affliction; and that, generally, such
dependence, though embarrassed with difficulties
and perplexities, will, in the end,
meet a happy and victorious reward.
If any should object to it as a work of
fancy, the author informs them that this is
not, exclusively, the case, in respect to
the succeeding production, as the principal
characters there introduced, are still
living, though their names, for obvious
reasons, are assumed. To some of the
detailed events, witnesses yet remain to
attest. It may be esteemed a juvenile
production, as the historic part was
-- XXIV --
[figure description] Introduction xxiv.[end figure description]
moulded into form by the writer in the leisure
hours of his early years, and a few of the
incidents interwoven therewith; methodized,
and delineated, with additional colourings,
it thereafter appeared in a miscellaneous
print; it is now published on
a revised, and much extended scale, in
which former deficiencies are supplied,
preceding errors corrected, and new characters,
scenes, and occurrences, introduced.
Romance, founded on great events, and
embracing eminent characters and important
achievements, cannot be written, with
any considerable degree of interest and
effect, where the scenery is laid, and
the drama cast, in America; because,
should it be attempted, the theatre must
be erected on the field of the revolution,
an era not sufficiently remote, and comprising
occurrences too recent, to be arrayed
in the vesture of fiction. It will,
however, furnish materials, and the most
brilliant apparatus, to a writer of some
succeeding century.
Should there be found those who may
consider the work too highly decorated
-- XXV --
[figure description] Introduction xxv.[end figure description]
with descriptive drapery, or object to what
is termed a luxuriancy of style, the writer
would observe that it was his original intention
to give it as great a variety of vivid
colourings as he conceived it would bear;
and, unless he is mistaken, if the paintings
are correct, it renders the performance
much more acceptable to readers of
sentimental taste and refinement. Embellished
with these fanciful decorations, Novel
is a garden of rich shrubbery and flowers;
without them, it is a cheerless and
dreary waste.
The author well knows what critics can
say on this subject. They may censure
him as loading his style with the epithets
of poetry, which they may pronounce
inelegant and improper, in such kind of
composition, and call on Aristotle, Longinus,
and a thousand other critical annotators,
to prove the correctness of this
opinion. In plain narrative, the remark
would, doubtless, be correct; but Novel
is of a different character; it is compounded
of historic description, of real
and fictitious incident; it is, therefore,
nearly allied, not only to poetry, but, also,
to painting, where, in similar cases,
-- XXVI --
[figure description] Introduction xxvi.[end figure description]
fancy is permitted to display her colourings
with superior brilliancy, and with
greater freedom, than on more classic or
methodical subjects. Hence, few readers
would become interested in a novel, written
after the formal and philosophic manner
of analogous history.
In the narrative department, it was intended
the language should be of the middle
class, neither soaring to that sublimity
which dazzles the understanding by its
perpetual glitter, nor sinking to dull and
trite inelegance. If such be the fact, it
will have constituted a variety of diction,
and formed a contrast to those descriptive
parts where a more florid style is admitted.
Contrary to general custom, the principal
episode, instead of being intermingled
in alternate periods through the body
of the work, is given entire. This
mode was preferred, not solely as a precedent,
but because it was esteemed as
better adapted to the taste of most readers,
who prefer connexion and regularity
to disorder and interruption; and although
this episode may not be considered as
forming an important link in the grand
-- XXVII --
[figure description] Introduction xxvii.[end figure description]
chain of events—of unity, plot, and design—
yet was it not introduced, merely, to
swell the volumes, but with a view to picture
man in the various grades and attitudes
of life, through affluence, mediocrity,
misfortune, and wretchedness. Its
perusal was also intended to prepare the
mind of Melissa, young and inexperienced
in the ways of life, for the events she,
thereafter, was destined to encounter. The
sketch therein comprised relative to new
settlers, may, likewise, not be found uninteresting.
At any rate, it constitutes variety,
which is not the least object in performances
of this description.
Errors not discerned by an author, may
yet be discovered by the critical reader. It
would be rare, if, especially in a first edition,
such was not the case. On this point
the writer will only remark, that it was not
in his power, from his local situation, to
submit the manuscript to a circle of literary
friends for their inspection, advice, or
correction. He was, therefore, compelled
to rely upon his own judgment.
The production is entirely American.
The poetry is all from the geniuses of our
-- XXVIII --
[figure description] Introduction xxviii.[end figure description]
own country, to most of whom credit is
given; where this is not done, it is because
the writer was not at liberty to make
the references. The scenery, though extended
to Europe, is laid in New-London,
Boston, Charleston, (S. C.) and in various
other parts of the United States.
Whether the author has succeeded in his
attempt; whether his work will obtain general
approbation, or be thrown aside among
other ephemeral productions of the
day, must yet be decided by the public tribunal.
That his hopes are in his favour,
he need scarcely say. Should he experience
disappointment, he would have the
satisfaction still left, that, to him, the circumstance
would not be unprecedented,
and that he, only, must be the principal
sufferer. It will not, he also flatters himself,
be deemed censurable, that he has
contributed a particle to the common stock,
with a view to increase the happiness, by
adding to the amusement, of the people of
his own country.
THE AUTHOR.
Footnotes
eaf281v1.n2[2] Miller's Retrospect of the 18th Century; a very
useful, instructing, and excellent work. See Chap.
“Romances and Novels,” where the subject is copiously
and ably treated.
eaf281v1.dag1† That kind of Novel which treats of wild adventures,
or heroic achievements, is styled Romance.
eaf281v1.n3[3] Mrs. Radcliffe was married to a gentleman whose
name was Randolph, after which, from what circumstance
is not known by the writer, she became deranged
in intellect. In her ravings she is said to have
imagined that the wild scenes of terror she so ably depicted,
in her Romances, were real. Whether she has
recovered a composed state of mind, the author of this
work has not been informed.
Main text
-- --
CHAPTER I.
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
When young in life, nor known to sorrow,
How lightly flew the gladsome day!
Gay dreams of bliss brought on the morrow,
And gilt the sun's declining ray.
Hope pictured years of tranquil pleasure,
Peace and content she held to view;
My trusting heart dwelt o'er its treasure,
And thought the lovely vision true.
Mrs. Rose.
Sometime previous to the commencement
of the American revolution, there resided,
in the western part of Connecticut, a
gentleman of English extraction, whose ancestors
were among the earliest settlers of
this country. The patrimony he inherited
from his father, he had, by various speculation,
increased until he became the richest
man in those parts. His property lay in numerous
cultivated farms, most of which were
advantageously rented; in valuable wild
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[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
lands, and in money at interest on indubitable
security. His name was Bloomfield.
He was the descendant of an ancient and
once noble family, on which he prided himself
with all that distinguished haughtiness so characteristic
of national prejudice and manners,
but without possessing a disposition to shine
in the circles of the gay, or to lavish any portion
of his fortune in grandeur and equipage,
or what the world style the pleasures of high
life. While he looked upon the poorer class
as an inferior kind of beings in society, he
esteemed the rich as an order of nobility.
“By prudence and perseverance,” he would
say, “any man in this country may become
independent. It is the idle and the dissipated,
only, who are poor.” For calamities and accidents,
he made no allowance, as these, he
believed, his foresight and sagacity had enabled
him to evade; and he considered, also,
that his own wealth had been principally acquired
by diligent application to business.
He knew little of literature beyond the name,
having received nothing more than a common-school
education; but to balance this, he was
deeply skilled in the worth of a dollar, and well
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[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
understood now to apply it to its best use. In
casting accounts, or in calculating compound
interest, he was an adept, even to farthings.
For money loaned, he took mortgages on
lands and tenements, in security, and as there
frequently occurred failures in the payment,
he often had opportunities of purchasing the
involved premises at his own price.
He was likewise perfectly acquainted with
the art of bargaining. If a farmer, either from
embarrassment, or with a view to amend his situation,
held his possessions for sale, the ready
money of Col. Bloomfield would effect more
than the most responsible paper of others,
though at prompt instalments. This, he called,
“striking while the iron was hot.” Merchants
and tradesmen, besides interest, were
willing to give him premiums for the loan of
cash, which was extremely scarce in those
days, as there were, then, no banks in this
country, by which they could be accommodated.
The labourer and mechanic, sure of
present pay, would work for him at reduced
wages. Being under no necessity to sell, he
strictly watched and always obtained the
highest market-price for the produce of his
farms. Thus, while he daily experienced a
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[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
rapid accumulation of wealth, he exhibited,
only, the appearance of a plain Connecticut
farmer.
He had been advanced to various grades of
office; was justice of the peace; had frequently
been a member of the legislature;
was colonel of a regiment of militia, which
office he had held for several years, and for
as long a time had been deacon of the church.
Strictly honest in his dealings, and never having
sacrificed upon the altar of the refined
passions, he held every infraction of justice
and integrity as criminal, and knew not how
to pardon even errors and failings. Hence,
shrouded in a repulsive, but self-created dignity,
he commanded, among his acquaintance,
a sort of invidious respect. The poor of his
neighbourhood knew no more why they
feared, than why they could not love him;
still none hated him. The number of
his enemies were few; of his friends, still
less.
He had lived till he was a bachelor before
he married; he then chose his wife as he would
have done a farm, not so much for beauty as
convenience. She was the daughter of a
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respectable clergyman. Her disposition was
amiable, her manners and habits mild, retiring,
and domestic. She superintended the
affairs of her household with the strictest care
and prudence. Unlike some flaunting dames
of the present day, she did not esteem it dishonourable
to lay her hands to the spindle and
the distaff. Indeed, we could not give a more
correct description of her character, than by
referring to that of Solomon's heroine, as delineated
in the last chapter of his Proverbs.
They had but two children; the eldest a
son, whom they called Edgar; the other a
daughter, named Melissa. Though destitute
himself, yet having learnt the value of
education, he determined to provide the means
of obtaining it for his children; and being a
rigid presbyterian, he concluded that his son
could no where figure so well, or gain so much
eminence, as in the sacred desk. Edgar,
therefore, was kept at school till he arrived
at a suitable age, when he was entered at
Yale College.
Melissa was sent to New-London, under
the charge of a maiden aunt, to reside with
a relative of the family who had settled there,
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until she should have completed the education
designed for her, at a celebrated female academy
in that place. This relative, whose
name was Glenford, was cousin to her by the
mother's side. Having but recently married,
he had no children.
Martha Bloomfield, Melissa's aunt, who attended
her, was about forty years old. She
had been a reigning toast, in her youth, but
a coquette and a prude. Hence, her numerous
admirers relinquished their pretensions as
her beauty and the graces deserted her. She
had received the most flattering offers, some
of which she refused, and suspended others.
She was, in many respects, the counterpart
of Col. Bloomfield, her brother. Her family
and fortune, she thought, connected with her
personal accomplishments, would, at any time,
ensure her a choice among the humble devotees
who sighed at her feet, if she should condescend
to make the selection. Like many
calculators of superior wisdom and understanding,
she did not discover her error until
too late to retrieve it.
Still, she was not without consolation;
her father had provided amply for her in his
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
will. She possessed lands, the rents of which
were more than adequate to her maintenance.
Though she frequently visited among her numerous
relatives, yet she principally resided
with Melissa's father, who, by humouring her
peculiarities, consulting her on trivial occasions,
and sometimes adopting her advice,
when it did not run counter to his own opinion,
induced her to suppose that she held no
small influence over him. He had an object
in view by this; her fortune he hoped to secure
in his own family, provided she should
never marry, which, probably, would be the
case. She was called Aunt Martha by the
family, and Miss Martha by her other acquaintance.
In due time, Melissa's education being
finished, and Edgar having graduated, they
returned to their paternal residence, which
bore the name of Bloomfield Vale.
Col. Bloomfield, though an austere man,
was extremely attached to his children. They
were the solace of his life, the hope and comfort
of his declining years. But his tenderness
did not injure them by too much indulgence.
He early taught them that his advice
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
was to be taken as law; that his injunctions
were not to be disputed, and that the line of
conduct marked out by him was to be undeviatingly
pursued. Hence it followed that
his will need only be known, to be strictly
obeyed.
From the splendid fortune to be divided
between them, he foresaw that they must obtain
eminence and distinction in society, provided
they connected honourably, and sustained
unblemished characters; and though
his expectations had been, thus far, realized;
though present prospects gave earnest of future
felicity, yet he most anxiously hoped to
see them happily settled in life while under
his immediate care, and before he should descend
to the tomb.
Edgar appeared calculated for the station
to which he was designated. Cheerful, but
decently reserved; liberal in sentiment, his
soul was the seat of honour, integrity, and
virtue. Though selected for a particular
church, to which he, also, gave the preference,
he was no bigot in religion. He knew that
there were different sects of Christians, and
he believed that the portals of Heaven were
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
open to more than one denomination. Consecrated
to reform, he would be prepared to
love mankind; to cast the mantle of charity
over their failings, correct their errors by
mildness, and to extend the cherishing hand
of forgiveness to the repentant. While his
mind had been informed, his heart was expanded
by the enlightening rays of science.
Melissa, now seventeen years of age, whose
taste had been properly directed by a suitable
education, possessed a mind adorned with
those delicate graces which are the first ornaments
of female excellence. Neither prudery
nor coquetry mingled in her character.
Her soul was too serene to be the sport of
freak or caprice. She would not start at a
shadow, or shriek at the sudden rustling of a
leaf. She knew not to blush at a compliment,
or faint in crowded assemblies. Her fortitude
could not be alarmed by the wild phantoms
of imagination, or the startling suggestions
of superstition.
She was not esteemed a striking beauty,
but her appearance was pleasingly interesting.
Her figure elegant; hair of a light brown;
in her cheek, the tinges of the lily and the
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
rose, gently striving for supremacy, mingled
the inimitable die of health. Her aspect was
attempered with a pensive mildness, which,
in her gayer moments, would light up into
sprightliness and vivacity. Though, on first
impressions, her countenance was marked by
a sweet and thoughtful serenity, yet she eminently
possessed the power to
“Call round her laughing eyes, in playful turns,
“The glance that lightens and the smile that burns”
eyes beaming expressive tenderness, and in
the texture of which were happily blended
“The gentlest azure of the skies,
“The mildest shadows of the grove.”
The seat of Col. Bloomfield stood at a little
distance from the main road. It was surrounded
with cultivated fields, woodlands,
meadows, and pastures, interspersed with
valleys and hills, among which, small rivulets
variously meandered. At some distance from
the house, was a very broad and elevated eminence,
styled the Mountain; it commanded
an extensive prospect of country; of forests
farm-houses, towns and villages; also, of
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
Long-Island, the Sound between that and the
mainland, and the opening thereof to the distant
ocean.
Amidst these rural and solitary scenes, Melissa
loved to wander. The devious recesses
of the woods, the blossomed banks of plaintive
streams, the fragrance of verdant fields,
and the wild melody of various birds, in the
green season of the year, yielded her sincerer
pleasure, than the most brilliant splendours
of ball-rooms and assemblies. Here, with
Edgar, could she realize and retrace the innocent
and happy incidents of their earliest
childhood. Here had they chased the gay
butterfly from flower to flower, till it soared
away, leaving them perplexed to discover
why the gaudy flutterer should so assiduously
shun the approach of those who intended it no
manner of harm; there they waded the narrow
brook to select the shining, transparent
pebbles, from its shallow bed; here they
basked on the sunny hill side, or reclined beneath
intermingling branches, watching the
labours of the industrious bee, while collecting
its sweets from the blooms around; admiring
the diligent ant, as it brought up the
grains of sand from its subterraneous cells,
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
or bore its winter provender to the fairy
caverns it had thus prepared; or remarking,
with still more fixed attention, the labours of
the parent bird, as, with mechanic powers,
peculiarly its own, it constructed its curious
nest, or provided for its unfledged young,
with examplary care, and paternal solicitude.
In yonder field had they stained their hands
with the rich strawberry, or with hurtleberries
in the adjoining shrubbery; or wounded their
little fingers in plucking the fruit of the prickly
bramble. Here had they striven, in friendly
emulation, to cull the gayest flowers from
the varied myriads which spangled the plain.
On yonder hill they had counted the numerous
vessels as they sailed up and down the Sound.
They recollected how they had often sat on
some high rock, viewing the sweaty reapers
gathering the ripe harvest in the surrounding
fields, or the dusty plowman turning the broad
furrow behind his lagging team, while the
music of numerous different birds, the song
of the grasshopper, the low hum of bees,
and the variant notes of a thousand diverse
insects, floated on the loitering breeze. Frequently
had they lingered until the whipperwill's
cheerful lay, from an adjacent thicket,
warned them of approaching twilight.
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Sometimes, alarmed by the blackening shower,
rising suddenly over the woody summits, they
had hastened homeward with trembling speed,
while the vivid lightning crinkled across their
path, and the volleying thunder pursued close
behind them.
With pleasure could they now recal those
happy days of infancy and innocence, because
their young minds were yet unimbittered by
sorrow, and undisturbed by the serious carcs
of life. After a lapse of years, and a separation
from their beloved parents and home,
they traversed, with transport, the same fields
and woodlands, where, in childhood, they had
experienced so many joyful hours. Birds of
the same note and plumage flitted from bough
to bough, or warbled their untaught melody
along the landscape. There stood the tall
hickory, under which they had so often gathered
their winter stores of walnuts; here the
branching chesnut, whose thorny balls they
were wont, cautiously, to assail, to obtain
the delicacy within; yonder the butternut,
and the humble hazle, they had been accustomed
to rifle of their nutricious treasures.
The little hillock, in the midst of the lawn,
where, by moonlight, they had, so
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[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
frequently, sported with their juvenile companions,
had suffered no change. The orchards and
the gardens, the fields and the flowers, the
brooks, the groves, the shrubbery, and the
fruit-trees, were the same, and revived in
their bosoms sensations solemnly pleasing, as
they strolled leisurely among them.
The amusements of that day, though not
so diversified, were, yet, more rational than
many of the present, particularly in country
towns. Those in which Edgar and Melissa
joined when connected with mixed company,
consisted, in the summer, of excursions on
horseback, or in carriages, to some place in
the country, famous for hurtleberries or strawberries;
often to the margin of the Sound;
thence would they stray along the white sandy
beaches, which, at low water, extended far
from the shore; or divert themselves for an
hour by venturing out in a sail-boat; and,
generally, once in the season, they crossed,
with a large party, to Long-Island, where
they would pass a week among acquaintance.
In the winter, sleigh-rides to neighbouring
towns and villages were customary, and
though not frequently, yet occasionally, they
attended dancing assemblies. These, with
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
friendly visits, and social tea-parties, constituted
the principal portion of their public diversions.
At New-London, Melissa become acquainted
with a young gentleman of that town, who
possessed an independent fortune which had
devolved upon him by the death of his father.
He was of a gay and volatile character; his
manners rather voluptuous than delicately refined;
his address was easy; though confident,
yet not ungraceful. He led the ton in fashionable
circles, and gave taste its zest, and was
quite a favourite with the New-London belles.
His name was Bowman.
Among the gallants who had paid respectful
attention to Melissa, Bowman had been the
most particular. He was her partner at balls,
and her attendant in mixed companies. When,
with her aunt, she returned to her family, he
escorted them; and having some distant connexions
residing in a village not far from
Bloomfield Vale, he frequently visited them,
and, of course, Melissa, which, indeed, appeared
to be his principal object. When
there, he attended her in parties of pleasure
and recreation, and to her selected
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
circles he always resorted. Hence, as appearances
seemed to warrant, a rumour obtained
circulation that Miss Bloomfield was shortly
to exchange her name for that of Mrs. Bowman.
By inquiry, her father soon learned that
the family of the young gentleman claimed
the first respectability, and that his fortune
was equal to his wishes. He did not, therefore,
forbid his visits; for though he was not
exactly the man he would have selected for
his son-in-law, yet being addicted to no
public vice, and not destitute of abilities,
he trusted that when the wild vagaries of
youthful levity should evaporate, objects
of a different nature would be pursued, such
as might ensure eminence, and what is esteemed
felicity.
On further acquaintance with Bowman, he
discovered that he possessed a yielding temper;
not suddenly or causelessly irritable,
but rather forbearing. He thought, also,
that, through the exuberance of frivolity, he
could perceive the prolific germs of real honour,
and, on the whole, considered him as a
character with whom his daughter might be
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
happy. Melissa, he had not consulted. On
her discretion and discernment, he felt himself
safe to rely. Her choice, he had ever trusted
and believed, would comport with his own.
From Bowman, he shortly expected a declaration,
and if it accorded with his daughter's
wishes, he concluded to sanction it.
One day Bowman called on Melissa, and
invited her to take an airing in his curricle.
Delighted with the scenery rural prospects afford,
she consented. They rode out through
different parts of the country, now ascending
high hills, now rolling into valleys; sometimes
the road leading between thick woods, then
over plains, interspersed with meadows and
orchards, which now blooming in all the glory
of spring, cast their exhilirating fragrance
to the passing gales. Farm-houses and cottages
appeared in various directions; and
bounded by lofty groves, extended fields,
chequered by fenced cultivation, swelled into
gentle acclivities, or sank into verdurous
vales, over which were sprinkled flocks of
sheep, and cattle of various colour, grazing
the rich pastures, ruminating under shady
trees, or drinking at the crystaline brooks
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
which meandered in devious windings, with
whispering murmur.
As they were returning, they entered a
copse, where grew the wild honeysuckle,
mingling its premature fruit with its early
flowers. Bowman stepped out to gather some
of the former, Melissa remaining in the carriage.
While thus engaged, the report of a
gun, fired by a sportsman, was heard just by
them. Alarmed at the noise, the horses
sprang forward, and ran, furiously, along
the road till they came to an opening, when
they took to the fields. Melissa endeavoured
to stop them, but her strength was insufficient.
They hurried her towards a dangerous declivity.
At that moment, a gentleman who was
journeying on the road, perceiving her perilous
situation, spurred his horse at full speed,
came up with the curricle, and, at the risk of
his life, stopped the career of the horses,
just as they were on the point of plunging
down a steep, rocky precipice, which must
have dashed the carriage to atoms, and precipitated
Melissa into eternity. The sudden
check flung her to the ground; the gentleman
alighted, and raised her. She had not fainted,
but with the fright, and the shock
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
received by the fall, her senses were, for a moment,
bewildered. She immediately revived,
so as to thank her preserver in terms of the
most ardent gratitude. He was satisfied, he
said, provided she was safe, but he was apprehensive
she had received serious injury.
She assured him the effect was but slight.
Bowman soon came up, and joined in presenting
acknowledgements to the stranger.
The parties were shortly prepared for separation,
Bowman and Miss Bloomfield to pursue
their route homeward, and the stranger
his journey. For so short an acquaintance,
the parting seemed affectionate; considering
the circumstances, no wonder it should be so.
After renewed salutation the gentleman
mounted his horse, and the carriage moved
on. When at some distance, Melissa, perhaps
involuntarily, looked back; the stranger
remained still fixed to the spot where they had
left him, gazing stedfastly after them. Perceiving
that she observed him, he instantly
turned his horse, and gallopped swiftly away.
From the incidents which had thus occurred,
Miss Bloomfield became so indisposed,
that, by the time they reached home, she was
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
scarcely able to retain her seat. The family,
alarmed at her situation, gathered around
her, anxiously inquiring the cause of her illness,
of which Bowman gave them an account.
A physician was immediately called, who,
after prescribing, intimated that rest and quietness
would tend to restore her. She took a
composing preparation, and retired to bed, her
parents and Edgar watching, alternately, by
her pillow. After a short slumber, she appeared
very restless, and before morning was
attacked with a high fever. The physician
was again sent for, who advised bleeding,
which being performed, and a gentle anodyne
administered, she soon sank into calm sleep,
and when she awoke, found herself much
better, and entirely free from fever; but for
several days she was not able to leave her
room, during which, Bowman daily visited
her and endeavoured to cheer her spirits,
sometimes by reading to her from authors he
knew she admired; at others, in sketching
subjects for her pencil, in the use of which
she was not an ordinary proficient; or in selecting
airs for her harpsichord, which she
touched with excellent skill and admirable
pathos.
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
In reflecting upon the late circumstances of
her preservation, Melissa considered the event
as almost miraculous. When in the carriage,
whirled along by impetuous horses, rendered
frantic by affright, she saw herself on the
verge of a tremendous precipice, ready to
be plunged, and dashed to pieces, among the
rocks below, she recommended her soul to its
Creator, and gave herself up as lost. Thus
suddenly, and casually, to be snatched from,
to the human eye, inevitable death, impressed
her mind with sensations not to be
obliterated. The agitation of her senses,
more than bodily injury, had produced illness.
From the fall she experienced no other inconvenience
than a severe shock, the effects
of which were not serious.
But who was the person by whose unexpected
interposition she had been thus wonderfully
preserved? Yet why should she ask this
question? Who would not have done the same
in like circumstances? A stranger, journeying
on the road, perceives a fellow-creature in
imminent danger, and extends the hand of
relief. This was all that had been done;
still, she could not help viewing him as her
guardian angel, and feeling a strong curiosity
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
to know who he was. To her, he appeared
about twenty years of age, and she imagined
she had never seen a person whose manners
and address, on a single introduction, were
so prepossessing. Thus it is with the generous
heart; a disinterested favour conferred
thereon, especially if the act tends to extricate
from perilous situations, calls forth all its
gratitude, all its acknowledgements. From
circumstances attending the event, Melissa
beheld the stranger in a different point of light,
probably, than she would have done in any
other way he could have been introduced.
She was soon able to walk abroad, and indulge
in her favourite rambles over her father's
grounds, or to assist her mother in domestic
employments, to which she daily devoted
some hours, when at home, and unengaged
by company. Edgar aided his father
in managing the concerns of his landed estates,
in collecting his rents, and settling
with his tenants. Bowman had returned to
New-London.
As has been mentioned, Melissa's aunt,
who now resided with Col. Bloomfield, possessed
the reversion of several farms, the
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
tenants of which it was her custom, at stated
periods, to visit, for the purpose of receiving
her rents, and to see how they managed matters.
If any of them failed in punctual payment,
or if they did not conduct affairs to
her satisfaction, she made no scruple in turning
them off at quarter-day, and supplying
their places with others, more agreeable to
her mind. This, she said, was keeping a
“sharp look out,” though in consequence of
such sharpness, her lands were, generally, in
a bad state of cultivation; for the renters not
knowing whether they should hold possession
over one year, the term for which her leases
were given, improved only the best part,
leaving the remainder to its fate. Some of
those farms lay a considerable distance in the
country.
On one of those visiting tours she invited
her niece to accompany her, who readily assented.
They travelled in a chaise, attended
by a servant. The road was rough and uneven,
which, with the intense heat of a summer
sun, caused Melissa, before night, to complain
of a violent headache. She, however,
proceeded on till late in the evening, as her
aunt wished to reach the residence of a Mr.
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
Bergher, one of her principal agents, who had
formerly rented some of her possessions, and
still lived near them. He kept an excellent
house, she said, was, as well as his wife, a
foreigner, but a very honest man, and had,
from extreme poverty, arisen to affluence,
within a few years. His wife, she farther
observed, appeared to possess the characteristics
and qualifications of high life; it had
been rumoured that some very singular circumstances
attended their history, but of
what nature they were, she could never discover.
It was late when they reached the house of
Bergher. Melissa was too ill to take any kind
of refreshment, and soon retired to rest. By
morning the pain in her head abated, but left
her extremely languid and faint; her aunt,
therefore, advised her to tarry there until she
should return, which, she assured her, would
be “in a few days at farthest;” the family
joined in the advice, and Melissa, considering
herself too feeble to continue the journey,
consented. Miss Martha, after seeing her
accommodated with every convenience, and
charging Mrs. Bergher to “mind and take
good care of her,” departed.
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
The Bergher family, exclusive of servants,
consisted of the parents, and five children;
the eldest was a son, about twenty-two years
old; the second, a daughter, aged about nineteen;
the others, a son and two daughters,
were yet in childhood and infancy. Bergher
appeared about forty-five years of age, his
wife a little younger; she was a woman of
amiable manners, and of deportment which
evinced her having been acquainted with the
courtly circles of life; though faded, she
still retained the traits of former beauty. The
countenance of Bergher was open and frank,
but spoke firmness, fortitude and decision.
The children were amiable and lovely, but
knew little of the world, having never mixed
much in company.
A separate chamber was assigned to Miss
Bloomfield, who, from the family, received the
politest attention. She had brought a few
books in her trunk, with which she could amuse
herself in the absence of her aunt, the
day after whose departure, she experienced
returning health, and walked out to view the
surrounding scenery.
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An extended tract of cultivated land was
spread around the habitation of Bergher, variegated
with young harvests, meadows, corn
and clover fields, orchards and wood-lots.
The house was not elegant, but ample and
convenient, as were, also, the barns, cribs, and
granaries. On an adjacent stream stood those
useful, and in a new country, indispensible
engines, a grist, and saw-mill. An old log-hut,
the emblem of former wretchedness,
nearly adjoined one of the out houses; it
was constructed of the rudest materials, and
pointed with clay; the chimney was composed
of rough stone and mortar, taken from
the fields around; it contained but one room,
of about twenty feet square; slabs were its
roof, and for windows, small holes were cut
through the logs. It was now falling into
ruins, and served only for a hog-pen; there
the farmer fattened his swine, where formerly
he fed his children.
With Katherine, and sometimes attended
also by Roderick, the two eldest children,
Melissa frequently wandered about the plantation.
From a high eminence the eye surveyed
a wide and varying landscape, glowing in voluptuous
vegetation; and a glimpse of the
-- 055 --
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distant Sound, appearing like a blue streak of
painted glass, bordered on each side with
fringes of native green, over which slept the
light clouds of summer, as if rejoicing to repose
on the bosom of their parent element.
Returning, one afternoon, from a solitary
ramble, she saw a man in a sulkey, driving
towards the house, with a servant on horse-back
behind him. His dress attracted Melissa's
attention; he wore a scarlet coat, deeply
trimmed with gold lace, a yellow vest,
richly embroidered, with a large star, wrought
in silver, on the breast; in his hat was a costly
plume of feathers, decorated with a valuable
diamond. She entered the house, and
the stranger soon after. To appearance, he
was about fifty years old, of stately mien
and commanding aspect. Politely bowing to
all present, he spoke in a language Melissa
did not understand; Mrs. Bergher started,
and gazing at him with apparent amazement,
uttered an exclamation of surprise, and fainted.
The gentleman raised her, Katherine
flew to her, sprinkled water in her face, and
she revived. “Oh my brother!” she exclaimed,
“Is it possible you yet live?” She
said something more, to which the stranger,
-- 056 --
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who seemed much affected, replied; but they
conversed in a foreign language. The youngest
boy was ordered to call his father from
the field, and Melissa, who had caught the
sympathetic infection, thinking her presence
might be obtrusive, retired to her chamber.
At supper, the stranger was introduced to
her by the title and appellation of the Baron
Du Ruyter, a brother of Mrs. Bergher. His
address was easy, disgnified and respectful;
he spoke the English language imperfectly.
Surprise, and inquisitive anxiety, were excited
in the mind of Melissa. What her aunt
had said respecting the Bergher family recurred
to her memory. That they were connected
with nobility was now evident; but
of what nation, why they had abandoned their
country in indigence, and so long been excluded
from the world, were circumstances
she would willingly have heard explained, but
improper, as she believed, for her to inquire
into.
The next morning Mrs. Bergher entered
Melissa's chamber, and after being seated,
thus addressed her:
-- 057 --
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“You, probably, Miss Bloomfield, were
surprised at my emotions, yesterday, on the
arrival of my brother; but your wonder would
cease if you knew my reasons; they include
something more than a meeting between such
tender friends, after so long an absence.”
“They evinced feelings which I shall ever
venerate,” said Melissa, “and I seek no farther
explanation.”
“I never had any other brother,” continued
Mrs. Bergher, “and in the most trying time
of my life, he was, almost my only friend.
We were parted many, very many years ago,
by tragical events, since which time I have
supposed, nay, confidently believed him in the
silent grave. Judge then of my feelings on
seeing him suddenly stand before me, on
hearing his voice pronounce the name of sister,
on thus receiving him as from the dead!
From what you have seen and heard, you,
no doubt, conjecture that singular incidents
have attended our lives; you are right; singular,
and extraordinary indeed are the records
of our fortune. You are young, Miss
Bloomfield, and as yet, can have seen but little
of the world, and of course, know nothing
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
of sorrow; I hope you never may. If my
history could be of any service to you—but
I think it never can; it is impossible you
should ever be placed in circumstances subject
to the dangers I have experienced, or the difficulties
I have encountered.
“I could not wish to intrude upon your family
secrets,” replied Melissa, “or request a
narrative of your life, if the recital would
give you the least pain.”
“By the arrival of my brother,” returned
Mrs. Bergher, “we are relieved from anxieties
and embarrassments which, for several
years, have rendered, as it respects our affairs,
secrecy, silence, and seclusion, indispensible;
this being the case, we can experience
no reluctance in disclosing, to the
world, if necessary, the whole transactions
of our past lives. I have written, at different
periods, an abstract of the principal scenes in
which I have been an actress, with the attending
occurrences, from my earliest childhood.
Some part thereof was originally written
in the German language; but since our settlement
in this country it has been revised
and translated into English by Bergher. This
-- 059 --
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abstract, however, is incomplete, owing to
the mystery in which certain events were involved
when we left our native country; my
brother has elucidated them, which enables
me to supply the deficiencies in my narrative,
and which I shall immediately do, as I design
to preserve it as a memorial for my children.
“You, Miss Bloomfield, are the first person
to whom I have revealed so much; and I
am pleased that it is so. I shall ever consider
myself under obligations to your family;
they assisted us when we were strangers and
destitute, poor and friendless; they aided
and relieved us in our distress, without even
the prospect of reward. I wish them, now,
to become acquainted with our history; I
can cheerfully entrust you with a perusal of
my journal, and will”—At this moment
Katherine entered the chamber to inform them
breakfast was waiting, and her mother discontinued
her discourse.
It was four days after this before Miss Martha
returned, during which time, with that
anxiety attendant on curiosity, Melissa had
expected that Mrs. Bergher would have renewed
the subject she left unfinished, when
-- 060 --
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interrupted by Katherine; but in this expectation
she was disappointed.
It was early in the morning when her aunt
arrived, having slept at the house of one of
her tenants a few miles off, probably to save
expense. She requested her niece to “get
ready as fast as possible, as she meant to
reach home that night.” While Melissa was
preparing, Mrs. Bergher came to her chamber,
and putting into her hands a packet,
“Here,” said she, “are the outlines of my
history, make such use thereof as you please,
only return me the manuscript, which I wish
to retain for the purposes I have mentioned.
It may tend to amuse you, nor is it impossible
but it may serve as a beacon to guide your
footsteps in some wildering maze of your
future life.”
They were soon ready to depart. Melissa
took a tender leave of the family, to whom
she had become greatly attached. Bergher
and the Baron had, the day previous, gone to
a neighbouring town, on some business, and
had not returned. She did not, therefore,
inform her aunt of Du Ruyter's arrival,
-- 061 --
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determined first to peruse the manuscript, when
she would be better prepared to make the disclosure.
They reached home by sunset; the
next day she opened the packet, and at intervals
read as in the succeeding pages.
-- 062 --
CHAPTER II.
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
Then, round melodious fields, I play'd;
My heart could mount no lighter;
Or, midst rich, odourous lilies, stray'd—
As white as they—and whiter.
Osborn.
My father was the Baron Du Ruyter, a German
nobleman of the first distinction, and
high in favour with the Emperor. Of four
children, a son and three daughters, I was
the youngest. Both my sisters married noblemen
at an early age. Before I was fifteen
years old I had the misfortune to lose a very
tender and affectionate mother, whose death I
ever had the greatest reason to deplore.
In the gay and populous city of Vienna,
where my father resided, it was impossible but
that I must have been early introduced into
fashionable society; even during the life of
my mother, I became acquainted with the various
amusements of parties, balls, theatres,
and drawing-rooms, and having been
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
introduced at court, numerous were the gilded
triflers who fluttered around me, with real or
affected professions of respect and admiration.
Shrounded in sables by the melancholy event
I have mentioned, we were, for a season, relieved
from the incessant bustle of company;
but no sooner were the days of formal mourning
ended, than we were, again, hurried the
giddy rounds of fashion. Plays, operas, assemblies,
levees, masquerades; visiting and
receiving visits, followed each other in constant
succession; these, however pleasing
at first, became tiresome by continual repetition—
I may say, disgusting, at least, they
were so to me; sick of their tedious uniformity,
I have frequently stolen away from
the most brilliant circles, when pleasure and
joy danced lightest among them, to indulge in
a solitary ramble on some favourite spot, where
my deceased mother once delighted to wander.
The flower-bed, the arbour, the alcove,
the cascade, were rendered doubly dear to
me, for having been valued by her. Languidly
pensive, would I return to the haunts of
gaiety, the rattling of coaches, and the tumultuous
scenes of convivial grandeur.
-- 064 --
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Of those who professed themselves my
most ardent admirers, the Count Hubert stood
foremost. His age was several years in advance
of mine. He was very rich, and nearly
related to the reigning prince, by whom he
was held in high estimation. I cannot say
but that I was flattered by this nobleman's attention.
As to wealth, and family eminence,
he had few superiors; not only these, but his
manners and demeanour, commanded respect,
as he was more the original than the
copyist of what is esteemed elegance and refinement
in the most elevated circles. His
address, I considered, neither winning nor
repulsive, but his particularity to me was sufficient
to excite envy in the bosoms of other
ladies, who evinced it by arts of rivalship.
My vanity, perhaps, took alarm, but I retaliated
in no other way than by enjoying
their chagrin and vexation.
Soon after I entered my eighteenth year,
my father married a second wife, the daughter
of a reduced nobleman. She brought him
no property, but she possessed a disposition
to expend his fortune, though it was considered
splendid. She entered into almost every
kind of courtly extravagance, and was,
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
besides, passionately fond of deep play. She
was young and beautiful; my father, who
tenderly loved her, thought not of restraining
her propensities; consequently, in about two
years after his marriage, he found his pecuniary
affairs in rapid decline.
Considering her my stepmother, I endeavoured
to yield her the respect that station demanded,
and to render myself agreeable to
her; but she generally received my advances
and attentions with reserve and coolness.
She wished to shine, unobstructed by shade.
I was considered as crossing her purposes. I
had the advantage of her in the acquirements
and improvements of education; flattery had,
perhaps, taught me to suppose I possessed personal
accomplishments, and that even beauty
was among them. At any rate, she wished
me disposed of by marriage, and would frequently
teaze the Baron on the subject.
These, however, were my days of bliss.
I was young, inspired with animation, honoured
and esteemed. Free from undue restraint,
I knew nothing of care, and had
but on one occasion in my life been acquainted
with sorrow. The anguish inflicted by
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
the death of my mother subsided with time,
and left my affections in harmony with a calm,
pensive serenity, which impressed pleasing
sensations on the heart. I could now reflect
on her tender cares, her parental solicitudes
and anxieties, and her last advice, without
experiencing those keen pangs of distress
the bereavement at first excited.
I was particularly delighted when, retiring
from town, we passed a few weeks, in the
summer season, at the Baron's villa in the
country. There could I wander over the
fields, gay with flowers and rich in verdure;
trace the course of some winding brook, as it
slid smoothly through willowy meadows, then
rushed a torrent down precipitate declivities;
or ramble along the verge of woodlands,
while the sprightly notes of a thousand various
birds, animated the scene with a brilliant
luxuriance of life and cheerfulness.
In the city, I could have access to these
pleasures but in miniature. The greens, the
groves, the fountains, were confined to a
narrow tract of ground adjoining my father's
mansion; still these, with my aviary, my
drawing apparatus, and my library, served as
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
a welcome relief to the monotonous rotation
of courtly splendour.
One day, as I was watering some flowers in
the garden, my father came to me—“These
are beautiful flowers, Selina,” said he.
“Yes, Sir,” I replied, “such as my angel
mother was extremely fond of.”
The Baron sighed—“Your mother was
an excellent woman, Selina; she is now, indeed,
an angel.”
“I hope so, Sir; I believe so.—She is now
in Heaven.”
He paused; and walked from me. After
strolling for some time around the garden,
he returned. I had gathered a bunch of
flowers, and was assorting them as fancy dictated—
“Are you preparing a boquette for
Count Hubert?” said he, gaily.
“For my flower-vase, Sir,” I replied
smiling.
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
“How do you like the Count?” he asked
carelessly.
“Very well, Sir,” I answered, “I believe
he is a worthy man.”
“Speak frankly, my daughter,” said my
father with more earnestness, “do you love
Hubert?”
“Oh, no, Sir,” I returned, “I have never
loved any person, except you, Sir, my lamented
mother, my brother, and my sisters.”
“Do you not, then, esteem the Count?”
said he, fixing upon me an inquisitive eye.
“Certainly I do;” I replied, “there are
few, if any, I more highly esteem, except
those I have mentioned.”
“You have ever been a dutiful daughter,
Selina,” said the Baron, tenderly, “and my
wish is to see you happily settled in life, as
are your sisters. You have lost an affectionate
mother; the time may come when you
will also be deprived of your father. Left
parentless, you know not, you cannot
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
anticipate what difficulties, what dangers, you may
have to encounter. The Count Hubert honours
us by offering you his hand; with a
person of his rank and accomplishments, his
wealth and eminence, you can scarcely fail of
being happy. You regard him, perhaps love
him, as he does you, with most sincere affection;
at any rate, if nothing more, he is,
as you have acknowledged, high in your estimation,
and esteem will increase to love,
when you become his wife. That romantic
passion you read of in novels, seldom exists;
and when experienced tends only to render its
subjects miserable. Real love, as your favourite
Gesner tells you, is founded, not in
fancy, but in reason. I leave you to contemplate
on what I have proposed; I demand no
hasty decision, but at some short future day,
shall expect your answer. In the mean time
reflect,” he continued, with more ardency
and emotion, “that in receiving the Count for
your husband, you confer the highest felicity
on him, ensure your own happiness and respectability,
and in a very particular manner
oblige an affectionate father.” Thus saying,
he left me, and walked into the house.
-- 070 --
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On retiring to my room I sat down, seriously
to consider the Baron's observations. The
proposition was as unexpected as sudden.
Hubert had said many tender things to me;
so had others; I esteemed them as nothing
more than the effusions of gallantry and politeness.
If he had been more expressive
than others, I had scarcely noticed it, or, at
least, not so as to have retained the impression.
My father's remarks carried conviction.
One parent I had lost; should the other be
taken from me, where, then, would be my
guide, my adviser, my protector? Count
Hubert, I believed, was all my father had
said of him. But I, then, knew not why, yet
I shuddered at the thoughts of marriage. In
some degree, it appeared synonimous with
death. Both, to me, were future and untried
states, which could be realized only by experience.
True, we saw people marrying daily,
and daily we saw people die; but until
we, ourselves, marry or die, we cannot be
certain that we have any correct ideas of the
events produced by the change.
Then I felt an extreme reluctance to leave
the place of my nativity; I wished, a little
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
longer, to linger among the scenes of my
childhood, where mementos, dear to my remembrance,
presented at every winding of an
alley, every turning of an avenue.
But did I really love Count Hubert? Not as
I loved my parents, sisters, or my brother;
but no man I had seen stood higher in my estimation.
Esteem, my father said, would
ripen into love, after we were joined in wed-lock.
I placed no reliance on the extravagant tales
I had read in romances, where love is depicted
as pressing into its service, and often annihilating,
every other passion of the soul.
They were, I supposed, only the fictions of
a luxuriant fancy, and existed nowhere but
in the imagination.
Then did not my sentiments respecting Hubert
comprise all the affection necessary for
the married state? I had been taught to love
God for his goodness to me. Hubert had
ever been good to me, and now, more particularly,
manifested his tenderness by desiring
to make me his own. I loved God—
I loved Hubert. Pardon the comparison;
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
such were then the crratic wanderings of my
unsophisticated mind.
I therefore came to the resolution of informing
the Baron, whenever he should again
mention the subject, that I would accept
Count Hubert for a husband. I experienced
a peculiar pleasure in this, as my father's last
emphatic words still sounded in my ears, that
thereby I should in a very particular manner
oblige an affectionate parent. He had
placed strong emphasis on the words “very
particular manner,” but why he had done
so, I knew not. Having formed this decision,
I determined to carry it into effect; still
the similarity between marriage and death
would often strike me, and, at times, I
thought I would as willingly have become a
ghost as a bride.
Count Hubert continued his addresses, and
situated as I considered myself, I believed it
not amiss to let him discover that I gave them
preference. With this, my father I perceived,
was highly pleased, and the Count
did not confine his gratitude to silence.
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
My brother having received a military education,
entered the army while young. A vigourous
war, at that time existing, the field
was his theatre, where he was advanced to
the head of a regiment; but peace being concluded,
he, about this time, returned to Vienna.
He was a few years older than I, and
between us had ever existed the tenderest affection.
To him I related my situation respecting
Hubert; he heard me with attention,
and after pausing, replied, “I hope, Selina,
you have critically examined your heart before
you concluded to alter, for life, your
condition.” The remark was impressive, but
I could not tell why; I only answered that I
thought I had.
Several officers of the army were now introduced
into our circle; among them was one of
the same rank, about the same age, and a particular
friend and intimate, of my brother. His
father was an Englishman, who, on account of
some troubles experienced in his own country,
came over to try his fortune at Vienna, where
he married a German lady, by whom he had
but one child, who, being a son, he designed
for an extensive liberal education. The
boy was, therefore, put to school,
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
accordingly, but before he attained the age of sixteen
years, his mother died. The disconsolate
father, soon after, entered the Austrian service,
taking the youth with him; he, finally,
fell in battle, leaving his son a soldier of
fortune, without other patrimony than a
sword and a lieutenancy, from which, by
merit alone, he had risen to the rank of colonel.
His name was Barker, which, to accommodate
the German pronunciation, he had
changed to Bergher.
The manners and address of Bergher were
pleasing and attractive; and as the officers of
his grade were admitted, in the first circles,
on equal grounds with the nobility, he was
seldom absent from our parties; this, with
the intimacy subsisting between him and my
brother, gave him free access to my father's
house.
I did not consider it improper to treat my
brother's friend, and a gentleman of Col.
Bergher's character and standing, with particular
politeness; he was, therefore, generally
my escort and attendant, in the absence
of the Count, to whom, however, he always
gave place. But my mind soon began to
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
discriminate, and draw comparisons between
them. In the society of Bergher, my spirits
were all cheerfulness and gaiety; the presence
of Hubert cast a melancholy gloom over my
feelings. If the former was away, I felt an
uneasiness and an anxiety for his return; involuntarily
I took an interest in his welfare;
while the attentions of the latter became insipid
and oppressive. Though I knew not
the occasion of these impressions, yet I tried,
but in vain, to resist them; still, I could not
perceive that I was wrong in thus deducing
inferences and forming conclusions from
objects spontaneously forced upon my judgment
and understanding, as my will could
have no agency in the matter; yet I endeavoured
to conceal the real state of my mind,
and, for the first time in my life, experienced
those painful sensations ever attending duplicity.
The jealousy, however, of my stepmother,
and the steady vigilance of the Count,
did not permit me long to remain in my fancied
security, the bitter consequences of
which I soon encountered, with unusual severity.
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[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
Du Ruyter, my brother, came to my chamber
one day, and, with a soldier's frankness,
thus accosted me:
“Selina,” said he, “Bergher loves you,
and if I am not mistaken, you do not feel
perfectly indifferent towards him. If this be
the case, neither Hubert's riches, nor his title,
can make you happy. Does the Baron still
continue to press the Count's suit?”
“He has never spoken to me but once on
the subject,” I answered.
“Then possibly,” resumed Du Ruyter,
“he may have relinquished his preference.
The only advantage the Count can possess
over Bergher, is property; with the Baron,
this may be an important consideration, but
so it ought not to be with you, when apprised
that it is in my power to place you in independent
circumstances, which, with great
pleasure, I will do, should you be inclined
to give your hand to my friend. I think I
can readily perceive that, to Hubert, you
have no tender attachments; nor is it surprising;
if nothing else, the disparity of age
is a sufficient objection to your union: you
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
are not yet twenty years old; he is bordering
on forty. There are other considerations,
perhaps, more important: he is a man of a
haughty and unyielding spirit. If my information
be correct, he has not, at all times,
treated your sex with suitable dignity, I believe,
I might say, with proper delicacy; and
if I understand his character and temper,
they are not very happily cast, nor calculated
to increase the felicity of the married state.
Such are my sentiments; but should I have
formed erroneous opinions, you will be candid
enough to tell me so, and the matter shall
end here. My desire is to see you happy,
Selina; I will, therefore, only repeat my advice,
that you consult well your own heart,
and whatever may be your decision, I doubt
not but our father may be persuaded to acquiesce
in it. What says my sister; shall I await
your answer?”
While Du Ruyter was speaking, my blood
circled with accelerated motion; I felt my
cheeks glow, and with stammering embarrassment
replied:
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
“Does my brother act, in this affair, as the
agent and by the request of his friend, or
merely from motives of his own?”
“In concert with all these,” he archly rejoined,
“and, I cannot but hope, in unison
with the feelings and sentiments, also, of
another person.”
Without raising my eyes from the floor,
and glad to dismiss the subject, “Call again,”
said I, “this evening, when, possibly, I may
be better prepared to give an answer.”
“And must I come alone?” he asked,
quickly.
“Alone, or not renew the subject,” I, as
hastily, replied.
“It shall be so,” he said, and departed.
It was not until this moment that a true
conviction of my real situation flashed upon
me. I now perceived, and was surprised
that I had not discovered before, the real difference
of my sentiments, respecting the
Count and Bergher. I rejoiced that the
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
Baron had not, again, spoken to me on the
subject of marriage, at a time, too, when
my resolution was formed to comply with
his wishes, and I deeply regretted having
even tacitly given to the addresses of Hubert,
the least encouragement.
I reflected on Du Ruyter's generous proposal
of sharing, with me, his fortune. I knew
that, separate from patrimonial expectations,
a large estate had devolved upon him by the
death of an uncle, so that, should events
render it necessary, it would be in his power
to fulfil his benevolent intentions. But yet, I
shuddered at the idea of acting counter to
the will, or even the expectations of my father,
and I much doubted whether he, or rather
his lady, who now appeared, entirely,
to govern him, would consent to relinquish
prospects of grandeur and wealth, for what
they would esteem plebeianism and poverty.
The ensuing evening I was disappointed in
the prospect of a private conversation with
my brother, a large party calling in, unexpectedly
upon us, and not retiring until a very
late hour. Hubert was among them, and
paid me, as I thought, attentions more than
-- 080 --
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
usually particular. It was impossible for me
to receive them but with considerable coolness.
Lady Du Ruyter was present, and I
perceived my conduct did not escape her
marked disapprobation.
The next morning, soon after breakfast, I
received a summons to attend the Baron in his
closet, whither I immediately repaired. He
received me cheerfully, and with accustomed
tenderness. After some common conversation,
he thus introduced the subject to which
he had called my attention.
“Hitherto,” said he, “Selina, I have forborne
to renew a conversation I held with you
some time since, respecting your alliance with
the Count Hubert, because, if I have not
mistaken appearances, your own inclinations
preclude the necessity of my making use of
any arguments in his favour; but as the
Count is anxious for the completion of his
joyful expectations, and experiencing a delicacy
as to urging the matter himself, he has
desired me to request your fixing the day of
marriage, for which purpose I have sent for
you here this morning.”
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[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
My father paused—I was silent.
“If,” he continued, “you are not already
prepared to name the day, you may give me
your answer this evening.”
“In conformity to your choice, Sir,” said
I, “I have admitted the Count's attentions;
the same motives would induce me to receive
him as my companion through life, could I
do so consistent with my peace of mind.”
“And is, then, a union with Hubert calculated
to destroy your peace?” he inquired.
“Most certainly it is,” I returned, “or I
would not refuse him, since he is selected by
you, Sir.”
“This is strange,” he resumed, “strange
indeed, that you should so soon have changed
your mind, or rather, so suddenly discovered
its versatility. You have gone too far to retract,
Selina.”
“How, gone too far, Sir?” I asked.
-- 082 --
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“In actions, I mean,” he replied, “which
are generally considered the most expressive
language of the heart. By actions you have
encouraged the Count's addresses; by actions
you have declared that you preferred them
to those of any other; by actions you have
raised hopes and expectations, which, now,
to defeat and disappoint, would be an insult
of the most glaring nature, and involve your
family in deep and dishonourable embarrassments.
You must marry the Count, Selina.”
“Would you, willingly, render your daughter
for ever unhappy, Sir?”
“No,” he answered, sighing; “and, therefore,
I say, you must marry the Count. It
is by following the wildfires of fancy that we
render ourselves unhappy. You have said
that you esteemed Hubert; I have told you
that, in the married state, love will succeed
esteem.”
“My dear father,” I exclaimed, and my
tears flowed, “I can never love the Count.”
“Have you not tender attachments to some
other person?” inquired he, hastily, and fixing
a scrutinizing eye upon me.
-- 083 --
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“I hope, Sir,” I rejoined, I may never be
so unfortunate as to place my regards on one
unworthy my father's approbation.
“This is disingenuously evading my question,
Selina,” he returned; “it is suspected
that Col. Bergher has rivalled the Count in
your affections, and that he has the presumption
to aspire to your hand. I trust, you too
highly value the honour and dignity of your
family, ever to think of connecting yourself
with a person of his station in life; but
should you be so imprudent, remember that
you never will obtain your father's consent to
so degrading a union. Go now to your chamber;
consider the matter well, and reflect
on the consequences to be expected from disobedience
to a parent, on whom rests all your
earthly dependence.” I retired, not to deliberate
reflection, but to weep. And now I
firstly perceived the gloomy clouds of sorrow
and affliction fast gathering over my future
prospects.
That day I had an interview with Du Ruyter,
to whom I related all that had passed. He
seemed not surprised, but appeared affected.
After pausing, “This,” said he, “is the work
-- 084 --
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of our new mother; I will have a conversation
with the Baron relative to the subject.” On
the effect of this conference, rested my hopes,
as I knew my father placed great reliance on
my brother's opinion.
The next day, as I sat embroidering a tiara,
Lady Du Ruyter came into the room, and,
with more seeming complacency than she
usually manifested towards me—“Selina,”
she said, “that is a very beautiful head-dress;
is it intended as a bridal ornament?”
“It is for myself, Madam,” I replied.
“So I supposed,” she returned; “and
when is your marriage with Count Hubert to
be celebrated?”
“I did not know as that event had been determined.”
“Not determined!” she exclaimed; “your
marriage with Count Hubert not determined!”
“Certainly not,” said I, “unless it be
without my knowledge or consent.”
-- 085 --
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“Then I must have been misinformed by
the Baron, your father.”
“Did he inform you otherwise, Madam?”
I asked.
“Surely he did,” she answered, “and
told me, too, that the wedding was soon to
take place. I understand, also, that the
Count considers you as his affianced bride.”
“I have entered into no such affiances.”
“But suppose your father has?”
“He must, if he please, perform them.”
“I should think,” she continued, “that
however you may esteem the Baron's counsel
and advice, you would scarcely have the confidence
to resist his commands.”
“I never have resisted them,” I returned,
“and trust he will not give me occasion to
dispute them, at least, if left to decide for
himself.”
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
“And he, only, ought to decide, in so momentous
an affair as your establishment for
life.”
“When you married the Baron,” said I,
“did you consult your own interests and feelings,
or leave others to do it for you?”
She reddened, bit her lips, and was for
some time silent—“I, thereby, neither disappointed
the expectations of my friends,
nor dishonoured the name of my family,”
she, tartly, replied.
“I trust not,” I coolly rejoined, “and yet
if all parties concerned had not approved the
procedure, would you have acted differently?”
The words “all parties,” I could perceive,
galled her; for she well knew that the connexions
of my father were decidedly opposed
to the match.
“I shall not condescend to dispute points
with you,” returned she; “I am no stranger
to your romantic predilection for Col.
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
Bergher; but I presume the Baron will never permit
you to disgrace his family, by casting
yourself away on an untitled and moneyless
adventurer.”
“Then, I presume, the Baron is the fittest
person to tell me so.”
“You grow insolent, Miss.”
“I hope not. I would wish to treat every
person with due respect, whom my father
may suppose entitled to it.”
“Impudence! And by language like this-do
you evince your respect to me?”
“I sought neither this interview, Madam,
nor the conversation resulting from it.”
“But I did, Miss impertinence, and for
the express purpose of apprising you, that
unless you instantly consent to become the
wife of Count Hubert, speedy measures will
be taken to correct your taste, and to convince
you that there is some little difference between
a nobleman and a beggar.”
-- 088 --
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With this keen faunt she left me, fury
flashing from her eyes.
Though my spirits, from irritation, perhaps,
had been kept up, in the presence of
Lady Du Ruyter, yes they sank the moment
she retired, and a flood of tears burst from
my eyes. I knew that this woman held unlimited
influence over my father; that me
she hated, and that from her I had nothing
to expect but persecution; and as now
she was extremely exasperated, I had reason
to dread the consequences. I, therefore, anxiously
waited the result of Du Ruyter's interview
with the Baron. If my father's determination
could, possibly, be changed, his
son only could effect it. On this point rested
my hopes; if it failed, then must I be dreadfully
and irretrievably lost.
-- --
CHAPTER III.
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
Now pain, and grief, each half-form'd joy invade,
And suns, gay rising, set in mournful shade.
Dwight.
It was not until the afternoon of the succeeding
day, that I had an opportunity of
discoursing with my brother; we then retired
to the alcove in the garden, as previously
agreed on, when he related the circumstances
of his conversation with my father,
as follows:
“I have had a conference with the Baron,”
said he, “and am now prepared to apprise
you of his sentiments; his principal objection
to Bergher arises from family pride; his preference
of Hubert from another cause; by
the imprudence of Lady Du Ruyter, he has
become seriously involved in debt; to liquidate
which, he has borrowed considerable
sums of the Count, who engages to cancel
them all, on the consummation of his marriage
with you. I pointed out to our father,
in as forcible language as I was capable of
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
uttering, the impropriety of such a course;
convinced him that it was in my power to relieve
him from his present embarrassments;
told him that I had, recently, purchased large
estates in Saxony, on which I could, at any
time, raise money sufficient to meet his exigencies;
to this he listened with attention. I
then expatiated upon the honourable and unsullied
character of Bergher, whose only fault
being a want of property, I had determined
it should not operate to the unhappiness of
my sister, while I possessed an income so
much superior to my expenditures; and I
pressed for his consent to your union with the
man of your choice. He said he could not
hastily decide, but would take the matter into
consideration; I could perceive he was
moved, and have the most sanguine hopes
that he will, yet, act as becomes a tender
and indulgent parent.”
My brother's words gave me some consolation;
still I was not without fears, on account
of the malevolent disposition of my
stepmother, and the ascendance I knew she
held over the mind of my father.
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I had never acquired the art of disguising
my feelings; Hubert readily saw the preference
I gave to his rival; but he was a true
courtier, and affected not to perceive it. He
increased his assiduities and attentions, so
that, unless in his presence, Bergher now
saw me but seldom.
As I was one morning descending to the
breakfast parlour, I distinguished the voices
of my brother and the Count, in an adjoining
apartment; as they seemed in altercation, I
paused to listen, and overheard the following
laconic conversation:
“Permit me, therefore,” said Du Ruyter,
“to advise you to abandon a pursuit which
can but distress its object, while you gain nothing
thereby, except disappointment.”
“And did your comrade delegate to your
trust this important mission?” replied Hubert.
“The mission is my own, Sir,” answered
my brother, “and not executed without a
view to your benefit.”
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
“And what mighty boon does my benefactor
propose, in case I submit to his terms?”
rejoined the Count.
“The estimation, or, at least, not the detestation,
of a respectable family, and the reputation
of acting discreetly,” returned my
brother.
“Why now this is something,” said the
other; “it is something, indeed; but then I
humbly intreat permission to dispense with
your liberality, as a connexion or disconnexion
with the family of Du Ruyter is not
of stupendous consequence to the house of
Hubert.”
“Why then persist in those attentions
which, you cannot but perceive, must have
become not only displeasing, but oppressive?”
said Du Ruyter.
“To please my particular fancy, Sir.”
“Then, though it should displease that
peculiar fancy, I again advise you to desist.”
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
“No one, the Baron excepted, can justly
assume the privilege of imposing such advice.”
“But suppose,” continued my brother, “I
choose to assume that privilege, and therewith
take the liberty of offering my opinion
that the course you are pursuing is not honourable?”
“Then would I treat that opinion with contempt,”
retorted Hubert; “but considering it
shielded by the brother of Selina, might extend
severity no farther.”
“Neither Selina, nor her brother,” returned
Du Ruyter, “will claim lenity from the
gallantry or the bravery of the mighty Hubert,
nor will they grant him an additional
privilege for the display of those rare qualities.”
“Who, then, but a soldier,” exclaimed
the Count, haughtily, “could be at a loss in
determining the nice point your question embraces?”
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
“This house,” my brother, spiritedly, replied,
“has ever been a protection to all the
guests of the Baron Du Ruyter.”
“It is, indeed, a protection,” rejoined Hubert,
quickly, “and therefore I exchange it
for my lodgings at the Hotel du Val.”
Perceiving him advancing, I glided away,
tremblingly apprehensive that the consequence
of what I had heard could be nothing less
than a hostile interview. My brother appeared
at breakfast, nor did he seem, in the
least degree, agitated. Lady Du Ruyter inquired
why the Count was not present; the
Baron said he had excused himself on account
of previous engagements.
Business now called my father abroad for
some days, and Du Ruyter attended him;
during their absence, Hubert was almost
our constant visitor; but I had the pleasure
of observing that he attended more to the
Baron's lady than to me; I was rejoiced to
escape his addresses, by any means, for since
the altercation I had overheard between him
and my brother, he was more odious to me
than ever.
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
One morning, after I had engaged to ride
out with Bergher, the Count invited me to
take an airing in his chariot: I informed him
that I was previously engaged.
“Would it be improper,” he asked, “to
inquire into the disposition of those engagements?”
“By no means,” I answered: “a party of
pleasure, Sir.”
“Is it a civil or a military party?” he,
sneeringly, inquired.
“Civil, I trust, Sir,” I tartly replied, “unless
some impertinent coxcomb should intrude
himself among us.”
With all his confidence, he coloured deeply
at this retort. Recovering from his confusion—
“You have an undoubted right to select
your own parties, Madam,” he rejoined.
“On that point, I require neither information
nor instruction, Sir,” I returned.
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
He stood a few moments as indecisive
whether to prolong the conversation; then,
with the forced smile of mortified pride,
“My presence, I perceive, is unwelcome,”
said he; “I will therefore retire.”
As I made no reply, he withdrew, and for
a season I suffered no farther persecution
from his attentions; I could, however, perceive
that my movements were strictly observed
by himself and the Lady Du Ruyter.
Returning, one evening, from a visit, I was
informed, by the servant in waiting, that my
father had arrived that afternoon. Bergher,
who escorted me home, inquired for Du Ruyter;
the servant said he had stopped at the
seat of a neighbouring gentleman, and would
be in town the next day. The Baron having
retired to rest, I did not see him that night.
Nor did he appear at breakfast the next
morning; it was said he had rode out to his
villa, about six miles from Vienna.
About noon he returned, and immediately
summoned me to a private audience; I found
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
him in his study; as soon as I entered, he
shut the door, and began as follows:
“I find, Selina,” said he, “that you have,
not only, disregarded my counsel and advice,
but have, also, disobeyed my strict injunctions,
and most positive commands, by discarding
the Count Hubert, and receiving, as
your addresser, a man without property,
fame, or character, except the slender appendages
attached to the name and profession of
a soldier; thus hazarding, by a single act of
imprudence, not only your future peace and
felicity, but the honour and reputation of
your family; a family, dignified by an ennobled
genealogy, to remotest ancestry.”
“From a conversation with my brother,” I
replied, taking the advantage of a pause, “I
thought I had reason to expect that my father
had relaxed in”—
“Hear me out,” he sternly interrupted;
“your brother, thoughtlessly fascinated by
the semblance of honour, and blindly devoted
to improper attachments, formed in the camp,
is little better calculated to make correct distinctions
than yourself; think not, therefore,
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
that I shall relax in my determinations; for
could I yield to your sacrificing your own
happiness and respectability, I would never
consent to receive, as my son-in-law, a man
of Bergher's pretensions. Attend, then, my
final decision—You must either abandon
Bergher, and marry the Count, or your father
will abandon you.”
Sinking on my knees and bursting into tears,
I besought him to retract so harsh a decree.
“Grant me, my father,” said I, “but one request;
permit me to remain single, and I
solemnly promise to obey you in all things:
I will engage not to see the face of a single
person without your express approbation.
But I cannot—O my only parent!—it is
utterly impossible—I can never—never
consent to marry Count Hubert.”
“Obstinate and perverse girl,” he passionately
exclaimed, “hear then the doom that
awaits you; I shall prescribe your walks to
narrow limits, nor will you be permitted
even to go out without suitable attendance;
know, also, that the unworthy object of your
affections is forbidden, ever hereafter, to set
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
his foot within these walls.” He then commanded
me to retire, without reply.
With feelings not to be described I withdrew
to my room, where I passed the day in
the most excruciating anguish of mind. I
was now convinced that my brother's prospects
of reconciling the Baron to reason had
failed; I must consent to become the wife of
a man I despised, or forfeit the tenderness of
my only remaining parent, for ever; by either
of which my future days would be rendered
miserable.
In the afternoon Du Ruyter came to my
chamber: “I find you distressed, my sister,”
said he, as he entered, “and I well know
the occasion. I have been made acquainted
with every circumstance. Our father's will,
when correctly ascertained, we ought, if reasonable,
to obey; in the present instance he
does not act of himself, but by the advice,
and under the immediate influence of his lady;
to her authority we are not bound to
submit, especially when it tends to destroy
our peace, as in the case we now experience.
Your situation has become critical and interesting;
Bergher's visits here are interdicted;
-- 100 --
[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
you are watched, nay, already guarded as a
prisoner; unless you consent to marry the
Count you will be still more oppressed, and
most rigourously persecuted. I have learnt,
since my return, that, to keep you completely
in restraint, and out of the reach of
Bergher, you are soon to be sent, secretly,
to the Baron's villa in the country, where no
one is to have access to you except Hubert,
and the attendants, your guards; the Baron
has been there this morning to give orders
for an apartment to be fitted up for your reception.
In this dilemma, what course are
we to pursue?”
“Advise me,” I exclaimed, “advise me,
O my brother! I must rely on your counsel,
for I know not what to do, and have no one
else to consult; but death itself is preferable
to a union with Hubert.”
“You shall never be united to him,” he
returned, “if I have power to prevent it,
and for that purpose I have a proposition to
make, which demands your attentive consideration.”
“What is it?” I eagerly asked.
-- 101 --
[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
“To marry Bergher,” he replied.
I gazed at him with astonishment.
“Be not surprised,” said he, “at the proposal
of a secret marriage; your have no other
way of escape; you must be Bergher's or
Hubert's; the only alternative is wretchedness
and a prison. My plan is, that after your
union you retire, privately, with your husband,
to Saxony, where you can reside on
my estates until I have made your peace
with the Baron, which I am confident I can
do, when he experiences the effects of your
absence, reflects on his own conduct, and perceives
farther perseverance therein useless
and vain. Trust me, Selina, I know the temper
of our father; of the impropriety of Lady
Du Ruyter's advice and behaviour he must
shortly be convinced. His affection for his
children is powerful, and will soon return;
a reconciliation will then be effected, your
pardon granted, and with your consort you
will be honourably restored to favour and to
felicity.”
To paint the agitation of my mind, various
and fluctuating, would be impossible.
-- 102 --
[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]
But it was indispensible that I should come
to a speedy decision; and on what could I
decide but the course my brother had advised?
To be deserted by my only parent
perhaps I might have borne; but to be given
up the prisoner of the man I detested was
horror; was worse, far worse, than immediate
death. It is needless for me to detail—
The succeeding night, after the family were
all at rest, I was united to Bergher in my
own apartment. No one was present except
Du Ruyter and his chaplain, who married
us; not even my woman was entrusted with
the secret.
As it was necessary to make arrangements
for my departure, which Du Ruyter informed
me must soon take place, I was the next
morning preparing to go out to purchase a
few articles I wanted, when an order came
from the Baron forbidding my leaving the
house, and directing me to hold myself in
readiness to proceed, on the morrow, into
the country; I shuddered at the mandate,
and instantly sent for my brother. Soon as he
understood the matter, “Be not alarmed,”
said he, “we have only to use a little more
despatch; our project must be carried into
-- 103 --
[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
effect this very night. Can you trust your
maid?”
“I believe her to be honest, and firmly attached
to me,” I answered.
“Ply her liberally with this,” said he, presenting
me with a purse; “see if she can be
trusted, and if you find her faithful, let her
into your secret; I will be with you again in
an hour.” He then departed.
I called up my maid, and told her she
must go out and purchase a few articles at
the shops; “and here is money,” I continued,
“to buy yourself a new dress; or
what else you choose.”
“Thank you, Ma'amselle,” said she, curtseying,
“you are always so good.”
“So long as you are a good girl I shall do
well by you,” said I.
“You always have, Ma'am; I hope I may
never be so unlucky as to displease you,” she
returned.
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[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
“I think you love me, do you not, Doria?”
I said, carelessly.
“La! Ma'amselle,” she replied, “how
can you ask such a dreadful queer question?
Love you, Ma'am! If I thought you doubted
it I should die of vexation.”
“I do not doubt it, but I am in distress,
Doria,” I rejoined.
“I know it, Ma'amselle,” she answered, “I
know all about it; there's Catreen, my Lady's
maid, told me the other day, says she,
`don't you think,' says she, `now there's
Ma'amselle Selina refuses the Count, and
wishes to marry the Colonel, though the latter
isn't worth a stiver.' And so would I,
says I, for the Count is old and ugly, says I,
but the Colonel is young and handsome,
but”—
“Well, Doria,”—
“Well, Ma'am, to day the Count's valley
de sham, said to me, says he, `So, Doria,
your mistress,' meaning you, Ma'amselle,
`doesn't like the cut of my master's face, I
-- 105 --
[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
understand; but she will soon have a chance
to see it oftener, and will then, perhaps, esteem
it better,' and”—
“Did the Count's man tell you so, Doria?”
“Indeed, he did, Ma'am, and I told him
to hold his impertinent tongue, and go about
his business, and”—
“Doria,” said I, “you must assist me. I
can no longer stay under this roof; my father,
or rather his lady, is determined I shall
marry the Count, and they intend I shall be
removed tomorrow to some place of confinement,
until I consent to their wishes; this
night, therefore, I am to depart, with my
brother, to some safe place, where we are to
remain until matters can be reconciled. If
you will attend me you shall be richly rewarded,
and provided for during life.”
“Attend you, Ma'amselle,” she replied,
“that I will, through the world, if you'll permit
me; and really I shall be greatly rejoiced
to get away from this troublesome house, for
my lady has grown so testy and captious,
that, at best, she leads us a miserable life.”
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[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]
“You may now go, Doria,” said I, “and
do as I have told you, but be cautious that
not a suspicious word escapes you; I shall be
for ever ruined and wretched if our scheme
should be discovered.”
“Never fear me, Ma'amselle,” said she,
as she went out, “I defy them to get any
thing from me.”
Du Ruyter soon returned, when our affairs
were thus arranged: He was to retire to rest
at the usual family hour, which, as it was Saturday,
would be early; after all were asleep,
he was to arise and open a passage for me
into the garden, by leaving the doors unbarred.
One hour after midnight he would
meet me with his coach at the garden gate,
from whence I could make my escape.
Bergher was to join us at some little distance
on the road, when we were to proceed, with
all possible despatch, to Saxony.
My preparations were rapid, and soon completed.
My best apparel was put up in a
small trunk; my money and jewels were deposited
in a casket. I then waited impatiently
for the appointed hour. Night came on,
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[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
and, to me, rolled heavily away. About ten
o'clock, my maid, who had been below, returned
and handed me a note, which she
said she had received from my brother's
footman; I broke the seal, and read as follows:
“Circumstances, my dear sister, render it
necessary to change the order of our arrangements;
I will explain them to you when we
meet. Be at the garden gate at twelve, instead
of one o'clock, where you will find the
coach, with proper attendants, ready to receive
you. Let not your voice be heard by those who
escort you. Fear nothing; I will join you a
few miles from town.
“T. DU RUYTER.”
This note excited my liveliest apprehensions;
I feared our plan was discovered, or at
least suspected. With increased impatience
I waited till within a quarter of an hour of
twelve; at that moment a loud knocking was
heard at the gate; a universal tremour seized
me; the knocking continued with violence;
at length the porter was aroused; I heard
him unlock the door and go out; he soon
after returned with some person in his
-- 108 --
[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]
company; they entered the house, and again the
door was locked. No one ascending the
stairs, I ordered my maid to go and make
observations; she shortly came back and informed
me that it was only the steward, who
had been out on business; I entertained not
the least doubt but that he had been making
preparations for my confinement at the villa,
and at that moment I felt as if released
from chains and a dungeon.
But it was at least three quarters of an
hour before the house became silent; we
then ventured down, my woman carrying the
trunk, and I the casket. We passed silently
along the apartments, through the outer door,
and soon reached the appointed place; the
coach was waiting, into which I was handed
by an attendant, who seated himself beside
me; my maid followed, the doors were
closed, and we were driven rapidly away, the
servants following on horseback, as outriders.
The night was gloomy and dark; heavy
folding clouds rolled along the horizon; lightning
flashed through the atmosphere, and
thunder roared at no great distance. My
feelings were in unison with nature; my
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[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]
spirits were depressed; melancholy had
spread itself over my soul.
I soon began to grow uneasy on account of
Du Ruyter's not joining us; but as his note
had directed me to be silent, not a word was
spoken.
We had now proceeded far from the city;
my anxiety increased; I could preserve silence
no longer. Turning towards the man
who sat near me, in a low voice I asked,
“Where is my brother?” Receiving no answer,
I more audibly repeated the question;
a broad and bright flash of lightning, at that
instant, gave me a full view of the features of
the person I addressed; heavens! what
were my sensations when I perceived it to be
the Count Hubert! “My God!” I exclaimed,
“I am betrayed!” and sprang towards
the door of the coach. “You are saved,”
cried he, seizing hold of me, “from the seductions
of an impostor.” I shrieked, and
struggled with all my might; as I broke from
his grasp, I heard the rattling of a carriage
advancing towards us; I burst one of the
doors, and cried out, “For God's sake, rescue
the daughter of Baron Du Ruyter from
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the villain Hubert!” The carriage stopped
directly before us; by the light of the coachlanterns,
I saw a person leap out, and knock
our postillion from his seat.—“Base miscreant!”
exclaimed a voice, “release my sister,
or you instantly die!” It was the voice of
Du Ruyter! “We meet sooner than I expected,”
returned Hubert, rushing from the
chariot, “but not too soon for vengeance.”
They both fired, and both fell! I flew to the
spot, sank, and fainted upon the body of my
brother.
How long I continued in that situation I
knew not; when I revived, or, at least, when
correct sensation returned, I found myself on
a sort of couch, surrounded by a number of
peasant-looking people of both sexes. The
room was small, and the furniture of the
coarsest materials. I stared wildly around,
unable at first to assemble ideas sufficient to
conjecture where I was, or remember what
had been my situation; but recollection soon
came, and with it all the horrors of the
past night, for I now perceived, by the light
of a small, solitary window, that it was day.
Raising myself up, “Oh! my murdered
brother!” I involuntarily murmured; they
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all retired to an adjoining apartment, except
an elderly female, who advised me to lie
down and compose myself. I leaned back,
and she seated herself by my bed. The door
communicating with the other room was
open, so that I could distinctly hear the conversation
which passed.
“Was the lady's brother murdered?” asked
some one, in a low voice.
“All I can tell you of the matter,” replied
another, “is this; my wife, who can never
sleep during a thunder storm, awaked me in
the night; I got up, lighted a lamp, and
stepped out to look at the weather; while I
stood there, I heard a loud screaming, and
then the report of fire-arms; I called up my
son William, we armed ourselves with bludgeons,
and taking each of us a lantern, hastened
to the great road, from whence, as we
judged, the noise proceeded; reaching it,
we paused and looked around, but nothing
was to be seen, and we were about to
return, when we heard a faint groan; on
searching farther, we discovered the lady,
lying near the road, dead, as we thought, or
dying, for there was a good deal of blood on
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the ground; we conveyed her to the house;
as also a small box we found in the road,
which probably belonged to some of the company.
I suppose the party were attacked by
highway robbers; but what became of the
rest, whether they escaped, were taken, or
killed and carried off, I know not.”
From this short narration I could learn nothing.
My thoughts ranged through a wilderness
of conjecture. What had become of
my brother's body? what of my maid? how
happened it that I was left on the field? how
came I in the power of Hubert? Inexplicable
mystery involved the whole transaction.
The small box the peasant had mentioned, I
supposed to be my casket, which probably
dropped from my hand when I left the coach.
The voice which had been speaking seemed
familiar to my ear; nor was I mistaken; for
when the speaker again entered my room, I
discovered him to be a person I had frequently
seen in the city, selling fruit and garden
sauce, by which he supported his family;
his name was Driscol. I heard him whisper
the woman who sat by me, and who was his
wife—“I am going out,” said he; “take
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good care of the lady, and if she gets her
senses, find out who she is, that her friends
may be informed of her situation.” I had
probably raved on recovering from my swoon,
and they supposed me still delirious.
Fancying me asleep, his wife quit my bed-side
as Driscol went out; the people, doubtless
the neighbouring cottagers, who had collected
on the alarm, departed also.
Left alone, uninterrupted reflection poured
upon me; alas! how poignant and severe!
What fate next awaited me? What had become
of Bergher? He knew not where to seek
me. What could I do—what course adopt? Return
to the city? Impossible, after the scenes
which had passed; to remain where I was,
equally impracticable. Should I confide to
Driscol and his wife my situation? What
could they do for me? Perhaps betray me to
my father and to Hubert.
Agitated, irresolute, my mind distracted
by a thousand contending emotions, I lay in
extreme anguish, when Driscol re-entered the
adjoining apartment.—“Sad work, wife,”
said he, “among the great folks.”
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“Aye,” returned she, “that is often the
case. But what work do you mean, husband?”
“Why it seems,” answered Driscol, “that
Col. Bergher and Count Hubert both wanted
to marry the daughter of Baron Du Ruyter.
She and her brother were in favour of
the former; the Baron and his lady of the
latter; last night the Colonel—no—the
Count, attempted to carry her off; her brother,
in endeavouring to prevent it, was shot
dead by the Count, who was also wounded
in the fray, and in the end paid dear enough
too for the scrape; for this morning the Colonel
and he met; they fought, and the Count
was run through the heart; but the worst of
all is to come; the Colonel was taken and
carried to prison, and will certainly be hung
or beheaded; there can be no hopes of pardon,
you know, for a person who kills one of
the royal blood, and the Count was nearly related
to the Emperor. Zounds! had William
been there the Colonel would not have
been very easily taken; William, you know,
was a Sergeant in his regiment at the battle
of — I forget the name of the place; but
William would spill the last drop of his blood
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for Col. Bergher; he thinks him one of the
best men in the universe.”
“But what became of the lady?” asked
his wife.
“Oh, that I had like to forgot,” he replied;
“the lady cannot be found, though they have
hunted for her every where, and are hunting
yet; I saw one of the men who was in pursuit
of her.”
“And who knows,” said the woman, “but
that she is now under our roof?”
“The same thing popp'd into my head,” returned
Driscol, “so I wouldn't tell the man
any thing about what had happened, though
he made strict inquiry”—
I heard no more.—This intelligence only
was wanting to complete my wretchedness. I
groaned in agony—stupefaction seized my
senses; it was but of short duration; by so rapid
a succession of distressing events, the powers
of my soul were rendered too elastic to remainlong
in one position. I awoke to the calmness
of despair; Driscol and his wife were
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near me; “If,” said the former, “you are the
daughter of Baron Du Ruyter, let us know
it; perhaps we can assist you.” “I am,”
said I, “and also the wife of Bergher; but
you cannot help me; no mortal power can
give me aid.” “I can try, however,” he returned,
and went hastily out, calling for
William.
I arose, and walked to the window. I recollected
it was the Sabbath, a day I had ever
venerated, and strictly solemnized. The sun
was setting, and cast his expiring, yellow
rays, on the green prospect around; I viewed
it without emotion; no throb agitated my
bosom; no pang tortured my heart. I felt
as if treading in air. The good woman of
the house urged me to take some refreshment;
I complied, and sat down with her at the table;
I was thirsty, and drank plentifully of
tea; I ate freely, but of what, to this moment
I know not. We were both silent, for
to speak I do not believe was in my power.
I returned to my room, and to the window;
darkness gradually came on, shade deepening
into shade, till every object was veiled in
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total obscurity. I then traversed the apartment
for some time; exhausted at length, I flung
myself on the couch, and soon sunk into a
profound sleep.
-- --
CHAPTER IV.
[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]
From friends we fly, from parents and from home,
Through distant lands and unknown realms we roam;
By adverse fate, compell'd strange worlds to rove;
All joy, all consolation lost, but love.
Lester.
When I awoke, Driscol, his wife, and
two other persons, were standing near my
bed; I raised myself up, and in an instant
was locked in the arms of Bergher!
“We must fly, Selina,” said he, while my
tears copiously flowed; “we must fly this
moment, languid as I perceive you are, or,
by lingering, we involve not only ourselves,
but this worthy family, in inevitable destruction.”
“Oh, Bergher! by what strange miracle
have you been liberated?” I asked.
“By this generous man and his son,” he replied,
“who have hazarded their lives to save
mine; stop not to inquire farther; you shall
soon know all.” Then taking a large purse
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of gold, he emptied it on the table; the family
would have prevented him, but he persisted;
“this is but a small compensation for
your goodness,” he said, “would to God I
could bestow on you an empire!”
“See if this be not your box;” said dame
Driscol, presenting me my casket, “it was
found with you on the road last night.”
“It is,” I answered; “how shall we express
our gratitude for all your kindness?”
“Stay not to thank us,” replied William,
“your bounty has already enriched us.”
“Farewel, my valued friends,” said Bergher,
“may blessings ever attend you; and you,
my brave soldier,” he continued, turning to
William, “receive this as your Colonel's final
gift.” It was a captain's commission in the
regiment of Bergher, at his disposal, and
which, by the laws of the realm, could not
be revoked but by the delinquency of the incumbent.
They then attended us to the door;
alternate gripes of hands were the last, sad,
silent, but eloquently affectionate, adieus.
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A chaise was waiting; we entered it and
drove off; at that instant we heard the clattering
of horses' hoofs, driving up to the cottage;
“There, said I, are the officers of justice
in search of us.”
“Be not alarmed,” returned Bergher, “as
they will not find us with Driscol, our preservers
will never be injured, and the party know
nothing of our flight.”
We soon gained the high road and quickened
our speed. It was a dark starlight night;
we had not proceeded far before some one, a
few rods in front of us, hailed “who comes
there?” The challenge being disregarded, the
person fired his piece, sprang forward, and
seized the bridles of the horses. This
proved to be a signal, for immediately we
saw a number of armed men with flambeaux
issue from an adjoining house. The moment
was critical—Bergher, though possessed of
arms, had not time to use them; rising and
bending forward, with the stock of his whip
he aimed a blow at the fellow's head; the
stroke was instantaneous and effectual; the
man sunk to the ground, and the horses, freed
from the encumberance, darted forward with
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the velocity of eagles. Several shot were
fired; the balls whistled around us. We soon
heard shouting from behind, and horsemen
swiftly pursuing us. Coming to a by-path,
we turned into it, and the party speedily
passed us, keeping on the main road.
“Scouts,” said Bergher, “must have been
far extended, and in every direction, to intercept
us, as Driscol's cottage is at least
eight miles from Vienna; but, thanks to
Heaven, I think we are now safe.”
The path we had taken was uneven and
narrow, which obliged us to advance slowly
and with caution; we knew not whither it
tended; it wound along on the verge of a
woody precipice, descended into a valley
overspread with low shrubbery, then entered
a deep, dark, and apparently an extensive
forest.
I shall never forget, yet never can I describe
my feelings, while traversing this vast
solitude, amidst the darkness and stillness of
night. Recently escaped from so many and
such mighty perils; suddenly restored to the
arms of a beloved husband, whom I supposed
for ever lost, yielded consolations I could
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neither sufficiently prize nor properly express;
yet they were melancholy: the fate of a brother,
dear as the blood which mantled about
my heart, hung with heaviness and deep affliction
upon my soul.
As the carriage rolled leisurely along, I
leaned upon the bosom of now my only earthly
friend and protector, indulging sad reflection,
and listening to the hollow winds as
they sighed amidst the trees, the solemn roar
of distant waters, or to the rapid song of the
solitary night-bird, as it echoed among the
rocky nooks and caverns of the surrounding
wilderness.
Suddenly we were alarmed by the sound of
a French horn, far in our rear; we immediately
conjectured that some of the men in
quest of us had taken the road we were travelling;
nor were we mistaken; they gained
upon us apace; every sound of the horn approached
nearer, and we soon distinguished
the thundering of their horses' feet. “At
length,” said I, “we shall be overtaken when
there is no hope of escape.”
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“Providence has hitherto preserved us,”
replied Bergher; “let us not despair; here
is an opening in the wood, thither we can
turn aside until our pursuers have passed.”
He alighted and led the carriage along a
narrow glade until we came to a small thicket,
behind which we concealed ourselves.
The party quickly came up, and halted directly
against us.
“We must search every corner,” said one
them; “here seems to be a path leading into
the forest; see if it can be traced.”
A horseman immediately rushed into the
opening, but soon being entangled with the
brush, “There is no path here,” cried he;
“let us not waste time, but drive on to the
next village; if we do not there overtake
them they must still be behind us.” He then
rejoined his companions, and they galloped
off. Thus were we again providentially relieved
from the most dreadful apprehensions.
Still imminent danger attended us; should
we directly proceed on our journey we must
probably meet the party returning; to remain
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[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]
where we were would be hazardous, as believing
us in their rear, they would doubtless
scour the forest in every passable direction;
the latter course, however, could only be
adopted with any prospect of safety.
Day was dawning, and its light soon enabled
us to seek for a place of greater security:
this it was not easy to find; but at length
we discovered a ledge of high rocks standing
at a little distance from each other, thickly
surrounded with low branching trees; thither,
with much difficulty, the carriage was
dragged and crowded in between the rocks,
where we remained concealed, within sight
of the road.
“About noon we saw the troop returning;
they passed us with a slow and silent pace,
probably expecting to meet and surprise us
unawares; soon as they were out of hearing
we repaired to the road and proceeded on our
journey.
Within about half an hour, as we began to
emerge from the forest into a more open and
cultivated country, we saw a hussar advancing
towards us at full gallop; in passing us
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he checked his speed, and examined us
with scrutinizing particularity; then turning
his horse, he rode up to the carriage and ordered
us to halt; I trembled exceedingly;
no sooner had we stopped, than advancing to
the side of the chaise—“From whence are
you?” he demanded.
“From Vienna,” was the reply.
“And whither bound?”
“On a journey.”
“You must return with me, Sir.”
“Why return, and by whose orders?”
Bergher asked, sternly.
“By the orders of the Emperor,” replied
the soldier. “Horsemen are out on every
road, with directions to intercept and bring in
all travellers. Of the party on this route I
have the command; my men are a few miles
in advance. The object is to seize a desperate
villain who last night broke from prison,
a deserter, a murderer, who has disgraced
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[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]
the rank of Colonel, and dishonoured the appellation
of a soldier—one Bergher.”
Quick as lightning Bergher rose upon his
feet, and snatching a pistol from his side-pocket,
presented it at the breast of the officer—
“Behold the man you seek,” said he;
“surrender yourself his prisoner, or instant
death awaits you.”
There was no room for parley: the officer
delivered his pistols.
“Your sword, Sir,” demanded Bergher.
The sword was yielded up.
As Bergher turned to place them in the
carriage, the officer plunged his spurs into
the horse's sides, and darted off with great
rapidity; in descending a hill his horse
fell, dashing him to the ground with violence;
we hastened to the spot; he lay apparently
lifeless. Bergher raised and laid him
on a bank by the way-side; shortly he began
to breathe convulsively; but though life returned,
reason had fled; he groaned, stared
vacantly, and murmured incoherently. On
examination, a deep contusion appeared on
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[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]
his head, an arm was fractured, and blood
flowed occasionally from his mouth.
While considering how to dispose of him,
we saw a waggon approaching, in which
were a peasant and a lad. For a small sum
they consented to take charge of the maimed
officer, his horse and accoutrements, and return
with them to the village, from whence
they came, distant, they said, about ten
miles in advance. As they were placing
the hussar in the waggon, Bergher asked the
peasant if there were any soldiers stationed
at his village. “O yes,” said he, “a regiment
or two, and they were all called out this
morning to guard the passes, in order, they
say, to seize an officer who first murdered a
nobleman and then deserted. Who knows
but I have the very fellow in my waggon? a
lucky hit if it should be, as a large reward is
offered for his head, dead or alive.”
“Are there any by-roads between this place
and the village?” Bergher inquired.
“None,” replied the peasant, and immediately
set off at a slow pace with the hussar,
who still remained senseless.
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What course now to take we could not
possibly devise. To recede or advance appeared
equally perilous. To escape the vigilance
of our pursuers seemed impossible. One
difficulty was no sooner vanquished, one obstacle
surmounted, than another, superior in
magnitude, arose to obstruct and arrest our
purposes and exertions.
While we stood hesitating whether to advance
or retreat, we saw the lad, who was
mounted on the officer's horse, returning;
“My father,” said he, when he came up,
“forgot to tell you of a road which a few
miles ahead turns off to the right, and runs
over the big mountain; you must not take
that, for it leads a great way from the village
into a wild part of the country.” Rejoiced
at this intelligence, we thanked the lad for
the information, who turned and followed the
waggon.
We passed on, and soon perceiving the
by-road, entered and pursued it; it was stony
and rugged, leading into woody, unfrequented
parts, uninhabited except by the tenants of
a few scattering cottages; at one of these,
which exhibited a more decent appearance
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than the rest, we stopped towards evening to
obtain refreshment, which we much needed.
Fruit, eggs and milk were set before us. We
rested about half an hour, then proceeded,
and soon arrived at the foot of the mountain
mentioned by the peasant boy. By a long,
gradual ascent, hedged on each side with impenetrable
shrubbery, we reached the top:
from its craggy summit, which arrested the
course of careering clouds, the eye extended
over an immeasurable space of wilderness
and cultivation, picturesque and romantic in
the extreme. As we passed along our ears
were frequently stunned by the piercing
screeches of the cormorant, as it pounced upon
its prey in an adjoining lake; the harsh
croakings of the raven, winging to his nightly
covert, or the sonorous voice of the solitary
eagle, soaring high above our heads, or hovering
among the loftiest cliffs. Frequently
the defenceless hare bounded across our path,
closely pursued by the rapacious wolverene;
and sometimes our attention was fixed by the
adventurous wild goat, browsing on the extreme
point of some giddy eminence, where
human foot had never imprinted its vestige.
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Descending into the plain beneath, we entered
upon a more broad and level road.
Fearing pursuit, we continued our course
through the night, and the next day, as evening
was setting in, we espied a farm-house
off the road, to which we drove and inquired
for an inn. There was none within several
miles.
“Can you direct us where we can find entertainment
for the night?” asked Bergher.
“Not near at hand,” replied the rustic,
“but if you will accept of farmer's fare you
shall be welcome here.”
Joyfully we closed with the invitation, and
after supper retired to rest for the first time
during our journey.
Early the next morning, with many thanks,
we took leave of our host and set forward,
travelling for several days, resting a short
time in the night, until at length we learned
with satisfaction that we were out of the Emperor
of Germany's dominions.
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Wearied and exhausted as we were by the
misfortunes and hardships we had encountered,
we concluded to remain a few days at a
neat little town where we arrived, as well to
restore our harrassed and wasted spirits, as to
form some plan for future safety. Hitherto
escape from impending danger had been our
only object; hence no system was arranged,
self-preservation alone being consulted. During
the rapid succession of past events, time
was not admitted to consider what course we
should take; we readily adopted that which
appeared best calculated to favour our flight,
without inquiring or regarding whither it led,
so that it conducted us beyond the reach of
the meditated vengeance of our adversaries.
The money which Bergher had brought
with him amounted to no inconsiderable sum;
I had likewise a plentiful supply, which at different
times had been given me by my father,
my brother, and a legacy left me by my mother:
my casket of jewels, also, was very
valuable; so that we were not apprehensive of
soon being in want; but our treasure would
not always last; our capital, or at least a part
of it, must be so arranged as to be gaining a
percentage, or in time it would waste away,
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[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]
and leave us helpless and hopeless; for on our
own exertions we were hereafter to rely, having
now no friends to whom we could ever
make our future situation known.
Some large and populous city, it was considered,
would be the most favourable to our
views, both as it respected concealment and
the chance of some speculation, whereby to
preserve, if not to increase our finances;
Paris was finally fixed on as the most eligible.
The preservation of my casket, on that
dreadful night when I was entrapped by the
wretch Hubert, was a fortunate circumstance:
as I carried it in my hand, I must have
dropped it when in the distress and agony
of my mind I flew from the coach to the
bleeding body of my brother. My trunk,
containing every article of dress I brought
with me, except those I had on, was probably
carried away in the carriage.
Bergher was enabled in some degree to
elucidate the mystery with which preceding
occurrences were enveloped. In consequence
of the altercation I had overheard between
my brother and Hubert, a hostile
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[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]
interview was agreed upon, so arranged as to take
place when Du Ruyter should have returned
from his proposed journey with us to Saxony.
The friends, or seconds of the parties, were a
Col. Hembold and a brother of Hubert.
The night I left my father's house Du
Ruyter, soon as he perceived the family at
rest, commenced the execution of his plan
by opening the doors and gates for my escape;
he then ordered his coach, and attended by
three servants, called on Bergher at his lodgings
and accompanied him to the place, a few
miles from town, where he was to await our
arrival. Finding it too early to meet me according
to appointment, he said he would
drive out about ten miles from town, and pass
an hour with a friend. Bergher ordered his
servant to attend him. Returning by a circuitous
route, it was merely by chance they fell
upon the road Hubert had taken. What
happened when they met has been already
stated.
Soon as my brother fell, Bergher's man
fled hastily to his master: the account he
gave, though somewhat confused, was sufficiently
alarming: he had heard my cries
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[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]
for assistance, witnessed the rencounter between
the Count and Du Ruyter, but saw only
the latter fall. On receiving this intelligence
Bergher seized his sword and pistols,
armed his servant, and taking a chaise, hurried
to the spot. Day began to appear when
they reached the place; nothing was discovered
but marks of blood; they reasonably
conjectured that my brother's servants had removed
his body, and suspected that I was the
prisoner of Hubert at his country-seat a few
miles distant; thither Bergher directly proceeded,
and arrived there soon after the sun
had arisen. Leaving the carriage in the
court-yard with his man, he knocked for admittance;
a spruce French laquey opened
the door, and obsequiously demanded “vat
his honeur vil please to be vant?”
“Lead me to the Count Hubert,” said
Bergher.
“If your honeur vil please send up your
address, me vil return in von tree minute,”
replied the valet.
“I will present that address myself,” returned
Bergher.
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“Monsieur le Count has given le special
ordeur,” rejoined the other, “dat no persone
be admit, unless he be so previously announce.”
Bergher quickly drew his sword—“Lead,
me, this moment,” said he, sternly, “to your
master; and be cautious how you make any
mistake or alarm: if you deviate in the
least from this command, I will immediately
cleave you in twain.”
This argument was too powerful to be resisted;
the servant, cringing and trembling,
led the way along several rooms, up a winding
flight of stairs, and through an extended
suit of apartments, till approaching a chamber,
he pointed to a closed door, “Dat be le
saloon,” said he, in a whisper, “but la door
be bolt, Monsieur.” At that moment, a woman's
voice was heard within. Bergher listened
and distinguished the following words:
“It was not so much the promise of money,
your honour, as in obedience to the
commands of Lady Du Ruyter, and to prevent
my mistress from running away with
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that handsome beggarly Colonel, that I betrayed
her to your honour.”
“You have done right,” replied a voice,
which Bergher knew to be Hubert's, “and
shall be well rewarded, though unfortunately
our scheme has proved”—
Bergher instantly set his foot against the
door and burst it open. The Count was sitting
in an easy chair; a bandage was around
his head; Doria, my woman, was leaning on
a desk which stood near him. Soon as
Bergher appeared, the Count started wildly,
and sprang upon his feet; my maid flew
screaming from the room—
“Villain!” exclaimed Bergher, “restore
the daughter of Baron Du Ruyter to liberty!”
Seizing an unsheathed sword which lay on
the desk—“Villain, back to thy heart,
base-born wretch!” cried Hubert, rushing
furiously upon Bergher.
While parrying each other's thrusts, the
servants suddenly entered, one of whom
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[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]
reached the Count a pistol, which he immediately
aimed at the heart of his antagonist,
but before he could discharge it, received the
sword of the latter in his breast and fell.
Bergher was overpowered, disarmed, and
secured by the Count's people, conveyed to
prison, and thrown into a dungeon; his man
followed him, but was refused admittance.
With astonishment I now perceived, from
what Bergher related, that my woman had
indeed betrayed me. By the intrigues of
Lady Du Ruyter and the Count, she had
doubtless been won over to their interest, and
bribed as a spy upon my actions. She unquestionably
apprised them of my intended
flight with my brother, which they readily
foresaw must have some connexion with
Bergher. Hence they contrived to defeat
our purpose, and to throw me into the power
of Hubert. The note, which my maid pretended
to have received from Du Ruyter's
footman, on the night of my elopement,
signed with my brother's name, changing our
plan of arrangement to an earlier hour than had
been previously agreed upon, was undoubtedly
the forgery of the Count, to gain time and
opportunity for carrying his designs into effect
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before Du Ruyter should arrive. Learning
from Doria the time appointed for the arrival
of my brother's coach, he therefore fixed
one hour earlier, which would leave room
sufficient to execute his purpose unmolested;
but the interruption occasioned by the return
of the Baron's steward, delayed my departure
to within about twenty minutes of the hour
when my brother was to be at the garden gate.
The forged note enjoined my silence, to prevent
a possibility of discovery. Hence,
when I reached the place of destination, I
was, by the Count himself in the disguise of
an attendant, handed, not as I expected and
supposed into my brother's, but, into Hubert's
coach, which taking the same road when
Du Ruyter was then casually returning, produced,
when they met, the events I have
previously related.
Such were the convictions which flashed
upon my mind from the information given by
Bergher. His finding my woman with the
Count, and the conversation he overheard
between them, were convincing evidence of
the facts. To Hubert's unfinished sentence,
when he promised Doria she should be well
rewarded, though unfortunately their “scheme
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had proved”—he would probably have added,
unsuccessful, had not Bergher interrupted
it by forcing the door. The bandage around
the Count's head was doubtless in consequence
of the wound he received in the conflict
with Du Ruyter. How it happened that
I was left on the place where the rencounter
occurred was still inexplicable; the Driscols
might have been seen approaching with lights;
Hubert, possibly deprived of sensation, was
hurried away by his servants, while the body
of my brother was borne off by his own people.
In so much tumult and sudden confusion,
it could not be surprising that I should
be neglected.
The prison to which Bergher had been
committed was strictly guarded. As some
state criminals of distinguished connexions
were confined therein, the different cells and
apartments were visited every half hour by
the officers of the guard, to see that all was
safe. Frequently, therefore, had the massy
door of his dungeon grated upon its creaking
hinges; at length he heard the bolts withdrawn
more rapidly than usual, the door
quickly flew open, and William Driscol stood
before him. While unrivetting his chains,
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William gave him information concerning me.
They then extinguished the lamp which hung
glimmering in the cell, and departed from
the prison, locking the doors after them. At
the outer gate stood old Driscol, who received
the keys from his son in silence: William
and Bergher passed on until they came to a
by place, where the latter found his man waiting
with the chaise; wishing no farther to involve
his faithful servant in the perilous state
of his affairs, he dismissed him with a liberal
donation; his sword and pistols, which
his man had reclaimed of the Count's people,
were in the carriage. In a few minutes the
elder Driscol rejoined them, and they hastily
set off for the cottage; before they reached the
distance of half a mile from the prison, they
heard the alarm guns fired, which are always
kept ready for the occasion; by this they knew
that the escape was discovered by the visiting
officers, and that swift parties of horse would
be immediately sent out in all directions to
intercept the roads and arrest the fugitive.
When they arrived at the cottage I was asleep,
or rather lost in a delirious stupour. What
succeeded, I have already detailed.
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Driscol, it appears, was intimately acquainted
with the soldiers who guarded the
prison; he had been a soldier himself, and
still delighted in their company; he had often
held gala-day with them at their quarters,
frequently visited them at the guard-house;
sometimes he would spell, as he styled it,
the centinel on duty, by standing his tour, or
relieving him (taking his place) until the said
centinel could run and refresh himself, or do
some little jobs of his own. This, however,
was kept concealed from the officers, as it
was against orders; but the soldiers all knew
Driscol, and would as soon trust him as one
of their own party.
William Driscol returned from the army
with Col. Bergher, in whose regiment, as
has been mentioned, he held a subaltern office;
he loved his Colonel, from whom he
had received many favours, and was ever
ready, on a just occasion, to sacrifice even
his life, should that be necessary, in preservation
of Bergher's. When, therefore, he
and his father understood the cause of the
Colonel's imprisonment, and especially when
they discovered that his wife was under their
protection, they determined to attempt his
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rescue: for this purpose they resorted to an
inn near the prison, where they found Bergher's
man who still remained there with the
chaise, hoping to prevail on the officers to let
him see his master: him they ordered to repair
with the carriage to a certain place, there
to await their farther directions. William
was then stationed within call, and Driscol
approached the centinel at the gate, who he
knew kept the keys of the prison, and accosted
him with—“Long life to the mighty Emperor,
and merry days to his valliant soldiers!”
“Hah, old warrior! is it you?” exclaimed
the centinel.
“What yet remains of me,” replied Driscol,
“though pretty much withered and worn.”
“Thou hast seen hard service, my veteran,”
returned the soldier; “what remains
of thee are still the parts of a hero.”
“I have heard some popping, and seen
some slashing,” rejoined Driscol; “but how
goes the night, comrade?”
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“Dark and heavily,” he answered, “here
have I been beating about these three hours,
famished with hunger, parched with thirst,
and no relief for an hour to come.”
“How long since the visiting officers departed?”
“Ten minutes, perhaps; not more.”
“Then hand me thy slicer and blunderbuss,”
said Driscol, “and run thee to thy hut, take
a little rations, and return quickly, for I am
in haste.”
“Blessings on thee,” replied the soldier,
delivering his sword and fusee; “thou shalt
be Chief-Sutler when I am General.
“Leave me thy unbolters,” returned
Driscol, as the other was departing, “for
should the visitors come, I must slouch my
hat over my eyes, you know, and deliver
them in silence.”
“Ay, ay; true enough,” replied the centinel,
turning and handing the keys; “well
thought of: but unless I am ambuscaded, I
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shall be with you before you can go through
the exercise.” He then posted away.
Soon as he was gone, Driscol whistled, (the
sign agreed on,) and William appeared, took
the keys, and with a dark lantern they had
brought with them, entered the prison and
liberated Bergher as has been related. The
soldier returned, thanked Driscol for the service
rendered, and resumed his station. The
circumstances could not be known farther, so
that Driscol would never be called in question,
and probably never suspected. Nor
would the guards be punished or held responsible
for an escape, unless they were proved
negligent, or accomplices. Of these transactions
Bergher was informed by the Driscols,
on their return from the prison to the
cottage.
-- --
CHAPTER V.
[figure description] Page 145.[end figure description]
What God pursues us with immortal hate?
What crimes provoke, and prompt the wrath of fate?
What ceaseless rage hath dash'd our joys again,
Pair'd in sad woes, and doom'd to endless pain?—
Fly hence, ye shades! Let brighter scenes arise!
Ease, peace and comfort, open on my view!
Ye sorrowing hours, and agonizing sighs,
Ye streaming tears, and fond complaints, adieu?
Trumbull.
Considering ourselves now beyond the
reach of pursuit, we remained at the little
town where we had halted, for several days;
there we repaired our wardrobe and the loss
of my trunk; we purchased such other articles
as were necessary, and then re-commenced
our journey.
New and interesting to me were the various
prospects which presented as we passed
through different countries. Cities bustling
with their busy throngs; hamlets scattered
with cottages; almost boundless
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champaigns, spotted with dearth and verdure;
immeasurable forests, echoing to the nightly
roar of savage beasts, prowling for prey; mighty
rivers, thundering to the distant ocean; lakes
of sea-like magnitude; stupendous mountains
crowned with unmelting snows, and based in
luxuriant vegetation, their majestic summits
towering into the sky, and frowning over the
warring atmospheric tempests which convulsed
the world below; magnificent ruins,
and yawning chasms, the ravages of time,
forgotten wars, or of ancient earthquakes;
and sometimes, at immense distance, rose the
volcanic eruption, flashing tremendous through
the long vista of night.
One day, as evening was setting in, we approached
a wide desert, through which the
road lay, bordered by towering hills and lofty
precipices. We hesitated whether to pass
such a dreary region at so late an hour.
While we were considering how to act, a
woodman with an axe upon his shoulder,
emerged from the forest; we inquired of him
its extent; “Six miles,” said he, “will bring
you to a good house of entertainment.” Recollecting
the last house we had passed to be
twelve or fifteen miles distant, and as we
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should have moonlight for two or three hours,
we proceeded on.
The wilderness thickened as we advanced,
its deep gloom transiently enlightened by the
faint intercepted beams of a waxing moon.
Silence was only interrupted by the plaintive
breezes as they moaned among the branches,
the sound of a torrent rushing down some remote
declivity, except, at intervals, by the
distant barking of a fox, or the long, wild,
terrific howl of the mountain-wolf.
We began to grow uneasy; instead of six,
we had travelled, as we judged, more than
twelve miles since we met the peasant at the
entrance of the wood, and yet no house of
entertainment, nor indeed any other house
appeared; on the contrary, the sullen umbrageousness
of the forest seemed to increase
at every step. Our anxiety augmented when
Bergher's repeater noted the hour of midnight,
and still no prospect of emerging from the
desert, though we must have advanced therein
upwards of twenty miles.
We at length descended into a deep valley;
the moon had sunk behind the hills, and left
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us in thick darkness. Suddenly the horses
stopped; Bergher urged them forward, but
they refusing to proceed, he gave me the reins,
sprang out, and advancing towards them
saw a person holding them by the bridles;
at the same instant he was seized by three
stout fellows and hurried back to the carriage.
I uttered an involuntary shriek, bereaved of
my usual presence of mind by the suddenness
of the incident. “Villains!” exclaimed
Bergher, “release me immediately,” scarcely
knowing what he said.
“Not yet,” replied one of them; “get
thee silently into thy vehicle, and take care
of thy mate; but first reach us thy whinyard
and popguns, if thou hast any; thou wilt
now have no further use for them, as we shall
take the trouble of guarding and defending
thee.”
“Who has a right?”—demanded Bergher:
“by whose orders?”—while they secured his
sword.
“No speechifying,” interrupted the same
voice; “thou shalt know all in good time;
at present be silent and obey. Thou seest
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that resistance would be vain, and complaint
useless; so climb thy cage and deliver thy
plumpers speedily, or thy tenement and appertenances
must undergo a search, which
might not be altogether agreeable.”
By this time we were surrounded by horse-men.
Bergher reseated himself in the carriage
and yielded his pistols; the fellow who
had been speaking entered also; “Please to
submit to a trifling operation,” said he, placing
masks upon our faces, which totally obstructed
our sight; after which, taking the reins and
whip, “I will do myself the honour of being
your postillion,” he continued; “but mark me,
if you make the least noise, or speak a single
word, I shall be under the necessity of decently
boring you through.” He then took his seat,
the carriage was turned about and driven back
upon the way we came, at a rapid pace, with
the guards around us, as we could perceive by
the trampling of their horses.
Conversant as I had been with difficulties,
dangers and disappointments, this last event
depressed my spirits beyond the prospect of
hope. The first thought that struck me, was
that we were in the power of banditti; but
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had that been the ease they would have been
content with rifling, or at most with murdering
us. On reflection, it was evident to
my mind that our pursuers had discovered
and passed us while we rested at the little
town, had waylaid and surprised us, and that
we were now on our return to Vienna. To
be thus arrested, when we considered ourselves
safe, was doubly distressing. My soul
sickened at the idea, while in anticipation I
already experienced the contempt, the scoffs,
and sneers of my acquaintance; the triumphant
taunts of my stepmother, the wrath
and fury of my father, and the imprisonment
and execution of my husband, who now supported
me in his arms, as my heart palpitated
with terror and despair. Not a word was spoken;
all moved on with speed and in silence.
At length the carriage appeared to be rolling
over uneven grounds, and we could sometimes
hear the branches of trees sweeping
against it. Finally it halted, and orders
were given to alight; we obeyed, and were
led down a flight of steps, and through what
we judged to be a long winding passage, till
we were stopped by some obstruction which
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we supposed to be a door. We soon heard the
tinkling of a bell, caused probably by some
one of our conductors pulling a wire; persons
apparently from within shortly removed
whatever impeded our progress, and we passed
on; our masks were then withdrawn,
when we found ourselves in a spacious apartment
illuminated by a number of glass lamps,
and decorated with furniture of various description.
There were about twenty persons
in the room, all dressed in full uniform, with
side arms. Others of the same description
were constantly entering. We were invited,
or rather ordered to take seats.
Within a few minutes a person entered
dressed in scarlet deeply laced with gold.
All heads were instantly uncovered, which
evinced him to be the chief. His appearance
was stately, his aspect naturally pleasing, but
artificially or habitually assuming fierceness;
his eye piercing and commanding. He bowed
to us politely, then continued to walk the
room with a grand and measured step. His
age we judged to be about forty. He only
was unarmed of the party.
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We shortly saw our trunks brought in by
two of the gang; one, who seemed to have a
subordinate command, stepped up to us and
demanded the keys; these trunks contained
all our wealth, our money and my casket of
jewels; the keys were yielded, conscious that
remonstrance could be of no use. After examining
the trunks, “A booty by the great
Nimrod!” he exclaimed, locking them and
presenting the keys to the chieftain, who without
speaking or altering his course, deposited
them in his pocket.
The table was immediately spread, covered
with the most costly plate and the richest
dainties. We were urged to partake; Bergher
whispered me to comply, so we took our
stations among them; but I tasted of nothing.
Little was said during the repast;
once or twice some of them began to be boisterous,
but a nod from their leader instantly
silenced them.
Soon as the cloth was removed, fruit and
wine were placed upon the table; pouring out
a full glass, their chief drank, “Health to
the order of the mighty Nimrod!” They all
rose upon their feet, “And to our valiant
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[figure description] Page 153.[end figure description]
commander!” they cried with united voice,
filling and tossing off their glasses. Reseating
themselves they then drank as they pleased,
conversing separately with each other in low
voices.
The chief offered us each a glass, saying
to Bergher, as he presented them, “You
are travellers, I presume, Sir.”
“We were travellers, Sir,” returned
Bergher.
“True, Sir, true,” rejoined the other,
smiling; “you now consider yourselves my
prisoners, I suppose.”
“I know not what opinion to form.”
“Then believe yourself in the power of an
honourable man.”
“The event will determine that point,” replied
Bergher.
“Well, well,” said the chief, speaking
quick, “time is lost by parley. You know me
not; you know not where you are: who you
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[figure description] Page 154.[end figure description]
are I care not. We must use despatch; but
before we proceed to business I will give you
a slight sketch of my character. Such is my
custom when people of distinction fall into
my hands, and as you appear to be of that
class, you will hear me attentively. This I
do, not in extenuation of what by some may
be esteemed crime, but in justification, ample
justification (raising his voice) of my
own conduct.
“Know then, Sir, that I am a general, a
king, a commander in chief. Part of my
life-guard only have you seen. My troops
are scattered in various kingdoms; they are
stationed in the Tyrol, the Pyrenees, the
Alps, the Appenines; they traverse the forests
of Germany, Italy and France. I have
proclaimed war against the world for the very
defensible reason that the world first proclaimed
war against me: I fight, as every other
creature will do, for my own preservation.
“Born to a princely fortune, I was flattered
with princely expectations; the son
of a nobleman, nearly allied to a crowned
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[figure description] Page 155.[end figure description]
head.# My entrance upon life was brilliant;
splendid were my prospects. The fields of
fame, wealth and power, all that ambition
could wish were open before me. Beauty, too,
yes, beauty and the graces were approaching,
to soften and to crown my weightier joys—
Boy, bring more wine!” he exclaimed, pouring
out and turning off a large goblet.
“No imprudence of mine,” he continued,
“defeated my high-wrought anticipations;
the bloody quarrels of petty, avaricious tyrants;
the ravages of civil commotion, destroyed
them. [4] My family were butchered,
their wealth, their property seized, confiscated,
and I reduced to beggary. My
lovely, tender, sentimental friend, my solemnly
affianced bride, torn from my expecting
embrace, violated, and buried in a cloister.
Glory, domination, dignity, possessions, annihilated
in a moment. The blandishments of
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delight, the ecstacies of love, just within the
fond pressure of my arms, ravished, snatched
from me for ever. Deserted by my friends,
those I had elevated to station and endowed
with riches now shunned me as they would
an aspic. In circles where adoration had been
rendered me, I was now received with the
upraised finger of scorn, or the cool, collected,
sneer of contempt.—Wine, ho! bring
more wine,” he cried, furiously stamping,
while lightnings flashed from his eyes.
“I know what the moralist would say on
the occasion,” he proceeded, after a short
pause; “for I was educated in the strictest
principles of morality; he would preach patience,
forbearance, honesty and virtue; but under
the then agitations and convulsions of my
mind, he might as well have preached them to
the hurricane. The world could not restore
what it had taken from me; still the world
owed me a support. From me, retributitive
justice was due to my despoilers; I took a
dreadful one! I attached to my side a few
Piedmontese, my native countrymen, who
had suffered in the same cause with me;
they were, therefore, friendless and poor, but
bold and determined: in one night we
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butchered those who had butchered our friends.
We fled to the mountains, swore fealty to
each other, and instituted ourselves a fraternity
of foresters, entitled The order of Nimrod—
Nimrod, you know, was a mighty forester
and the first of our sect—I was instated
in the office of commander. Thousands
flocked to our standard, first of our own countrymen,
then of the surrounding states. Every
war, every political tumult, increases our
force. From the tyrant's sceptre, the debtor's
pursuit, from disappointment and adversity,
disgusted with the world, men fly to my
banners; by the troubled and conflicting state
of nations have I been particularly successful
in this respect, as we migrated from state to
state, and from kingdom to kingdom. Mountainous
countries and spacious forests are our
favourite resorts. We are now in a cave of the
mountain you must have seen on your right;
tomorrow night we may be fifty miles distant.
Our retreats are so constructed as to
defy search; our spies are out in every quarter;
the peasant you met on the verge of the
forest was one; to induce you to proceed he
deceived you; no sooner had you passed
than a horseman, concealed near, was des
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[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]
patched to me. So you see we were prepared.
[5]
“Thus have I given you an abstract of
my history; and what think you of it? Injustice!
you will exclaim: yet are not the
measures I pursue more intrinsically, more
radically just, than those adopted by the
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world? Lay aside prejudice; lay aside the
sinister, or what you would style popular, definitions
of your jurisprudence, and juridical
decisions, and judge. I levy my tax on the
rich only; you indiscriminately on rich and
poor. I fight for existence; you for honour,
profit, or fame. You esteem me a robber;
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the miser who exacts usury, the dealer who
demands exorbitant profits, the sharper who
swindles you of your cash, the creditor who
under sanction of legal process seizes your
property, beggars your family, and deprives
you of liberty, are they not all robbers of a
more contemptible grade? Your laws demand
my life; they escape with impunity.
“In one point there is a similarity between
your monarchs and me: like them I make my
demands, and like them I enforce those demands
when resisted; like them I have my
battles, but unlike them I wish to prevent a
useless waste of blood, as you have experienced.
No one, unresisting, ever perished
by our hands. My orders are, not to attack,
unless attacked. Surprise is my mode. Our
prisoners are treated well and soon liberated.
We fear not discovery; such are our arrangements
that on signal we can disperse and secrete
ourselves in perfect security, yet the
sound of a horn will suddenly call thousands
to my side. To day we may be seen in
force within this forest; tomorrow not a remaining
trace or vestige of us can be perceived.
Parties have frequently been sent
in quest of us; sometimes we vanish to
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our fastnesses; sometimes we meet, and vanquish
them. We neither sack, like your robbers,
nor conflagrate towns and villages; and
when we lay them under contribution we
readily compound for the money they can
raise.
“And what say you to my system? You
are silent. But you probably think I am
wasting your time and my own. Well: I
will then dismiss the subject; and now I will
show you my magnanimity; magnanimity
which you rarely experience in dealings with
your fellow-men. If by superior adroitness
they overreach you, they will not relinquish
the advantage for your benefit. I have told
you I am at war with the world, and
have briefly explained the equity of my
cause; you are therefore my adversary, because
you are a subject of the power with
whom I am in hostility. You are my prisoner;
your property, your life, are at my disposal:
still will I extend the hand of clemency.”
He then stepped to the trunks, unlocked
them, took out the money and spread it upon
the table. “Now observe my lenity and munificence,”
he resumed; “besides myself,
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seventeen of my people were concerned in
your capture; yourself and lady make twenty.
The money shall be equally divided;
you shall have one tenth part, the remainder
is for me and my companions.” He then
carefully counted the money into ten equal
parts; after which, taking the casket of
jewels in his hand, “by the laws of war,” he
continued, “this valuable treasure belongs
wholly to me, but as a compliment to the lady
I present it to her. Your other articles
you will find safe; your carriage, your horses,
your weapons, shall be restored; you will be
suitably attended to the place where we found
you, and left to pursue your own course. Go
thou then back to the world, see if it will
treat thee better. Complain that thou hast
been captured, say plundered, if it please
thee, by the common enemy. Demand, as
thou hast a right to, compensation for thy
losses. If after all thou shouldst find, as I
have done, nothing but selfishness and ingratitude
in thy future connexions with man;
if, sick of thy wonted society, thou shouldst
wish to retire from it, return to me, enter my
service, and thou shalt receive the reward thy
merits may claim.”
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He then took one part of the money and
the casket, deposited them in the trunks and
presented to us the keys. Immediately the
masks were replaced on our faces, we were
led out, seated in the chaise, escorted to the
place where we had been stopped, and the
masks taken off. One of the gang restored
Bergher his arms; the escort galloped away
and we resumed our route.
“Of what strange and singular materials,”
said Bergher, “is man compounded! In the
glowing vigour of youth he adventures on life,
his passions edged by the keenest ardour, his
soul strung to daring enterprize. Boundless
is the field of his contemplated achievements;
illimitable the sphere of his anticipated exertions.
But he reflects not on consequences; he
calculates not on disappointment, which, as
death, is certain. He drinks deeply of the
bitter cup, and like the infant from physic
turns with aversion from the offensive yet salutary
potion. Hence the enthusiast, the anchorite,
the misanthrope, and the marauder.
The character of the man in whose power we
have been, is an heterogeneous compound of
right and wrong, honour and dishonesty, candour
and hypocrisy. In society he was
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[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]
injured by villains, and to obtain vengeance
became a villain himself; to chastise the vices
of a few he would inflict punishment on all.
The compunctions of early moral instruction
discompose him at times and then he endeavours
to palliate his crimes by sophistry his
conscience can never credit. He may with
propriety be styled a rational maniac.”
Though the loss of our property was severely
felt, yet so different was the result of
this adventure from our apprehensions,
that we bowed to an overruling Providence
in humble gratitude for our deliverance.
Even when we found ourselves among
robbers we experienced a mitigation of
our fears; it was preferable to being conducted
prisoners to Vienna. But when our
lives were preserved, and our liberties restored,
as also my casket and a small portion
of our treasure, our loss, on the general scale
of events, was at first but of minor consideration.
Day was appearing when we cleared the forest.
With mingled sensations of terror and
joy, I looked back upon the savage prospect,
where cliffs rose above cliffs, awful in dreary
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splendour. From the dark bosom of the desert,
aspiring exhalations exhibited the rays of
an early sun in a thousand varying hues. We
continued our course, and without farther
disastrous accident arrived at Paris.
We took a house in a remote though populous
part of the city, furnished it decently,
and hired a man and woman servant. To accomplish
this I was obliged to part with some
of my jewels, as the little money the robbers
had left us was soon expended.
I understood the French nearly as well as
the German language; the English I had
studied as a science; Bergher was master of
all three, the latter being his national tongue.
We consulted which of these characters it
was best to assume, and finally agreed upon
the French. Bergher was therefore known to
the servants by the name of Mons. Bourgonville.
We determined to mingle as little in company
as possible, and for a season to make
few acquaintance; conscious however that
the open manners and free urbanity of the
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French would not long permit us to remain
entirely secluded.
We had not long been settled when one
morning an officer of police was announced,
who being admitted, thus addressed himself:
“You will not think me officious,
Monsieur, when I inform you that our duty
compels us annually to visit each family in this
great city and report our investigation. Will
you do me the honour to give me your name?”
“Bourgonville, Monsieur,” answered
Bergher.
“But recently arrived in Paris, I presume?”
“Recently.”
“From whence, may I inquire?”
“From the frontiers.”
“I shall be proud of your acquaintance,
Monsieur Bourgonville,” said the officer; “I
will do myself the honour of sending you my
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card of address.” He then politely withdrew.
This visit appeared singular; it might
however be a custom in Paris; still it gave
us some anxiety; but we were not long left
in suspense.
The same day just in the dusk of the
evening Bergher's man who had been out
returned and gave him a letter which he said
was handed to him by a person in the street,
with orders to deliver it immediately to
his master. It was directed “To Mons.
Bourgonville.” Supposing it must have come
from the police officer, he broke the seal and
read as follows:
“Your retreat is discovered: fly instantly
or you are lost. Within two hours your house
will be surrounded, when there will be no possibility
of escape. You are advertised in most
of the papers on the continent. England may
perhaps be a safe retreat. I have only a moment,
and that obtained with difficulty, to apprize
you of your danger. Fly—linger not,
or it will be too late.
“WILLIAM DRISCOL.”
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Judge of our terror and surprise on reading
this note! No time was admitted for reflection
or hesitation. We called our servants,
told them we were going out and should
not return before eleven o'clock. We then
tied up a change of clothes in handkerchiefs,
took the money and jewels we had left and
departed a back way. Entering a narrow
street, we perceived several armed men advancing
towards us; we stepped into an
alley, they passed us and turned towards the
house; we doubted not but these were some
of the party, destined to arrest us, now proceeding
to their stations. The mail-coach
for Calais we knew departed at eight o'clock
that evening, which hour had nearly arrived.
We repaired to the stage-house, took seats in
the coach, and were soon rapidly receding
from the capital of France. When we reached
Calais the packet-boat for Dover was
about to sail; we took passage therein, entered
on board, and were shortly on our way
to England. The wind was high and the sea
rough; but the bellowing of the waves, the
roaring of the gale, and the tumultuous clamours
of the seamen, were music to my oppressed
soul, because they evinced that we
were now beyond the reach of our persecutors.
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The scene to me was new, as I had never
before been at sea. The rolling and tumbling
of the vessel made me excessively sick. A
terrible tempest tossed us about through the
night, but in the morning we landed at Dover
without accident; from thence we journeyed
to London, determining to bury ourselves
beyond the reach of scrutiny in that
populous city.
We took a furnished room on a second
floor, in a by-street, and hired a servant.
The remainder of my jewels were turned into
money for present support or future emergency.
Economy was now our object, consequently
it became necessary that to preserve
our limited funds business must be sought.
In pursuit of this object Bergher applied
to a counting-house for a clerkship, which he
obtained at a weekly stipend. I undertook to
teach a few young misses drawing and embroidery.
By diligent attention we thus obtained
ample means for our subsistence, without
diminishing our slender funds. Bergher
now took his original family name of Barker.
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Once more we were beginning to experience,
as we thought, an exemption from
present danger, and to enjoy common happiness
and contentment; when one evening as
Bergher was returning home from the duties of
his office, he saw a number of bills posted up at
the corners of streets and the public squares.
The agitations of his mind could be but feebly
portrayed when stepping up to one of them
he found the following to be its contents:
“1000 Guineas Reward,
“Will be given for the apprehension of
HERMAN BERGHER, late a colonel in the
Austrian service. From Vienna he was traced
to Paris, whence it is supposed he escaped to
England. Information will be received by the
Austrian Ambassador. Orders are issued by
this government that foreigners and strangers
of every description send their names and places
of residence to their respective legations within
ten days.” The advertisement concluded
with a very accurate description of the person
of Bergher.
Paralyzed for the moment by this sudden
and unexpected incident, we were at a loss
how to act. It was evident we were no longer
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safe in England, probably not in Europe.
Ere the next sun arose, possibly before one
hour elapsed, we might be seized by the
agents of our adversaries. Bergher, skilful
in expedient and prompt in decision, proposed
our embarking for some distant country by
the first opportunity. The plan was no sooner
adopted than he went out, traversed the
quays, and found a ship which was to sail for
America the succeeding day. Once more,
therefore, we prepared to follow our adverse
fortunes; took passage, entered on board, and
by a short and pleasant voyage arrived at
Boston.
Our first consideration was to what we
should turn our attention. Our money was
principally wasted, and unless we could devise
some means to increase, or at least not
to draw upon our little remaining stock, it
would soon be all exhausted. We believed
ourselves now so far removed from the knowledge
of all former acquaintance as to be
completely out of the reach of danger from
that quarter.
Finally we hired a small house and shop in
one of the streets recommended for the
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purpose, and commenced the business of purchasing
and retailing goods. But totally unacquainted
with trade and the habits of the
people, we obtained little custom. And
whether owing to the violent exertions of
body and keen distress of mind we had experienced,
to change of climate, or to other
causes, we both soon fell sick, first Bergher
and then myself: our business was consequently
suspended, and when we recovered,
after long and dangerous illness, the bills of
physicians and attendants, with a portion of
our rents which had become due, swept away
what little we had remaining; to add to the
dreariness of our situation, an uncommonly
severe winter was then setting in, with all its
connected horrors.
Now for the first time did we experience,
and bitterly too, the worth and the want of
property. The sums which in better days we
had squandered in trifles; the pittance we
had bestowed on mendicants; nay even the
fragments of my father's table, that which the
servants cast daily to the dogs, could they
have been permanently secured to us, we
should have esteemed competency if not
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[figure description] Page 173.[end figure description]
affluence. Still, strange as it may seem, we
were not unhappy.
I had a few valuable trinkets yet left, which
were the gift of my honoured mother; with
these I parted. Bergher also sold his gold
repeating watch, a pair of diamond shoe and
knee-buckles, and a set of gold buttons which
he cut from a dress-coat, replacing them with
others of little value. From these we raised
money sufficient to sustain us through the winter.
Of all the rich jewels my casket contained
when I left Vienna, I retained only a ring given
me by my mother on her death-bed, and this
I hope not to part with while I have life.
Spring with its reanimating influences arrived
at last, and the harbour of Boston was
soon crowded with merchant-ships from different
parts of the world. We contemplated
removing to some less expensive quarter of
the town, and to set up an inn or common
boarding-house. We had been one day to
examine a tenement which was offered us
for that purpose, when passing near the port
on our return, we lingered to observe the passengers
landing from a large ship which had,
just arrived. Among those who came on
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shore our attention was fixed by one whose
dress and appearance evinced him to be of
superior rank. He was attended by servants
in livery, to whom he seemed giving some
directions; then turning, walked along the
street towards us. Approaching near, he suddenly
stopped and gazed at us with apparent
surprise. The astonishment was mutual; in
the stranger we immediately discovered the
brother of Count Hubert, he whom the Count
had selected as his second in the contemplated
interview with my brother, as previously
mentioned. Instantly we hurried from the
spot; he followed us slowly; we turned into
the first alley that presented and lost sight of
him.
We doubted not that he had come commissioned
and properly attended to arrest us.
That on seeing, he recognized us, his conduct
clearly evinced. Knowing therefore we were
in the town, his search would be scrutinizing
and persevering; consequently we could not
long remain undiscovered. Bergher, since
his arrival in this country, had reassumed his
proper name, and though his acquaintance in
town were few, yet in the street where we resided
he was known by the name of Bergher.
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Little time was admitted for deliberation.
We must leave the place; but whither should
we go? What unknown part of the world
could conceal us? Would misfortune and calamity
never cease to afflict us, the evil genius
of adversity to haunt our steps? Were
our adversaries endowed with supernatural
powers? Could we evade their pursuit only
in the grave? Again must we fly from impending
danger, adventure on untried scenes,
desolate, friendless and poor, without even
object or aim except escape from implacable
and perilous destiny.
The period for which we hired the premises
we occupied had nearly expired. Mr.
Hammond, our landlord, was an auctioneer;
to him Bergher offered the sale of our household
furniture, which he agreed to purchase.
We reserved only a few articles. From the
avails, after deducting the rent due, he supplied
us with a small, light, single waggon
and a horse; the trifling balance remaining he
paid us in cash. Into this waggon we flung a
bed and a few utensils for cooking, then, with
an infant in my arms, we seated ourselves
therein and took our leave of Boston in the
dusk of the evening, journeying westward.
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We travelled for several days, stopping only
for rest and refreshment. At a tavern on the
road we overtook a family removing, as they
said, into the new countries. This family
consisted of six persons, the parents and four
children; the man's name was Millard. He
had purchased a large tract of wild, but excellent
land, part of which he had cleared,
sowed several acres with wheat, built a log
house and barn, and was now going to settle
thereon.
“Perhaps,” said Millard to Bergher, “you
are a new settler also;” and our appearance
would well warrant the conjecture; “perhaps
you are new settlers: If so, and you
have not already made a purchase, I know
of no better part of the country than that
to which I am bound. Wild lands may
there be bought for half a dollar an acre, and
a long credit obtained for most part of the
purchase money. All you have to do is to
clear a few acres, build a log hut, get in a
crop of wheat, and if you can subsist the first
year you soon begin to thrive, and with prudence
cannot fail in time to become rich.
Every surplus bushel of wheat will purchase
an acre of land or its equivalent; by this
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[figure description] Page 177.[end figure description]
means you increase or stock your farm, or
pay labourers for clearing and improving it.
Soon by diligence and attention your own possessions
furnish you with all the necessaries
of life, some of its superfluities, and the means
of obtaining others; and besides, your lands
are every year rising in value. The new
country is the poor man's Canaan; to him it
is a land flowing with milk and honey. He
there finds not only a plentiful supply for
himself, but independence and affluence for
his children. The forest affords abundant
provender for his cattle, and in no small degree
comforts for his family; it abounds with
a variety of fruits, nuts, herbs and roots,
some of which possess in an eminent degree
a nutricious, others a medicinal quality;
acorns which fall from the oak in autumn
completely fatten his swine, and they require
no other feeding; then the maple is in itself
a treasure; from its trunk you extract a liquid
which by various process is transformed
into spirituous or fermented liquor, vinegar,
molasses, and the richest of sugars. The
birch tree affords a similar fluid, though much
inferior in quality.[6] In clearing the land we
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[figure description] Page 178.[end figure description]
obtain materials for building, firewood for
the winter, and even the ashes produced by
burning the useless wood and timber on the
grounds, are valuable for the potash-works.
The earth being fertile needs little tillage and
yields copiously. Indeed, the man whose
industry would scarcely procure him bread in
a cultivated country, soon acquires opulence
in a new settlement.”
Millard's glowing though plain description
of the new countries, induced Bergher to follow
his advice. With him therefore we travelled
till we came to this place, which ended
our journey.
It was then indeed a new country; a few
log cottages with a cleared field to each, were
the only marks of improvement; all the rest
was wilderness for many miles around.
We took up our abode with Millard for a
few days, who was agent for the land-holders
in these parts; of him Bergher purchased a
lot of one hundred acres of wild land. The
neighbouring farmers assisted in erecting a
log hut, into which we removed the third
week after our arrival.
-- 179 --
[figure description] Page 179.[end figure description]
Our first object was to clear a spot for a
garden, then a few acres for wheat. In this
also the neighbours generously lent their aid.[7]
The additional purchase of a single cow, a
team, farming utensils, necessary furniture,
and other indispensible articles, completely
exhausted our remaining funds, so that for
the ensuing year our crop of wheat was our
sole dependence; this proving bounteous,
enabled us merely to subsist, but for some
years we could do little more.
We were compelled to observe a course of
the strictest prudence and of the most arduous
industry. The necessaries of life are few
compared with its superfluities; to the former
we limited ourselves; nor were, even
they, at times, obtainable, in proportion to
our wants; frequently have we gone supperless
to bed, that our children might partake
of a scanty meal, consisting of wild fruits and
milk, or sometimes, only of boiled or roasted
potatoes. But our circumstances soon
-- 180 --
[figure description] Page 180.[end figure description]
grew better; our garden supplied us with
sauce; Indian corn, both in its green and
ripe state, afforded a healthy and agreeable
food, its meal excellent bread, which enabled
us to dispose of our wheat at market. The
rivers abounded with fish, the forests with
game, which, at certain seasons of the year,
plentifully furnished our tables. Vegetables
of various kinds were collected from the
spontaneous production of the fields. The
trunks of hollow trees, where bees had taken
up their residence, often gave us large quantities
of honey. But the maple yielded us not
only the delicacies of the Indies, but was also
a source of real profit, as scarcely a year
passed, but, from its sap, we manufactured a
considerable surplus quantity of sugar, which
always found a ready market at the adjacent
towns.[8]
-- 181 --
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Once in each winter we generally experienced
the novel sight of Indians, from the
different tribes in the west, passing through
our settlement, with furs and peltry, to the
seaport towns, for the purposes of trade:
And sometimes strolling parties of them
would take their residence and erect wigwams
in our neighbourhood, till they could
manufacture a number of splint brooms and
-- 182 --
[figure description] Page 182.[end figure description]
baskets, which they exchanged with the inhabitants
for provisions.
Economy, prudence, and industry, so necessasy
in commencing business with small
capitals, can nowhere be practised to greater
advantage than among the farmers of new
countries. The clearing of wild lands is an
arduous task, but the wood taken therefrom
may with care be made to pay nearly the expense.
That which will not answer for
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[figure description] Page 183.[end figure description]
fencing and other timber, is turned into coal for
the smiths, or reduced to ashes and manufactured
into potash. Even the smallest faggots
and brush-wood are thus of some consideration.
But no small source of profit consists
in what the farmers of this country call lumber,
such as staves, shingles, boards, &c.
which are purchased by shippers at the seaports,
from whence they are exported to the
-- 184 --
[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]
different countries of Europe, and to the
Indies.
It was at the time, Miss Bloomfield, when
the experience of favours could not have been
more appropriate, that we became acquainted
with and were laid under obligations by your
family. Your worthy grandfather was then
a large holder of new and of some improved
lands in these parts, which he rented to us on
easy terms. He also assisted Bergher with
money to purchase Millard's estate, who removed
to another part of the country. After
the death of your grandfather some of
these lands devolved upon your aunt, who
continued the rent to Bergher, and finally appointed
him her agent and manager.
The preceding narrative, which contains a
brief sketch of the principal incidents hitherto
attendant on a variegated life, I had at different
times committed to paper, intending to
preserve it for the use and instruction of my
children after my decease. The arrival of
my brother, whom I really supposed dead,
enables me now to explain and elucidate some
incidents connected with the foregoing relation,
and thus to complete the history.
eaf281v1.n4[4] About the year 1760 much havoc and devastation
were committed by feudal dissentions, in the lesser
states of Italy. The then Duke of Milan was a
Piedmontese, and a relative of the king of Sardinia; he
had a son who, on account of some disappointments, retired
to the mountains, and became the leader of a band
of robbers. He was finally reclaimed.
eaf281v1.n5[5] This daring and powerful banditti were very
troublesome in parts of Italy, Germany, and France,
for more than half a century. They existed under
different leaders until after the French revolution,
and were finally dispersed and annibilated by the
troops of Bonaparte. The following article is taken
from a French provincial paper of May, 1804.
“A famous brigand, called Saint Rochetto, has lately
been arrested at Piedmont. He has been the chief and
creator of 16 bands of barbarians, or robbers, in the
Alps, of whom 306 have been executed. He never
had any fixed house, but he knew perfectly well the
Alps and all retreats in these mountains, and wherever
he went he had the talents to form new bands
and to inspire his fellows with the most violent hatred
against the French, of whom he acknowledged to
have killed with his own hands 120, and that his
comrades, during the last year, have by ambuscades
which he prepared, destroyed upwards of 1500 republicans.
The jealousy of one of his mistresses delivered
him up to St. Benigno. Memorials concerning
many of his transactions were found upon him, and
receipts from different priests and friars for 2,560,000
livres, which he had given to the churches and convents,
to have masses and prayers said for obtaining
the assistance of the Virgin Mary in his undertakings.
He had, besides, a list upon him of thirty persons
whom he intended to despatch this year, as soon as
possible, among whom were two Buonapartes, Vice-President
Melz, Generals Menou, Murat, St. Cyr,
&c. On his way to Turin he knocked out the brains of
a gens d' armes with his handcuffs, and bit off the
nose of another who attempted to tie his hands on his
back. He is a very strong man and his body is covered
over with hair, like a goat.”
The arrestation and execution of this chief did not
however disperse the gang. They raised up another
leader who assumed the name and title of General
Diable. Determining to avenge the death of Rochetto,
he attacked different parties of the French, and
often successfully, murdering all that fell into his
hands. Gen. Devil was at length slain, fighting at
the head of his band; the robbers were dispersed,
driven to the mountains, and finally hunted down, individually
and collectively. What few remained fled
to distant countries.
eaf281v1.n6[6] The author has seen beer and vinegar of an excellent
quality made from the sap of the birch.
eaf281v1.n7[7] It is customary in new countries for the settlers to
convene for many miles around and alternately assist
each other in clearing a lot of land, erecting a log but,
&c.
eaf281v1.n8[8] The sugar-maple of America is an article eminently
entitled to the attention of every new settler;
indeed, it may be asked whether its cultivation be not
an object for legislative consideration and patronage;
were liberal premiums offered, in proportion to the
quantity and quality of sugar annually produced therefrom,
it would probably go far to reduce the price
and diminish the importation of that commodity, perhaps
finally to exclude the use of foreign sugars, by
which millions would be saved, yearly, to the states.
At any rate, in case of war, or other event, by which our
commerce might be expelled the ocean, it would
secure to us the use of this delicacy, which habit has
possibly rendered indispensible. As the tree is easily
cultivated, farmers, by appropriating a portion of their
grounds thereto, would readily supply themselves with
sufficient quantities of sugar for family use. The tree,
besides its saccharine properties, is valuable both for
timber and firewood.
The method of preparing or manufacturing sugar
from the maple, is as follows: in the months of February
and March, when the weather is such as to
freeze in the night and thaw in the day, when the vital
juice of plants begins to circulate, and before the buds
swell, the trees are tapped, by boring several holes
diagonally into their trunks, about one fourth of an inch
diameter, three or four inches deep, from eighteen
to twenty inches apart, and from two to five feet from
the root; tubes, composed of wood or hollow weeds
are inserted in these holes, which serve to conduct
the sap into troughs prepared to receive it; nothing
more is necessary, but to strain and boil the sap to the
consistence of sugar, taking off the scum as the liquor
heats, before it boils, and carefully stirring it as it
grows thick to prevent it from burning. Brass boilers
or kettles make the best coloured sugar. The trees
will bear tapping every other year, and frequently every
year, if large and thrifty; they will yield from thirty
to one hundred gallons of sap, each, in a season; every
gallon of sap will make about four ounces of sugar.
In the spring of 1808, a farmer in the back settlements
of Massachusetts inserted twenty taps into one
tree on his own farm, by means of which he extracted
twenty-three gallons and three quarts of sap in one day,
which produced seven pounds and four ounces of sugar.
The whole quantity of sugar made from the same
tree that season, was thirty-three pounds, which according
to the above proportion, must have required
upwards of one hundred and eight gallons of sap.
The sap as drawn from the tree is an agreeable and
cooling beverage; by a fermentative process it makes a
very pleasant beer, which becoming stale produces vinegar;
boiled to a certain consistence it is excellent
molasses, which submitted to distillation, yields ardent
spirits of a rich taste and fine flavour; and when manufactured
with care, the sugar is inferior to none that we
import, and will bear refining as well. The writer
has seen Maple-Sugar which in texture, colour, and
taste, was equal to any he had ever met with manufactured
from the Cane.
During the American revolution, molasses, spirits,
and sugar, were made from the stalks of Indian corn,
by a process similar to that adopted with the Cane.—
Sugar has also been extracted from carrots, beets, and
some other roots and vegetables, but much inferior in
quality to that manufactured from the maple.
-- --
CHAPTER VI.
[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]
Restore, celestial powers, my youthful morn,
Call back my years, and let my fame return;
Give me to trace, beyond that pathless sea,
Those joyous hours, from care's intrusions free.
Enough; 'tis past; thy parting breath demands
The last sad office from surviving hands.
To share thy pains, and feel thy hapless woe,
Are rites ungrateful to a fallen foe.
Barlow.
The wound which my brother received
from Hubert in attempting my rescue, was
serious; it passed through his body near the
right breast; he fell, bereaved of sense and
motion. The Count was also wounded in
the head by the discharge of Du Ruyter's
pistol, the ball glancing off without fracturing
the bone; stunned for the moment, he likewise
fell; a conflict then ensued between the
servants of each party, when perceiving the
Driscols approaching with lanterns, they fled;
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[figure description] Page 186.[end figure description]
each bore their master to his respective chariot,
and drove speedily away.
By the time his people had conveyed him
home, the Count revived; his first inquiry
was for me. In the bustle and confusion I
had not been thought of; no one could give
any account of me. He ordered his men
back to the place where the fracas happened;
I was then at Driscol's cottage, of course
they returned without making any discovery.
Concluding that I had by some means effected
my escape with Bergher, he sent his servants
out to search in every quarter, and to
scour every road leading from the metropolis;
nor was it until the next morning, when
Bergher appeared before him, that Hubert
perceived his mistake. Throughout the day
I was strictly sought in all parts of the city
and its suburbs.
It was but a few moments after Bergher
had escaped from prison, when the visiting officers
returned and found he was gone, but by
what means could not be discovered; the alarm
being immediately made, troops were despatched
to all the passes, as has been related.
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[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]
The next day the centinel who was knocked
down by Bergher, on attempting to stop us by
seizing the horses' bridles, related the particulars
of that event. But we could be traced
no farther; nor could the informer identify
the person from whom he received the stroke.
The wound which Hubert received from
Bergher was considered mortal; the latter
was therefore advertised as a deserter and a
murderer.
The officer whom Bergher had disarmed on
the road, and who was so much injured by
the falling of his horse, languished for a considerable
time before he recovered so as to
give any correct detail of the recounter: but
soon as he was able to tell his story, the route
which we had taken was known, and without
much difficulty traced, by intelligence gained
from the peasant and his son, who conveyed
the maimed officer to the village. The brother
of Count Hubert with a body of soldiers
instantly commenced the pursuit; William
Driscol volunteered in the party, determining
if possible to apprize Bergher of their designs
before they could arrest him, should
they discover his retreat; by inquiry and
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[figure description] Page 188.[end figure description]
description they followed our track to Paris, but
there they lost us. Application was made
to the police, who granted orders for taking
the names and qualifications of all strangers
in the city; among others, the character of
Mons. Bourgonville was considered suspicious;
spies were set to watch the house,
and Bergher was seen standing at the door by
the brother of Hubert; of this the party were
instantly notified, and arrangements made
for securing us; but before this could be effected
William Driscol found means to deliver
the note to our servant, as previously stated.
We had but just left the house when the
soldiers, headed by the public officers, rushed
in; the astonished servants, who informed
them that we had been gone out but a few
minutes and would soon be back, were secured.
The party remained there until day-light,
when it was conjectured that we had
discovered the plot and escaped. Again
search was made for us throughout the city
and adjoining country for several days, and
couriers despatched on all the roads, but no
vestiges of our flight could be ascertained.
Hubert's brother, with William Driscol and a
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[figure description] Page 189.[end figure description]
few of his followers, then crossed over to England;
this produced the notification from the
Austrian minister, which Bergher discovered
in season to secure his flight. The result of
the investigation in England proving ineffectual,
the pursuit was suspended, and the party
returned to Vienna; the friends of Count
Hubert contenting themselves with extending
the advertisement for Bergher's apprehension
through all the countries of Europe.
The distress of my father can scarcely be
imagined on seeing his son brought home
wounded, as was supposed, mortally, and when
on the following day he understood that Hubert
had fallen in an encounter with Bergher,
and suspecting also that I, who he found was
missing, had absconded with him. It was indeed
reported that both Du Ruyter and the
Count were dead, which report was circulated
by the friends of the latter, in order to stimulate
the pursuit, and accelerate the apprehension of
Bergher: on this rumour Driscol founded the
story he related in my hearing at the cottage;
nor was it known either to Bergher or myself
but that the facts were true, until the late arrival
of my brother. The Baron previous to his
receiving positive information of my departure
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from Vienna, instituted a strict inquiry to
discover the place of my retreat.
A fever and delirium increased the alarming
symptoms attending my brother's wound.
Several days elapsed before he recovered the
use of his reason; the first rational sentence
he pronounced was to inquire for his sister;
of all that was publicly known he was informed.
Hubert's minions with his brother were
then in pursuit of us. Du Ruyter instantly
called my father to his bed-side.—“Selina,”
said he, “is the wife of Bergher—proclaim
this immediately and save the reputation of
your house.” He then gave the Baron a circumstantial
account of the transaction, who,
tenaciously fond of family dignity, ordered
our marriage to be announced in the public
gazettes.
The servant who had been dismissed by
Bergher when he escaped from prison, appeared
before the Baron and Du Ruyter to whom
he related the events of that night. Old
Driscol was sent for, who confirmed the story,
and gave further information respecting the affair,
still keeping the agency of himself and
William out of view, of which the servant
knew nothing material.
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My maid was still retained in the service
of Lady Du Ruyter; in a severe fit of illness,
approaching death aroused her to a consciousness
of guilt; to my brother she made a voluntary
confession. As we conjectured, she
had been seduced to betray me by the advancement
of large sums, and the promise of
still greater rewards. The note which she
pretended to have received from Du Ruyter's
footman, was the contrivance of my step-mother
and the forgery of Hubert, who designed
to have taken me to his country-seat, and there
to offer me the alternative of his hand or a
public exposure of my intended elopement.
Lady Du Ruyter was to manage the Baron
respecting the affair, from whom the plan was
kept secret.
On the return of the party sent in pursuit of
us, William Driscol related to Du Ruyter
the particular incidents of their journey; how
they had discovered and would have arrested
us in Paris, had he not secretly apprized us of
our danger; and of our sudden flight from
that city, which was the last he had heard
of us.
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When my brother's health was restored,
understanding that the Count had also recovered,
he gave him notice that as their contemplated
meeting had been too long suspended
by unforeseen events, it was indispensible
that he should now name an early
season for that purpose; Hubert returned a
note in which this short sentence was only
written—“You shall soon hear from me.”
The succeeding day another note came
from the Count equally laconic; “I am now
ready to give you satisfaction;” it said,
“meet me within half an hour at the Stranger's
Hotel, north of the city.” Thither Du
Ruyter repaired with his friend. As they entered
the Hotel, Hubert's footman met them,
with marks of deep dejection upon his countenance.
“Where is your master?” demanded my
brother.
“He is in that room, dying,” said the man,
pointing to a door.
“Dying?”
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“Yes, your honour, dying,” replied the
servant, “and has directed me to conduct you
to him.”
They followed the man into the room, where
they found the Count, pale, ghastly and bleeding,
supported by his brother and a surgeon.
He lifted his haggard eyes and fixing them
upon Du Ruyter—“The business is accomplished
without your agency,” he said in a
faint, hollow voice, “as you must readily
perceive; but at this moment your presence
is necessary for important purposes, and therefore
have I called you. Here are letters
which I entrust to your care.” He then gave
my brother three letters; one directed to himself,
another to the Baron, the third was for
the Emperor. “My request is,” he continued,
“that you neither read your own nor
present the others until tomorrow. And now,
if I may be permitted to ask another favour,
it is that you will give me your hand in token
of forgiveness. I can say but little—my time
is short even for that.”
Du Ruyter instantly reached out his hand,
which the dying man seized with convulsive
grasp. “My faults have been many,” he
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resumed; “your family I have deeply injured—
all I could do as atonement in the short
space allotted me—I have executed. And
now—adieu!” said he, as some of his friends
entered the room with a clergyman, when my
brother and his friend departed, and in a few
hours they received the intelligence that
Count Hubert had expired.
The ensuing day Du Ruyter delivered the
two letters as directed, and opened his own
in which the Count had written the particulars
of his conduct relative to Bergher and myself,
and which in all points accorded with the
dying confession of my maid. He also stated
that his letter to the Emperor contained a solemn
request that the proscriptions against
Bergher should be recalled, he invited to return,
and restored to his honours. That to
the Baron was of similar import, earnestly
enjoining him to reinstate his daughter completely
in his favour.
Within a few days an imperial edict was issued,
declaring Col. Herman Bergher entirely
innocent of and fully exculpated from all the
crimes and misdemeanours which had been
alledged against him, inviting and requesting
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him to return and take his post as general in
the Austrian army, to which the Emperor
had seen fit to advance him in consequence of
his abilities and meritorious services.
Hubert had fallen in a duel. Besides his
engagement with my brother he had received
two challenges; one from a gentleman whose
sister he had dishonoured and abandoned to
misery; the other from Col. Hembold, the
officer selected by Du Ruyter as his friend in
the proposed interview with the Count, as before
stated; who, on hearing Hubert declaim
against Bergher in public company, defended
his character and attempted a justification of
his conduct; high words ensued; they parted
in anger, and the next morning the Count
received a message.
Both interviews were fixed for the same
day, one in the morning, the other in the
afternoon. Hubert fell in the first, by the
hand of the person whose sister he had so seriously
injured. It was after these arrangements
were made, and the day previous to the
meeting, that he received Du Ruyter's note
and thereto returned so short an answer.
Probably his intentions then were, should he
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prove victorious in the first encounter, to
fight all three in succession; but the sudden
approach of death through the avenues of a
mortal wound might have given him new
views on the subject, or at least excited new
apprehensions.
Couriers were immediately despatched into
all the different countries of Europe to discover
our retreat and to call us home; as
they passed through the great towns and cities
they caused the Emperor's edict to be published
in the principal gazettes, and in various
languages, with the offer of large rewards
to whoever could give information by
which we might be found. One after another
the messengers returned unsuccessful, to the
great grief of my father and the deep disappointment
of our friends. All Vienna became
interested in our misfortune and sincerely lamented
our fate. The Emperor was seriously
afflicted and withdrew his favour from the
family of Hubert.
Du Ruyter determined to set out in search
of us; the brother of the deceased Hubert
asked leave to accompany him. They commenced
their journey, each attended by a
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servant only. It was conjectured that on finding
so hot a pursuit and such severe proscriptions
instituted and enforced against us, we had
fled to America, as emigrations to that country
were frequent; they believed that if we
were still in Europe, some gazette containing
the notification respecting Bergher must fall
into our hands, and that consequently we
should return to Vienna. The travellers therefore
pursued their way to Paris, and after a
fruitless inquiry there, extended the investigation
through all parts of Great Britain and
Ireland with the same effect. They then agreed
to part; Hubert sailed for America
and Du Ruyter for the West Indies.
Hubert arrived at Boston at the time he
was recognized by Bergher and myself, and
which caused our sudden flight into the
country. He also saw us, and had as he believed
discovered our retreat; but after the
most inquisitive search in all the populous
parts of the town without gaining the least
intelligence respecting us, he concluded he
must have been mistaken. He then pursued
the inquiry to the city of New-York, where
he was to await the arrival of my brother.
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The latter, after traversing the West-India
Islands and some parts of the southern continent,
sailed to Savannah in Georgia; thence
prosecuting his journey northward he stopped
at the different towns through which he passed,
frequently making excursions to country
villages, in hopes of obtaining some information
relative to the object of his pursuit. He
reached New-York, and with Hubert proceeded
to Albany; they then crossed the country,
taking Hartford in their way, to Boston. They
had caused to be inserted in most of the American
gazettes, the edict of the Emperor in the
German, French and English languages, with
a notice offering high rewards for information
respecting us, and stating that Du Ruyter was
in America, and might be found at a particular
house in Boston, where he had left his address
in case we should apply in his absence.
Remote as we then were from all the sources
and every channel of intelligence and information;
seated in the midst of wilderness, surrounded
by penury, impelled to hard labour for
subsistence, and distant from any conspicuous
town, no gazette found its way into our log-hut
neighbourhood. Most of the peasants were
too poor to pay for them; others too much
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[figure description] Page 199.[end figure description]
engaged in daily avocations, and some too ignorant
to read; indeed very few possessed the
curiosity. As for ourselves, we were content
to remain buried to the world, and felt a
reluctance to know even what was passing
therein, confident that we could learn nothing
which would tend to increase our comfort or
our happiness. Hence the imperial edict with
the publications which accompanied it never
reached us; and hence the most scrutinizing
inquiries and investigations of our friends
could never discover us.
My brother was unwilling to relinquish the
pursuit, especially after Hubert informed him
of the glance he supposed he obtained of us
in the streets of Boston; the idea still pressed
upon his mind that Hubert was not mistaken
in his conjecture; he of course frequently
wandered about the town and its environs, and
through Charlestown, examining into every
inn, boarding-house, and all places of public
resort.
Entering an ale-house one day, he as usual
inquired whether any stranger had resided in
that street within a year past. The people appeared
to have some imperfect remembrance
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of a person who had kept a shop and retailed
goods there for a short time, and they referred
him to the owner of the tenement, on whom he
immediately called: this was Hammond the
auctioneer. He informed Du Ruyter at what
time he had rented to us certain premises, and
when we left them; that we were poor and
unfortunate; whether we were Americans or
foreigners he could not tell, nor could he give
any very accurate description of our persons.
He did not even recollect our names: when my
brother mentioned Bergher, he rather thought
that was the name, but would not be positive;
we had sold him what little furniture we possessed,
and left town in a waggon; but whither
we went he knew not; he had never heard of
us thereafter. This was indeed all he knew
of us.
So imperfect was this intelligence that Du
Ruyter doubted whether the persons thus described
could be his friend and sister; still,
as it was merely possible, he and his companion
again made excursions through the
country towns and villages, but could learn
nothing farther respecting the subject of their
anxiety.
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Trusting that if we were in America some
of the gazettes containing the imperial edict
with the note attached thereto must reach us,
and that in consequence thereof we should, as
the note directed, immediately repair to Boston,
they remained in that town about a year,
and then concluded to return home. But before
they departed my brother had another interview
with Hammond; “I have some reason,”
said he, “to believe that the people who
rented your tenements are those I have been
seeking. If therefore you can possibly find
them out, and will apprize a gentleman I shall
name in this town of the circumstance, you
shall be entitled to receive from him the reward
of one thousand dollars, provided the
persons discovered be the same I allude to
and whom I have so long sought.” Hammond
took down Bergher's name and engaged
to make every effort in his power to find us, or
the persons at least who had been his tenants.
The gentleman whom Du Ruyter named as
a reference, and with whom he had made the
proper arrangements, was an eminent German
merchant who had long resided in Boston.
They then took their departure with only
the solitary hope remaining that we were still
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[figure description] Page 202.[end figure description]
in Europe, had received the intelligence of
the change in our favour, and that they should
experience the satisfaction of meeting us at
Vienna.
But how deep their disappointment on arriving
at that city! We were now given up as
lost. It was generally supposed that we had
perished in crossing the seas to some distant
country.
Disconsolate and dejected, my brother entered
into the Emperor's service, and renewed
war soon called him abroad. He was absent
except in short visits for some years. When
on the cessation of hostilities he returned
home, he found, to increase his affliction, that
the extravagance and dissipatious conduct of
Lady Du Ruyter had involved the Baron's estate
beyond the possibility of redemption.
By the advice of his son, my father commenced
a retrenchment of his expenditures,
but it was too late; the mortgages were so
heavy and the creditors so pressing that his
entire possessions were finally sold to satisfy
the demands. His lady, thus checked in her
dissolute career and no longer able to shine in
public, withdrew in chagrin from the world,
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[figure description] Page 203.[end figure description]
fell into a decline, and within one year thereafter
was conveyed to the tomb.
My father retired with his son to the Saxon
estates of the latter; there he passed the remainder
of his life in as much comfort and
serenity as his troubles and the infirmities attending
increasing years would admit, and
died at an advanced age, when my brother
succeeded to the title of Baron Du Ruyter.
My sisters were prosperous and lived in
splendour. Their families are of the first
distinction in Germany.
Du Ruyter made ample provision for the
Driscol family. William followed the army,
and in due time was advanced to the command
of the regiment of Bergher.
It is now about two years since a gentleman
travelling to the westward arrived here during
a heavy storm, and tarried with us a few days
until the weather proved more favourable, and
the roads passable, which were rendered unsafe
by the flood. Finding he was from Boston,
Bergher made some inquiries concerning
Hammond the auctioneer; the stranger was
well acquainted with him; he had become a
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[figure description] Page 204.[end figure description]
merchant of some distinction. Bergher informed
his guest that he had once for a short
time rented tenements of this person. These
observations passed in the course of general
conversation, and were not by us called into
remembrance after the traveller departed.
Now it is known that when the gentleman
returned to Boston, he casually informed Hammond
of the circumstance and also of the
place where we resided, who being struck by
the name of Bergher, had recourse to his
memorandum and found it to be the same my
brother had mentioned. He then communicated
the intelligence to the German merchant to
whom Du Ruyter referred him, who wrote to
the Austrian minister in England and he despatched
a courier to my brother with the news.
Du Ruyter instantly determined to visit us
and made the necessary preparations for his
departure. Having never married, his family
consisted only of servants and attendants.
He appointed the steward superintendant
of affairs in his absence, arranged all other
matters, apprized his friends of his intentions
and set out for this country. Arriving
at Boston he obtained the necessary
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directions and reached us in due season. His first
wishes were that we should return with him
to Germany and reside with our friends; but
finding we were so well established here, and
perceiving our attachment to the country, he
has relinquished that prospect, determining
however to remain a length of time with us
before he returns to the place of his nativity.
You now, Miss Bloomfield, have the eventful
story of my past life. You must perceive
that I have experienced severe distress, encountered
formidable calamities and suffered
deep afflictions. Providence has at length
kindly given me a haven of rest, and in great
mercy crowned my latter days with comfort,
serenity and peace. The restoration of my
brother as from the tomb has freed my soul
from a load of sorrows. His explication of
events to us so important and hitherto involved
in mystery, relieved our minds from a weight
of cares. Our long tempest of troubles has
ceased, and Heaven, more beneficent than our
deserts, or even our expectations, has once
more caused the sun of consolation to shine
mildly upon our prospects.
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Here ended the interesting narrative of
Mrs. Bergher. Melissa reflected solemnly
on the subject. She perceived to what misfortunes
an opposition to parental authority
must lead, and also the dreadful effects of parental
tyranny. Had the conduct of Mrs.
Bergher been discrete? Was that of her father
justifiable? Both, it appeared to her, had acted
wrong; yet she could not clearly discover what
course the former should have pursued; but
she saw plainly the disastrous consequences of
permitting the affections to triumph over reason,
and she involuntarily though feelingly
exclaimed, “O my God! preserve me from
trials similar to these!”
Before she returned the manuscript she
transcribed it and intrusted its perusal to her
parents, by which a singular fact was discovered:
Barker, the father of Bergher, was
an Englishman, as has been mentioned; he
was the uncle of Melissa's mother, who descended
from an English family of that name,
the members of which were well acquainted
with the circumstance of Barker's going over
to Germany, but they knew nothing farther
than that he married a lady of that country,
and after her death entered the Austrian
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service, where he perished. They understood
he had one son, who was also in the army,
but had never heard of the alteration made
in the name. The narrative elucidated these
events. Barker abandoned England on account
of being disappointed in receiving some
promised advancement for certain eminent
services rendered his country. After this the
families of Bloomfield and Bergher recognized
each other as relatives, and a more intimate
intercourse existed between them.
-- --
CHAPTER VII.
[figure description] Page 208.[end figure description]
Full on thy cheek the roses glow,
Their fragrance floats upon thy breath;
Fair on thy neck the lilies blow,
And ah, they blow that neck beneath.
Thy locks in wavy ringlets flow,
To which a nameless grace is given,
And shade thy swelling bosom's snow,
Like clouds that veil a part of heaven.
Stanley.
Glenford, the relative with whom Melissa
resided while a pupil at the New-London
female academy, married his wife in Jersey.
He with his lady, about this time, had been to
visit her parents, and on their return passed
a few days at the seat of Col. Bloomfield.
While there, Mrs. Glenford insisted, and it
was agreed, that Melissa should accompany
them home and tarry a short time, when Edgar
was to go there and attend her back.
In the absence of his sister young Bloomfield
received a visit from a gentleman who
had been his class-student at Yale; his name
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was Alonzo Haventon, the only child of an
eminent merchant who resided in an adjacent
seaport town; he was designed for the bar
and soon expected to enter upon his professional
studies. It was a joyful meeting between
him and Edgar, for at College they had formed
a permanent and indissoluble friendship.
Alonzo was about twenty-one years old;
of elegant and stately appearance, polished
manners, and highly prepossessing address;
his eye indicated sublimity of mind, honourable
sentiment, and a soul of exquisite sensibility;
his settled countenance seemed tinged
with shades of melancholy, but when animated
by interesting company, or sprightly
conversation, he was cheerful and often gay;
young, ardent and enterprizing, he looked forward
to his profession as the principal road to
dignity and emolument; without arrogance,
he was not destitute of laudable ambition; and
though he aspired to shine in the sphere he
had selected,
“Yet far beyond the pride and pomp of power,
He lov'd the realms of nature to explore;
With lingering gaze Edenian spring survey'd;
Morn's fairy splendours; night's gay curtain'd shade;
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The high hoar cliff; the grove's benighting gloom;
The wild-rose widow'd o'er the mouldering tomb;
The heaven-embosom'd sun; the rainbow's die,
Where lucid forms disport to fancy's eye.”
The vernal flowers; mild autumn's purpling glow;
The summer's thunder and the winter's snow.
His genius was far superior to the ordinary
class, which had been cultivated and expanded
by the refinements of an excellent education.
While Alonzo continued his visit the season
approached when Edgar was to proceed to
New-London and escort his sister home; he
invited his friend to accompany him, who
readily accepted the invitation; when the
time arrived they set out together, and at
evening on the second day of their journey
reached the place and repaired to the house
of Glenford.
Melissa was at a ball, given in celebration
of a marriage in that town; she did not return
until late; Bowman, her gallant, as mentioned
in the early part of this work, attended
her; she flew into the arms of Edgar; as he
introduced Haventon she started and seemed
confused; Alonzo also appeared surprised;
Bloomfield perceived their embarrassment,
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[figure description] Page 211.[end figure description]
but could not conjecture the cause; he endeavoured
to relieve them by presenting Bowman
to his friend; they were both also apparently
astonished and performed the ceremony
in evident discomposure. Bloomfield
contemplated this double scene of emotion
with excited curiosity and anxiety: after
Bowman retired he made some inquiries
of his sister, and she informed him that Haventon
was the stranger who by risking his
own safety had rescued her from such imminent
danger when on the point of being plunged
down a tremendous precipice, as has been related;
“And he,” said Edgar, “was my
most intimate friend at College. An explanation
now took place; Alonzo received the renewed
acknowledgements of Edgar and his
sister for the important service he had rendered
them. He told them that when the incident
occurred he had been on a visit to a
distant relative of his father whose name was
Vincent. This person resided in the neighbourhood
of Col. Bloomfield, and was well
known to the family.
If Alonzo was interested by the appearance
of Melissa when he first saw her agitated
by affright, trembling, shuddering with
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the apprehensions of sudden death; if then;
after snatching her from perils so hazardous,
he became fixed to the spot she had left, gazing
stedfastly after the carriage as it conveyed
her away, his feelings were not less affected
on this second interview, when he beheld her
calm, placid, smiling and cheerful; on his
mind she impressed those ideas of that perfection
which a poet of later days thus happily
expresses:
“Not Nature's hand her beauty could improve;
Her voice was melody; her mind was love;
Her manners graceful; air, intrancing ease;
Her skin the lily, opening to the breeze;
Her cheek was health's inimitable die,
And the bright soul sate sparkling in her eye.”
She was dressed in white, embroidered and
spangled with rich silver lace; a green silk
girdle, enwrought and tasselled with gold, surrounded
her waist; her hair was unadorned
except by a wreath of artificial flowers, on
the front of which blazed a single diamond.
They remained at New-London some days,
which they passed in visiting and in social
parties. Bowman was an assiduous attendant
upon Melissa; he came one afternoon and
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[figure description] Page 213.[end figure description]
invited her to ride out; she excused herself,
saying she was indisposed, and Edgar supplied
her place.
At evening she proposed walking out with
Glenford and his lady, but they were prevented
by unexpected visitors. Alonzo offered
to accompany her. It was one of those
beautiful evenings in the month of June when
Nature in those parts of America is arrayed
in her richest dress. They left the town and
strolled through fields adjoining the harbour.
The moon shone in full brilliancy, her white
beams trembling upon the glassy main, where
skiffs and sails of various description were
passing and repassing; the shores of Long-Island,
and the other islands in the harbour,
appeared dimly to float among the waves; the
air was odoured with the fragrance of surrounding
flowers; the sound of various instrumental
music wafting from the town was
rendered sweeter by distance, while the whipperwill's
sprightly song echoed along the adjacent
groves; far in the eastern horizon hung
a pile of brazen clouds which had passed from
the north, over which the crinkling red lightning
momentarily darted, and at times long
peals of thunder were faintly heard. They
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proceeded to a point of the beach where stood
a large rock whose base was washed by every
tide; there they seated themselves and enjoyed
awhile the splendours of the scene—
the drapery of nature. “To this place,” said
Melissa, “have I taken many a solitary walk
on such an evening as the present, and here
have I experienced more pleasing sensations
than I ever received in the most splendid circles
of mirth and gaiety.” The idea impressed
the mind of Alonzo; it was congenial
with the feelings of his soul.
They returned at a late hour, and the next
day set out for home. Bowman handed Melissa
into the carriage, and with Glenford and
his lady accompanied them to Branford,
which place they reached about sunset, and
lodged there that night at the house of an acquaintance.
The next morning they separated;
the Glenford party returned to New-London;
Edgar with his friend and sister
proceeded on, and at evening arrived at his
father's house, which was in the western part
of the state.
Edgar and Alonzo frequently interchanged
visits, and they passed some time together in
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[figure description] Page 215.[end figure description]
travelling through different parts of America.
But the season at length arrived when they
must part; the former repaired to New-York
where he was to commence his theological
studies; the latter entered the office of an
eminent attorney in his native town, which was
about twenty miles distant from the seat of
Col. Bloomfield. Haventon was the frequent
guest of this family; for though Edgar was
absent, there was still an object which attracted
him thither. If he had admired the noble
qualifications of the brother, could he fail to
adore the sublimer graces of the sister? If
all the sympathies of the most ardent friendship
had been drawn forth towards the virtues
and accomplishments of the one, must not the
most tender passions of the soul be attracted
by the milder and more refined excellencies
of the other?
Bowman had become the acknowledged
suitor of Melissa, but the distance of his residence
rendered it inconvenient to visit her
often. He came regularly about once in two
or three months, of course Alonzo and he
sometimes met. Haventon knew not whether
he had made serious pretensions, but his particularity
indicated something more than
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[figure description] Page 216.[end figure description]
fashionable politeness; his manners, his independent
situation, his family, entitled him to
respect; it was not probable therefore that he
would be objectionable to Melissa's friends—
nor to Melissa herself—thought Alonzo, with
an involuntary sigh.
But as Bowman's visits became more frequent,
increasing anxiety was excited in Alonzo's
breast; he wished she might remain single;
the idea of losing her by marriage gave
him inexpressible regret. What substitute
could supply the happy hours he had passed
in her society, what charm wing the lingering
moments when she was gone? In
the remission of his studies he could in a few
hours be at the seat of her father; there his
cares were dissipated, and the troubles of life,
real or imaginary, on light pinions fleeted
away. How different would be the scene
when excluded from the unreserved friendship
and conversation of Melissa! And unreserved
it could not be were she not completely mistress
of herself. But was there not something
of a more refined texture than friendship in
his predilection for the company of Miss
Bloomfield? If so, why not avow it? His
prospects, his family, and of course his
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pretensions, might not be inferior to those of his
rival; but perhaps Bowman was preferred;
his opportunities had been greater; he had
first formed an acquaintance with her; distance
proved no barrier to his addresses; his
visits became more frequent: was it not then
extremely probable that he had secured her
affections? Thus reflected Alonzo, but these
reflections tended not to allay the tempest
which was gathering in his bosom. He ordered
his horse, and was in a short time at
Bloomfield Vale.
It was summer, and towards evening when
he arrived. Melissa was sitting by a window
when he entered the hall; she arose and received
him with a smile; “I have just been
thinking of an evening's ramble,” said she,
“but had no one to escort me, and you have
come just in time to perform that office. I
will order tea immediately, while you rest
from the fatigues of your journey.”
When tea was served up, a servant entered
the room with a paper which he had found in
the yard. Melissa received it: “'Tis a letter,”
said she, “which I sent by Bowman to
a lady in New-London, and the careless man
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has lost it.” Turning to Alonzo, “I forgot
to tell you that your friend has been with us
a few days; he left us this morning.”
“My friend!” replied Haventon, hastily.
“Is he not so?” inquired Melissa.
“I beg pardon, Madam,” answered he,
“my mind was absent.”
“He requested us to present his respects to
his friend Alonzo,” said she. Haventon
bowed and turned the conversation.
They walked out and took a winding path
which led along pleasant fields, by a gliding
stream, through a little grove, to the top of the
high hill called the Mountain, noticed in the
early part of this history. A soft and silent
shower had descended; a thousand transitory
gems trembled upon the foliage, glittering to
the western ray; a bright rainbow sat upon
an eastern cloud; the light gales sported among
the branches, agitated the young harvest
to billowy motion, or waved the tops of
the distant, deep-green forest with majestic
grandeur; flocks, herds and cottages were
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scattered over the variegated landscape; hills
piled on hills, receding, faded from the pursuing
eye, mingling with the blue mist which
hovered around the extremest verge of the horizon.
“This is a most beautiful scene,” said
Melissa.
“It really is,” replied Haventon; “can
New-London boast so charming a prospect?”
Melissa. No—yes—indeed I can hardly
say. You know, Alonzo, how I was charmed
with the rock at the point of the beach.
Alonzo. You once mentioned the happy
hours you had passed at that place. Perhaps
the company which attended you there gave
the scenery its highest embellishment.
Mel. I know not how it happened; but you
are the only person who ever gallanted me
there.
Al. That is a little surprising.
Mel. Why surprising?
Al. Where was Bowman?
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Mel. Perhaps he was not fond of solitude;
besides, he was not always my beau-man.
Al. Sometimes.
Mel. Yes, sometimes.
Al. And now always.
Mel. Not this evening.
Al. He formally addresses you.
Mel. Well.
Al. And will soon claim the exclusive privilege
to that favour.
Mel. That does not follow of course.
Al. Of course, if his intentions are sincere,
and the wishes of another should accord
therewith.
Mel. Who am I to understand by another?
Al. Melissa. [A short silence succeeded.]
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Mel. See that ship, Alonzo, coming up the
Sound; how it plows through the white foam,
while the breezes flutter among the sails as
they vary to the beams of the sun.
Al. Yes; it is almost down.
Mel. What is almost down?
Al. The sun. Was you not speaking of the
sun, Madam?
Mel. Your mind is again absent, Alonzo:
I was speaking of yonder ship.
Al. I beg pardon, Madam. Oh yes—the
ship—it—it bounds with rapid motion over
the waves.
A pause ensued. They wandered leisurely
around the hill and again halted at its top;
the sun sank behind western groves; twilight
arose in the east and floated along the air;
darkness began to hover among the woodlands
and valleys; the beauties of the landscape
slowly receded:
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“This reminds me of our walk at New-London,”
said Melissa.
“Do you remember it?” inquired Alonzo.
“Certainly,” she replied; “I shall never
forget the sweet pensive scenery of my favourite
rock.”
“Nor I neither,” he expressively answered.
“Seest thou that bright star, Alonzo?”
said Melissa, pointing to the planet Venus
which glowed resplendently in the west;
“how often has my imagination soared to its
sphere and anxiously endeavoured to explore
its world! What are its inhabitants? Are they
a superior order of beings, or mortal like us?
Have they their entrances on life and their
exits, or is death not known among them?
Are they subject to our frailties, our pains and
our passions, or do they experience uninterrupted
peace and happiness? Such have been
the wanderings of inquisitive fancy, when on
summer evenings I have contemplated that little
luminous orb which in alternate succession,
as the poet would say, ushers in the
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splendours of morning, or follows the track of twilight
down the western sky.”
“It is a contemplation worthy the soul,”
answered Alonzo. “Those numerous globes
of light scattered over the heavens are doubtless,
many of them, suns, blazing to systems
similar to this of which our earth forms a
part; a far greater number are probably inhabited
worlds, but with what kind of beings,
whether spiritual or human, can only be
vaguely conjectured: some may be the abodes
of angels; others occupied by different species
of mortals, superior and inferior to man.
Others again are possibly the residence of spirits
departed from their bodies, there to remain
until the great last day of retribution
and decision. Comets, those wild and wandering
orbs, may be the habitations of the
wicked; the brilliant, shining stars, of the
righteous; the former, places of wrath and
punishment, the latter, of felicity and joy.
That glorious planet, forming a part of our
system, and which now attracts your attention,
Melissa, may contain within its sphere the
happy souls of our dear deceased friends.
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“The unassisted eye can explore but a
small portion of the countless stellar legions
sprinkled over the boundless extent of space;
glasses of common magnitude show us that
the galaxy is composed of an infinite number
of stars; telescopes of higher powers disclose,
in regions far remote, constellations innumerable.
Man, ignorant man, in his circumscribed
sphere, knows little, very little of the
immensity of creation, the incomprehensible
works of Deity.”
“These reflections,” returned Melissa,
“remind me of a poetic production which
my brother wrote and sent to a friend while
at College. He favoured me with a copy
of it; some parts thereof touch upon the subject
you have been treating. You shall see it
this evening.”
As they were returning they paused to observe
a brilliant display of the Aurora Borealis,
which had been forming and increasing as twilight
decayed. It was grand, beautiful and sublime;
a luminous arch extended from the two
extremities of the northern horizon, from all
parts of which pyramidical pillars of apparent
flame shot forth, some of them reaching to the
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zenith, alternately rising, brightening and fading
away; the concave beneath quite to its base
was clouded with a substance resembling
smoke, interspersed with crimson stains and
spots of inconceivable brightness. Suddenly
the arch was broken and dissolved; then from
adverse points arose numerous columns, flashing,
rushing forward, meeting, closing in the
centre, and vanishing, like armies engaged in
hostile conflict, while just beneath the space
they occupied lay a kind of vapour which bore
the semblance of blood: shortly the whole disappeared,
except a light on the verge of the hoizon
like the morning dawn; then at one point
masses like smoke and sparkling flame would
ascend, similar to those of a burning city, while
from a distant quarter of the field the columns
again appeared as if marching rapidly towards
the conflagration, in long succession, but vanished
as they approached it, and soon all
faded from the sight. During the existence
of the phenomenon there was distinctly heard
a low rumbling sound in the region of the
north, like the solemn roar of distant winds.[9]
Melissa inquired what causes were assigned
for these singular appearances. “They have
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never been accounted for,” answered Alonzo,
“on correct philosophical principles; conjecture
is various; some have supposed them to proceed
from the reflections of the sun shining upon
mountains of ice in the Greenland seas; others,
that they are occasioned by nitrous particles
rising in the air, and wafted by northerly winds,
till meeting with the warm breezes of the
south, corruscations are thus produced. The
most modern opinion is that they are effected
by certain powers of electricity hitherto not
accurately defined. But the irregular order
in which they occur proves the incorrectness,
or at least the uncertainty of each of these
theories. We sometimes may perceive them
for several nights in succession, and frequently
every week for many months; and then
not in a single instance for years. They are
common in Canada, Greenland, Iceland and
other northern countries, but are recent in
southern Europe and America.”[10]
After they reached home Melissa put into
the hands of Haventon the poem she had
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mentioned. “You shall judge of Edgar's poetical
abilities,” said she, “for intimate as you
and he were at College, I think you cannot
have seen this; he has often told me that
he never submitted the light effusions of his
muse, as he styled such performances, to the
inspection of any but those to whom they
were addressed. It was written on the anniversary
of the New Year.”
“And to thyself,” said Alonzo. Melissa
smiled, and the former read as follows:
A NEW-YEAR REFLECTION.
Again a weary year expires,
And vigourous from its phœnix-fires,
The new-born Chief of months aspires
Its course to run;
While deep in Indian skies retires
The sickly sun.
The North his stormy vengeance pours;
Dark clouds discharge their Greenland stores;
Through forests grim the tempest roars,
And o'er the waste;
Wild shriek mad fiends, while midnight lowers,
Thron'd on the blast.
From yonder cliff, on mountains high,
Hear Time in voice of thunder cry,
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While giant Echoes back reply,
“The Year is fled!
Thus all within my realms shall fly
To join the dead.
“The cottage low, the fabric grand,
These mighty piles on which I stand,
The system'd heavens, the sea, the land,
Their contents all,
Shall soon, by this resistless hand,
In ruin fall.”
The voice of Time, the season drear,
The volleying storm, the coffin'd year,
The buried earth, the prospect sere,
All mark our fate;
To prove—ere long we leave them here—
A different state.
But what, my friend, that state shall be,
Is undisclos'd to you or me—
Whether to roam beneath the sea,
Or flit the air;
Or rove creation's farthest lea—
Yon polar star.
Whether on angel-wing to fly
From orb to orb around the sky,
And through Orion's window high,
Unlicens'd stray,
Or in oblivious silence lie
Till the last day.
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But why in future mysteries deal,
Which learning's code can ne'er reveal?
Enough to treat on what we feel,
And what we know;
The constant woe, the inconstant weal,
Of man below.
The path of life we all must trace,
Through glory some, some through disgrace;
Now pleasure bland, now sharp distress,
Brings smiles or tears;
The first for moments holds its place,
The last for years.
If wealth or penury be our lot,
The splendid dome or lonely cot—
Obscure or great, let's heed it not,
Nor fret nor mourn;
Alike we reach that destined spot,
Man's narrow bourne.
For yet but few swift suns shall shine,
Few moons their lustre loan'd resign,
Ere sinks this world of yours and mine,
To rise no more
Till sounds the trump of Heaven, sublime,
Its final roar.
'Tis thus when pondering passing scenes,
The soul o'er gloomy prospects leans,
The muse, transcribing pensive themes,
Her subject rears.
Alas! that life is fill'd with dreams
Of hopes and fears.
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May health, content and cheering peace,
From sadness, pain and care release
My lovely sister dear, nor cease
Till time shall end;
Then through undying years increase—
So prays your friend.
The next day Alonzo returned to his studies;
but different from his former visits to
Melissa, instead of exhilirating his spirits,
this had tended to depress them. He doubted
whether she was not already engaged to
Bowman. His hopes would persuade him
that this was not the case; but his fears declared
otherwise.
Absence and solitude however tended only
to increase his anxieties; nor were they alleviated
by a letter he received from his friend
Vincent, who resided, as has been stated, near
Bloomfield Vale, an extract of which follows:
“We are soon to have a wedding here; you
are acquainted with the parties, Miss Bloomfield
and Bowman. Such at least is our opinion
from appearances, as the latter is very frequently
here. You will undoubtedly be a guest.
We had expected that you would have put in your
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[figure description] Page 231.[end figure description]
claims, from your particular attention to the
lady. She is a fine girl, Haventon .”
“I shall never be a guest at Melissa's wedding,”
said Alonzo, as he hastily paced the
room; “but I will once again see her and bid
her a final and lasting adieu before that event
occurs; for thereafter I shall visit her no
more.”
The next day he repaired to her father's;
he inquired for Melissa; she was gone with a
party to the shores of the Sound, escorted by
Bowman. At evening they returned: Bowman
and Haventon addressed each other with
much seeming cordiality.
“You have deceived us, Alonzo,” said
Melissa, “we concluded you had forgotten
the road to this place.”
“Was not that a hasty conclusion, Madam?”
replied he.
“I think not,” she answered, “if your
long absence should be construed into neglect.
But we will hear your excuse,” said she,
smiling, “when leisure permits, and perhaps
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[figure description] Page 232.[end figure description]
pardon you.” He thanked her for such condescension.
The next morning Bowman set out for
New-London; Haventon observed that he
took a tender leave of Melissa, telling her in
a low voice that he should have the happiness
of seeing her again within two or three weeks.
After he was gone, as Melissa and Alonzo
were sitting in a room alone, “Well, Sir,”
said she, “am I to hear your excuses?”
Alonzo. For what fault, Madam?
Melissa. For neglecting your friends.
Al. I hope it is not so considered, Madam.
Mel. Seriously, then, why have you stayed
away so long? Has this place no charms in
the absence of my brother?
Al. Would my presence have added to
your felicities, Melissa?
Mel. You never came an unwelcome visitor
here.
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[figure description] Page 233.[end figure description]
Al. Perhaps I might sometimes be intrusive.
Mel. What times?
Al. When Bowman is your guest.
Mel. I have supposed you were on friendly
terms.
Al. We are.
Mel. Why then intrusive?
Al. There are seasons when friendship
must yield its pretensions to a superior claim.
Mel. Perhaps I do not rightly comprehend
the force of that remark.
Al. Were Bowman here my position might
be demonstrated.
Mel. I think I understand you.
Al. And acknowledge my observations to
be just.
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Mel. [hesitating.] Yes—I believe—I must.
Al. And appropriate?
Melissa was silent.
Al. You hesitate, Miss Bloomfield.
She still made no reply.
Al. Will you, Melissa, answer me one
question?
Mel. [confused.] If it be a proper one. You
are entitled to candour.
Al. Are you engaged to Bowman?
Mel. [colouring.] He has asked me the
same question concerning you.
Al. Has he obtained an interest in your affections?
Mel. [deeply blushing, her eyes cast upon
the floor.] He has made the same inquiry respecting
you.
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[figure description] Page 235.[end figure description]
Al. Has he asked your father's permission
to address you?
Mel. That I have not permitted him yet
to do.
Al. Yet?
Mel. I assure you I have not.
Al. [taking her hand with emotion.] Melissa,
I beg you will deal candidly. I am entitled
to no claims, but you know what my
heart would ask. I will bow to your decision.
Bowman or Haventon must relinquish
their pretensions: we cannot share the blessing.
Mel. [her cheeks suffused with a varying
glow, her lips pale, her voice tremulous, her
eyes still cast down.] My parents have informed
me that it is improper to receive the particular
addresses of more than one. I am
conscious of my inadvertence, and that the
reproof is just: one therefore must be dismissed.
But—[again she hesitated.]
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A considerable pause ensued. At length
Alonzo arose, “I will not press you farther,”
he said, “I know the delicacy of your feelings,
and honour your sincerity; I will not
therefore insist on your performing the unpleasant
task of discrimination. Your conduct
in every point of view has been discrete.
I could have no just claims, or if I had, your
heart must sanction them, or they would be
unhallowed and unjustifiable. I shall ever
pray for your felicity. The affections are not
under our direction, yet our happiness or misery
depends on their influence. Whatever
then may be my sufferings, you are unblamable
and irreproachable.” He took his hat in
extreme agitation and prepared to take his
leave.
Melissa had recovered in some degree from
her embarrassment and collected her scattered
spirits. “Your conduct, Alonzo,” said
she, “is generous and noble. Will you give
yourself the trouble and do me the justice to
call here once more?”
“I will,” said he, “at any time you shall
appoint.”
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“Four weeks then,” she said, “from this
day favour us with a visit, and you shall
have my decision and receive a final answer.”
“I will be punctual to the time,” he replied,
and bade her adieu.
eaf281v1.n9[9] This circumstance has been remarked in various
similar instances.
eaf281v1.n10[10] We have no account of their appearance in this
country previous to about the year 1720; they were very
frequent in the time of our revolutionary war, since
which they have rarely visited us.
-- --
CHAPTER VIII.
[figure description] Page 238.[end figure description]
Doubts and fears and glooms, away!
Hence, to regions dark and ruthless!
Grim despair and sad dismay,
Grief and sorrow, all are useless.
Joys and soft endearments, come,
Sporting round the car of pleasure;
Graces gay and raptures young,
On these altars pour your treasure.
Lester.
To Alonzo the time now moved with slow
and heavy pace; cheerfulness had deserted his
bosom; he wooed the silent and solitary haunts
of melancholy; he loved to wander through
lonely fields, or along the verge of some
lingering stream, in that solemn hour when, at
the close of day, thick, cloudy curtains are suspended
around the sky, and hoarse, hollow
winds blow the signal of approaching storms;
he was fondly indulging a tender passion
which preyed upon his peace and deeply disturbed
his repose: he looked anxiously to the
hour when Melissa was to make her decision,
and wished yet dreaded to encounter the event;
in that he foresaw a withering blight to
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[figure description] Page 239.[end figure description]
his late springing hopes, and a fatal consummation
of his foreboding fears. He had pressed
Melissa perhaps too urgently to a declaration.
Had her predilection been in his favour,
would she have hesitated to avow it? Her
parents advised her to relinquish, and permitted
her to retain, one suitor, nor had they attempted
to influence or forestal her choice.
Was it not evident then from her confused hesitation
and embarrassment when solicited to
discriminate, that her ultimate decision would
be in favour of Bowman?
While his mind was thus agitated he received
a second letter from Vincent, in which
he read the following clause with emotions
more easily conceived than expressed:
“Melissa's wedding-day is appointed. I
need not tell you that Bowman is to be the happy
deity of the Hymenial sacrifice. I received
this from himself. He did not name the day,
but it is certainly to be soon. You will undoubtedly
however have timely notice. We must
pour a free libation on the mystic altar, Haventon,
and twine the nuptial garland with
wreaths of joy. Bowman ought to devote a
rich offering to so valuable a prize. He has
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[figure description] Page 240.[end figure description]
been here a week, and departed for New-London
yesterday, but it shortly to return .”
“And why have I ever doubted this event?”
thought Alonzo. “What infatuation
hath thus led me on the pursuit of fantastic
and unreal bliss? I have had, it is true, no positive
assurances that Melissa would sanction
my addresses. But why then did she ever
receive them? Why enchantingly smile upon
me? Why fascinate the tender powers of my
soul by that winning mildness, and the favourable
display of those complicated and superior
attractions which she must have known
were irresistible? Why did she not spurn
me from her confidence and plainly tell me
that my attentions were untimely and improper?
And now she would have me dance attendance
to her decision in favour of my rival—
Insulting!—Let Bowman and she make,
as they have planned, this farcical decision; I
assuredly will never witness it—Yet I have
engaged to see her at an appointed time; my
honour is pledged for an interview; it must
therefore take place. I shall support it with
becoming dignity, and will convince both
Miss Bloomfield and her gallant that I am
not the dupe of their intrigues and caprices—
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But still, what has Melissa done to deserve
censure or reproach? Her brother was my
early and esteemed companion; she has
treated me only as his friend. She was the
unsuspecting object of my passion; was unconscious
of the flame which her charms had
kindled in my bosom. Her evident embarrassment
and confusion on receiving my declaration
evinced her surprise and prior attachment.
What could she do? To save
herself the pain of a direct refusal, she has
fixed a time when the rejection may come in
a more delicate and formal manner—and I
must meet it.”
On the appointed day Alonzo proceeded
to the house of Col. Bloomfield, where he arrived
late in the afternoon. Melissa had retired
to a little summer-house at the end of
the garden; a servant conducted him thither.
She was dressed in a flowing robe of green
silk, embroidered with yellow fringe lace.
Her hair fell in waving circles; in her hand was
a boquette of flowers, which she seemed to be
critically examining. Haventon fancied she
had never appeared so lovely. She arose to receive
him. “We have expected you for some
time,” said she; “I was anxious to inform
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[figure description] Page 242.[end figure description]
you that we have just received a letter from
my brother, in which he desires us to present
you his most friendly respects, and complains
of your not writing to him lately so frequently
as usual.” Alonzo thanked her for the information,
said that business had prevented
him; he esteemed Edgar as his most valued
friend, and would be more particular in future.
“We have been thronged with company
for several days,” continued Melissa. “Once a
year my father celebrates his birth-day, when
we are honoured with such a numerous assembly
of uncles, aunts, cousins, nephews and
nieces, that were you present you would suppose
us related to half the families in Connecticut.
The last of this company took their
departure yesterday, and I only regret that
for nearly a week I have been prevented
from visiting my favourite hill, to which you
attended me when you was last here. It is
much improved since then; a little arbour is
built under the large tree on its summit; you
will have no objection to view it, Alonzo.”
He assured her he accepted the invitation
with pleasure, and towards evening they
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[figure description] Page 243.[end figure description]
resorted to the place, and seated themselves in
the arbour.
It was the beginning of autumn, and a yellow
hue was spread over the fading charms of
nature. The withering forest began to shed
its decaying foliage, which light gales pursued
along the russet fields. The low sun extended
the lengthening shadows; curling smoke
ascended from surrounding cottages. A thick
fog crept along the valleys; grey mist hovered
over the tops of mountains. The
glassy surface of the Sound glittered to the
sun's departing ray. Solemn herds lowed
in monotonous symphony; autumnal insects
in sympathetic wailings, plaintively
predicted their approaching fate.—“The
scene is changed since we last visited this
place,” said Melissa; “the gay charms of
summer are beginning to decay, and must
soon yield their splendours to the rude, despoiling
hand of winter.”
“That will be the case,” replied Alonzo,
“before I shall have the pleasure of your
company here again.”
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[figure description] Page 244.[end figure description]
Melissa. Perhaps so; though it is nearly
two months yet to winter.
Alonzo. Great changes may take place within
that time.
Mel. Yes; changes must take place; but
none I hope, to imbitter present prospects.
Al. [peevishly.] As it respects yourself, I
trust not, madam.
Mel. [tenderly.] And, I sincerely hope, not
as it respects you, Alonzo.
Al. That wish—I think—is vain.
Mel. Why so ominous a prediction?
Al. The premises whence it is drawn are
correct.
Mel. Your feelings accord with the season;
Alonzo; you are melancholy. Shall we return?
Al. I ask pardon, madam; I am
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[figure description] Page 245.[end figure description]
unsociable. Yes we will return; but you know the
occasion of my being here.
Mel. For the purpose of visiting your
friends, I presume, [smiling.]
Al. And for no other purpose?
Melissa did not reply.
Al. You cannot have forgotten your own
appointment, and consequent engagement.
She made no answer.
Al. I know Miss Bloomfield—
Mel. [interrupting him.] Call me Melissa;
that name sounds better from you.
Al. Why better?
Mel. I cannot tell; but it does so.
Al. I know Melissa, that you are incapable
of duplicity or evasion. I have promised and
now repeat the declaraton, that I will silently
submit to your decision. This you have
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[figure description] Page 246.[end figure description]
engaged to make, and the time you appointed
for that purpose has now arrived. The pains
of present suspense can scarcely be surpassed
by the pangs of disappointment. On your
part you have nothing to fear. I trust you
have candidly determined, and will decide
explicitly.
Mel. [sighing.] I am placed in an exceedingly
delicate situation.
Al. I know you are; but your own honour,
your own peace, require that you should extricate
yourself from the perplexing embarrassment.
Mel. I am sensible they do. It must—it
shall be done.
Al. And the sooner it is done the better.
Mel. That I am convinced of. I now know
that I have been inadvertently indiscreet. I
have admitted the addresses of Bowman and
yourself, without calculating or expecting the
consequences. You have both treated me honourably
and with respect. You are on equal
grounds as to character and standing in life.
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[figure description] Page 247.[end figure description]
With Bowman I became first acquainted.
As it relates to him, some new arrangements
have taken place since you were here,
which—
Al. [interrupting her, with emotion.] Of
those arrangements I have been apprized.
Mel. [surprised.] By what means were you
informed thereof?
Al. I received the intelligence from a friend
in your neighbourhood.
A considerable pause ensued.
Al. You see, Melissa, I am prepared for
the event.
She was still silent.
Al. I have mentioned before, that whatever
be your determination, no impropriety can attach
to you. I might not, indeed, from various
circumstances, and from the information I possess
perhaps should not, have given you farther
trouble on the occasion, had it not been
by your own direction and appointment: and
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I am now willing to retire without farther explanation;
without giving you the pain of an
express decision, if you think the measure
expedient; your declaration can only be a
matter of form, and my proposition may save
your feelings.
Mel. No, Alonzo; my reputation depends
on an adherence to my first determination;
justice to yourself, and to Bowman also, demands
it: after what has passed, I should be
considered as acting capriciously and inconsissently,
should I depart from it. Bowman
will be here tomorrow, and—
Al. Tommorrow, Madam?
Mel. He will be here tomorrow, and you
must consent to stay with us until that time;
the affair shall then be decided.
Al. I—Yes—I will—It shall be as you say,
Madam. Make your arrangements as you
please.
Evening spread her dusky mantle over the
face of nature; the stars glistened in the sky;
the plaintive sound of the low murmuring
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brook and the far-off water-fall were faintly
heard; the twinkling fire-fly[11] arose from the
surrounding verdure, and illuminated the air
with a thousand transient gleams; the mingling
discordance of curs and watch-dogs
echoed in the distant village, from whence
the frequent lights darted their pale lustre
through the gloom; the solitary whipperwills
stationed themselves along the woody glens,
the groves and rocky pastures, and sang a
requiem to departed summer: a dark cloud
was rising in the west, across whose gloomy
front the vivid lightning bent its forky spires.
Alonzo and Melissa moved slowly to the villa;
she appeared enraptured with the melancholy
splendours of the evening, but other
subjects engaged the mental attention of Haventon.
Bowman arrived the next day in high spirits;
he gave his hand to Alonzo with the
seeming warmth of friendship; if it was reciprocated
it must have been affected: there
was no alteration in the manners and conduct
of Melissa; her conversation as usual was
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sprightly and interesting: after dinner she
retired, and her father requested Haventon
and Bowman to withdraw with him to a private
room. When they were seated the Colonel
thus tersely addressed them:
“I have called you here, Gentlemen, to
perform my duty as a parent to my daughter
and as a friend to you. You are both suitors
to Melissa; while your addresses were merely
formal they were innocent; but when they
became serious they were dangerous. Your
pretensions I consider equal, and between
honourable characters who are worthy of my
daughter I shall not attempt to influence her
choice; that choice however can rest only on
one; she has engaged to decide between
you; I am come in her name to make this decision.
The following are my terms: No
quarrel or animosity shall arise between you
in consequence of her determination. Nothing
shall go abroad respecting the affair; it
shall be ended as it commenced, under my
roof. Soon as I have pronounced her declaration
you shall both depart and remain absent
from my house for at least two weeks, as it
would be improper for my daughter to see
either of you at present. After that period I
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shall be happy to receive your visits as friends
of my family and of each other.”
They both pledged their honour to abide
explicitly by these injunctions.
He then continued: “This, Gentlemen, is
all I require. I have remarked that I considered
your pretensions equal; so has my
daughter treated them. You have both made
professions to her; she has appointed a time
to answer you; that time has arrived, and I
now inform you that she has decided in favour
of Haventon.”
This declaration burst upon the mental powers
of Bowman like a sudden and tremendous
clap of thunder on the deep and solemn silence
of night. Unaccustomed to disappointment,
he had calculated on success; his addresses
to the ladies had ever been honourably
received; Melissa was the first whose
charms were capable of rendering them sincere.
He was not ignorant of Alonzo's attention
to her; it gave him however little uneasiness,
confident that his superior accomplishments
would eclipse the qualifications of
his rival. He considered himself a connoisseur
in character, especially in that of the
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ladies; he conformed to their taste, flattered
their foibles and obsequiously bowed to the minutia
of female volatility. Skilled in the language
of the heart, he trusted that, from his
pre-eminent powers in the science of offection,
he had only to see, to sue and to conquer. He
had frankly offered his hand to Melissa, and
pressed her for a decisive reply; this from
time to time she evaded or suspended, but
finally appointed a day to give both him and
Alonzo a determinate answer, though neither
knew the arrangement made with the other.
Finding however the dilemma in which she
was placed, she had previously consulted her
parents; they had no objection to her choosing
between two persons of equal claims to
affluence and reputation; this choice she had
made, and her father was considered the
most proper person to declare it.
When Bowman had urged his suit he supposed
that her hesitations, delays and suspensions
were only the effect of maiden diffidence
and timidity; he had no suspicion of her
ultimately rejecting it; and when she finally
named the day of decision, he felt assured
of success. These sentiments he had communicated
to Vincent, intimating that
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Melissa had fixed a time which was to crown his
happiest wishes.
He listened therefore attentively to the observations
of Col. Bloomfield, momentarily expecting
to hear himself named the favourite
choice of the fair. What then must have been
his disappointment when the name of Haventon
was pronounced instead of his own! The
highly finished scene of pleasure and future
felicity which his ardent imagination had depicted,
vanished in a moment. The rainbowglories
which gilded his youthful horizon instantly
faded; the bright sun of his early
hopes descended in mournful darkness. The
summons of death would not have been more
unexpected, or more shocking to his imagination.
Very different were the sensations which inspired
the bosom of Alonzo. He had not even
calculated on a declaration in his own favour.
He believed that Bowman would be the choice
of Melissa; she had told him that the form of
decision was necessary to save appearances;
with this he complied because she desired it,
not that he expected a result so consonant to
his wishes; of course he had not attended to
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the words of her father with that eagerness
which pleasing anticipations commonly excite;
but when his name was mentioned,
when he found he was the choice, the happy
favourite of Melissa's affection, all the passions
of his breast became interested and were
suddenly aroused to the refinements of sensibility;
like an electric shock it reanimated
his whole frame and vibrated every nerve of
feeling; the glooms which hung about his
mind were dispersed and the bright morning
of joy broke in upon his soul. Thus were
the expectations of both Haventon and Bowman
disappointed; how differently the sequel
has shown.
Col. Bloomfield retired immediately after
announcing his daughter's choice; the young
gentlemen also soon after withdrew. Alonzo
saw the tempest which tore the bosom of his
rival, and he pitied him from his heart.
A month passed, and Haventon felt all that
anxiety and impatience which separation from
a beloved object can produce; he framed a
thousand excuses to visit Melissa, yet he
feared a visit might be premature; he determined
however to write; he perceived she
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was fond of poetry, which as an amusement
had employed his leisure hours: the season
presented a subject; he therefore composed
and sent her the following short poem:
LEANDER TO LOUISA.
AUTUMNAL ODE.
Chill blows the breeze
Through faded trees;
The withering leaves their branches fly;
O'er dreary plains
Sad ruin reigns,
And curling vapours gloom the sky.
Tow'rds southern isles,
Where Verna smiles,
The cheerers of the grove repair,
On sportive wing,
Those woods to ring,
And sing their loves and pleasures there.
Could you and I,
Louisa, fly,
Like passing birds, from clime to clime,
No scowling care
Our joys should share,
If Heaven permit to call thee mine.
What hopes and fears
Alarm our years,
Amid this world of changing woe!
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Like summer skies,
Each pleasure flies,
When angry winds of winter blow.
All round the fields
The landscape yields
One gloomy prospect, wild and bare;
A sure presage
Of hastening age,
Which beauty, youth, nor health will spare.
If in the mind
The source we find
Of sorrowing years, or hours of bliss;
Louisa, why
Should you and I
Our passions guide the prize to miss?
While time rolls on
To worlds unknown,
'Tis ours the present good to share;
Tread fairy scenes
In pleasing dreams,
And stamp each stormy season fair.
Spring's spangling flowers,
Calm summer's showers,
Mild autumn's fruit, stern winter's snow,
Will cheerless prove
Unblest by love;
Hence all our pleas'd sensations flow.
In order to divert his mind by variety, he
rode into the country, where he passed several
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days in excursions among the different towns
and villages. On his return he was overtaken
one day towards evening by a sudden shower
of rain; he discovered a farm-house at a little
distance from the road; thither he hastened
to gain shelter from the approaching storm;
the owner of the mansion met him at the
door, politely invited him to alight and walk
in, while a servant stood ready to take his
horse; he was ushered into a large room
neatly furnished, where the family and several
young ladies were sitting. As Alonzo
glanced his eyes hastily around the circle, he
thought he recognized a familiar countenance;
a hurried succession of confused ideas for a
moment crossed his recollection; in an instant
he discovered that it was Miss Bloom-field:
by this unexpected meeting they were
both completely embarrassed; Melissa however
arose, and in rather a confused manner introduced
Haventon to the family of Bergher
and the ladies, as a college-student with her
brother.
The rain continued most part of the afternoon.
Alonzo was invited and consented to
stay all night. A moonlight evening succeeded
the shower, which induced the company to
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walk in an adjoining garden. Melissa gave
Alonzo an abstract of Bergher's history, and
told him that as their families were distantly
related, she had been invited there to pass a
week, and expected to return within two days;
and she added, smiling, “Perhaps, Alonzo,
we may have an opportunity once more to visit
the bower on my prospect-hill before winter
entirely destroys the remaining beauties of
summer; there I will repeat your Autumnal
Ode, for which I have yet to thank you.” Alonzo
felt all the force of the remark; he recoilected
the conversation when they were last
at the place she mentioned, and he well remembered
his feelings on that occasion.
“Great changes indeed,” he replied, “have
taken place since we were there; that they
are productive of unexpected and unexampled
happiness to me, is due, Melissa, to
you alone.” Haventon departed the next
morning, appointing the following week to
visit Melissa at her father's house.
Thus were the obstacles removed which
presented a barrier to the united wishes of
Alonzo and Melissa. They had not, it is
true, been separated by wide seas, unfeeling
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parents, or the rigourous laws of war; but
troubles, vexations, doubts and difficulties
had thus far attended them, which were now
dissipated, and they predicted no unpropitious
event which might thwart their future
union. All the time that Alonzo could spare
from his business was devoted to Melissa, and
their parents began to calculate on joining
their hands soon as his term of professional
studies was completed.
The troubles which gave rise to the disseveration
of America from England had already
commenced, which broke out the preceding
spring into open hostilities by the conflict
at Lexington, followed soon after by the battle
of Bunker's Hill. The panic and general
bustle which took place in America on these
events is yet well remembered by many.
They were not calculated to impress the mind
of Melissa with the most pleasing sensations;
she foresaw that the burden of the war must
rest on the American youth, and she trembled
in anticipation for the fate of Alonzo; he
with others, should the war continue, must
take the field in defence of his country. The
effects of such a separation were dubious and
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gloomy. Haventon and she frequently discoursed
upon this subject.
“I must know your sentiments, Alonzo,
on these matters,” said she, in one of those
conversations. “You shall have them,” he
replied; and the next time they met he put
into her hands the following article of his
own production:
LEANDER'S WISH.
God grant that Peace, again,
Extend her blissful reign
O'er ravag'd climes;
Her mild and genial sway,
May murdering man obey,
And nations hail the day
Of bloodless times.
Thron'd on his fiery car,
Behold the tyrant War
O'er carnage ride;
See round our trembling shore
Britain's dread thunders roar,
While gasping mortals pour
The encrimson'd tide!
Here dusky wreaths aspire
From cities wrapt in fire,
And towns in flame;
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There leaden hailstones fly,
While groans ascend the sky,
And mangled thousands lie
On battle's plain.
The slave and reverend sage,
Green youth and white-hair'd age,
To war must bow;
The matron, fate should spare,
The maiden, heavenly fair,
The infant, void of care,
Alike laid low.
Loud blow the trump of fame,
Resound the hero's name
Through realms afar;
Let martial millions hear,
And bright in arms appear;
Still will I drop the tear
O'er scenes of war.
To some sequester'd vale,
Where ease and peace prevail,
May I retire;
With sweets of liberty,
My mind should there be free,
Louisa! bless'd with thee,
My soul's desire.
The Attorney in whose office Alonzo was
clerk received a commission, and with the
new-raised American troops marched to
join the army near Boston; his business was
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consequently suspended, and Haventon returned
to the house of his father: he perceived that
he could not long remain a mere spectator of
the contest, and that it might soon be his duty
to take the field; he therefore concluded it
best to hasten his marriage with Melissa; she
consented to the proposition, and their parents
made the necessary arrangements for the
event. They even fixed upon the place which
was to be their future residence: it was a
pleasantly situated village, surrounded by rugged
elevations which gave an air of serenity
and seclusion to the valley which they encircled:
on the south arose a spacious hill which
was ascended by a gradual acclivity, its sides
and summit interspersed with orchards and
cultured grounds: on the west, forests unevenly
lifted their rude heads, with here and
there a solitary field newly cleared, and thinly
scattered with cottages: to the east the eye
surveyed a soil in some places swelling into
craggy cliffs, in others spreading itself into
vales of the most enchanting verdure: to the
north it extended over a vast succession of
mountains wooded to their summits, and
throwing their shadows over intervales of
equal wilderness, till at length it was arrested
in its excursions by the blue mists which
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hovered over mountains more grand, majestic
and lofty: a rivulet which rushed from the
hills formed a little lake on the borders of the
village, which beautifully reflected the cottages
from its transparent bosom: amidst a
cluster of locusts and weeping willows, rose
the spire of the church in the ungarnished
decency of Sunday neatness: fields, gardens,
meadows and pastures were spread around the
valley and on the sides of the declivities,
yielding in their season the rich flowers, fruits
and foliage of spring, summer and autumn.
The inhabitants of this new Avernum were
principally farmers; they were mild, sociable,
moral and diligent; the produce of their own
flocks and farms gave them most of their food
and clothing; to dissipation they were strangers,
and the luxuries of their tables were
few.
Such was the place selected for the habitation
of Alonzo and Melissa. They had visited
the spot and were enraptured with its pensive,
romantic beauties. A site was marked
out whereon to erect their family mansion: it
was on a little eminence which sloped gradually
to the lake, in the most pleasant part of
the village. “Here,” said Alonzo one day
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to Melissa, “will we pass our lives in all that
felicity of mind which the chequered scenes
of time admit. In the spring we will rove
among the flowers; in summer we will gather
strawberries in yonder fields, or hurtleberries
from the adjacent shrubbery. The
breezes of fragrant morning and the sighs of
evening gales will mingle with the songs
of numerous birds which frequent the surrounding
groves. We will collect the bending
fruits of autumn, and we will listen
to the hoarse voice of winter, its whistling
winds, its driving snow and rattling hail, with
delight.”
Tears of joy glistened in the eyes of Melissa:
with a glowing smile she expressively
exclaimed, “This shall be my Asylum.”
“And when erected, Asylum shall be the
name of our happy seat,” returned Alonzo,
with emphatic ardency.
Winter came on; it rapidly passed away;
spring advanced, and the marriage day was
appointed.
END OF VOL. I.
eaf281v1.n11[11] The American Lampyris, vulgarly called the
Lightning-Bug.
Back matter
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Mitchell, I. (Isaac), ca. 1759-1812 [1811], The asylum, or, Alonzo and Melissa. An American tale, founded on fact, volume 1 (Joseph Nelson, Poughkeepsie) [word count] [eaf281v1].
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