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It was the morning of the 5th of March, the
day appointed for the marriage of Mayflower,
at which I had promised to be present. I
hurried through the town — I reached the
church — the bells were ringing merrily — I entered
with a stealthy step, and passed up the
most retired aisle — I placed myself in the broad
shadow of a column, and saw without being seen—
I was very near the altar. The bridal group
were assembled around it, and two forms were
kneeling at the altar.

A moment only, I tottered and leaned against
the pillar for support. It was but a moment —
the pang passed away, and I felt suddenly
composed. I had taken my resolution, and felt
fearfully calm. Motionless as a statue, I leaned
against the column, my eyes fixed calmly on
the bridal pair — I heard every question and
response — I saw the ring given, the hands
joined, the blessing pronounced. They rose —

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the bride cast a sudden glance around. She
was a little agitated. Suddenly her eyes lighted
upon me. It must have seemed a phantom—
none other saw me. She almost shrieked,
and turned as pale as death. I advanced
with a smile. She trembled. I took her hand—
it was icy cold. I kissed her lips — they
were as pale and rigid as marble. I then turned
from her, and with a manner almost too
boisterous for the solemnity of the occasion, I
shook hands heartily with Deane, wished him
and his bride all manner of joy, and bade them
all good morning as they left the scene.

I watched till the party had left the church,
walked quietly after, and stationed myself under
the portico. Two carriages- stood before
the door. The steps were let down, the bride
and bridegroom ascended one, the rest of the
party the other. The doors closed, the carriages
drove off. I stood till the last sound of
the retiring wheels died upon my ear. I
awoke from my trance, and found that I was
alone.

The resolution which had confirmed itself
while I was in church, I now hastened to execute.
I mounted my horse, and rode hastily
to Morton's Hope. I went to my room, took
my pistols, and walked quietly into the wood.
I sat down on a fragment of rock, took off

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my neckcloth, unbuttoned my waistcoat, laid bare
my bosom, and placed against it the muzzle
of the pistol. So far all was simple enough.
I, however, now made the discovery, that killing
oneself is the easiest matter in the world,
till you come to the final particulars. I found
these very troublesome. With a desperate effort,
however, I drowned reflection, and pulled
the trigger. The pistol flashed in the pan. I
sank upon the ground in a state of wonder at
my miraculous escape.

A moment after, I began to reflect: I began
to think myself a lucky fellow, at being
so well out of the scrape. I believe, that in
that minute portion of a second, which intervened
between the pulling of the trigger and
the trifling explosion of the pan, I had run
over all the thousand arguments against the
propriety of the measure; in that infinitesimal
fraction of time, I had seen unrolled before me
all the thousand charms, and delights, and realities
of life, just as it was too late, and my
unhappiness and its causes shrank up into nonentity.
Conceive of my delight on finding myself
alive after all.

“But a few months ago,” said I to myself,
“I wandered through these woods; I dreamed
of a future of glory and of joy; the sun-light
lay warm and beautiful on the path of my

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life; my way was strewn with roses; the heavens
were bright, the earth was green; the
flowers were gay, the birds sang merrily on
every tree. My heart was full of happiness
and hope; I had not then seen Mayflower, I
dreamed not of her existence; yet was my present
happy, my future glorious. Can the sun
shine no more? Will not the woods renew
their green? Will the flowers no longer bloom?
Have the birds forgot to sing? Have I no
longer a green world to rove through? Must
the gates of the future be barred upon me, because
I may not dwell in her arms?

“Fool! — if she sighs for your death, you will
not hear; if she weeps, you will not kiss away
her tears; if she dies, you will not be near her
in the grave.

“Buffoon! can you not feel that her grief,
if grief she feel, will pass from her heart, like
a breath from a mirror, and leave no trace.
Look beyond, — one year, — half-year, — three
months, and lo! she is laughing, and dancing,
and singing — and you have hardly rotted in
your grave.

“Try time, — try time: in one little year,
the arrow will drop from the wound, and your
heart will be whole. In one little year, you
would stand over the grave of such a love-sick

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child as your former self, and laugh his memory
to scorn.

“Try time, — try time! Why this haste? —
why this unseemly haste? If, when you have
essayed Time's healing balsam, you find that
the worm decays not, if your purpose is still
unchanged, will there be then no more gunpowder,
no more poison, no more halters, in
the world? — away, then, with this unseemly
haste.”

I went through a long series of such pleasing
reflections: but, I dare say, I have given the
substance of them.

My love of life, and my fear of death, were
both great; it was this that saved me, as it has
hundreds, from voluntary death. My deliberation
weakened and destroyed my resolve, so I
put my pistols into my pocket, and walked
quietly into the house.

It will be seen, but, I hope, pardoned for the
present, that my nature, at this period, was
utterly void of any thing like morality, or even
regulation.

Unfortunately, the person whose influence
over me was greatest, was as deficient as myself.
His superiority was in his unconquerable
will; in his concentrated and admirable energy
of volition. If it be supposed that I recommend
him as worthy of applause for other

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qualities, than for the particular ones for which
he was conspicuous, I shall indeed fail in
one of the principal objects of this history.
Under such a construction, the principles by
which I have been guided in the description
of characters and scenes, will have been set at
nought.

Power, without principle, is in all cases an
engine of evil rather than of good; and this
undeniable and universal law it is far from my
intention to combat or infringe.

As I came into my room, I saw a note, which
I had not opened before, — it was as follows:

“Dear Morton,

“Come to me without fail at twelve to-day:—
I shall be in — Street. It is a matter
of life and death.

It wanted half-an-hour:— I rode furiously to
town, and reached — Street five minutes
before the time. Deane was already there.

“I have no time to lose,” said he, abruptly
seizing me by the arm, and hurrying me along
the street. “Look through this note; I received
it this morning.”

The note was as follows:

“Vassal Deane, Esq.

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“Sir, — There are three things to be settled,
and they may be done at one time as well as
another — amicably, if you like — but certainly,
suddenly. Bring a friend — Major Dalrymple
will be with me. I know it is your marriageday,
but I cannot wait. I know you too well
not to be sure that it will prove no excuse.
The hour is half-past twelve. The place, the
Providence House.

I looked up in perfect and profound ignorance.

“Ah! I see you are surprised!” said Deane;
“there is a long story — I have no time to tell
it yet. A love passage, (for you know that
Captain Carew was an unsuccessful suitor of
Mafy,) a political intrigue, and some other matters,
all mixed up together in the most incongruous
manner. You see I must have a friend,
and I know no one so tried, so firm as you.
I hardly know how the matter will end. You
will think it strange that I have left my bride
so soon; in fact, I left her at the house without
getting out of the carriage. The matter
brooks no delay; I deceived Mayflower with a
plausible lie, which will serve three hours. After
that — but first I will tell you briefly the whole
story. You must know that three weeks ago,

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I went — but stay — what tumult is this? Listen
to those bells — see what a concourse of
citizens. I hear drums — cannons!”

We had reached State-street, it was thronged
with citizens; shouts and execrations rang
through the air. The dense mass fluctuated
hither and thither, but the direction seemed to
be toward the head of the street. We hastened
our pace. We came near the corner of Exchange-lane,
and nearly in front of the Custom-house.
It was the place where the main
guard was always stationed. There were a
large number of soldiers; they were hemmed
closely in by a vast and excited crowd of
townsmen. The plumes of several officers were
waving in the midst of the mob. There seemed
to be a tremendous excitement. Execrations,
threats, and taunts were showered upon the soldiers
by the citizens. An officer was struck
down in the crowd. A thousand hoarse voices
rent the air; a thousand confused and contradictory
orders were given by those in command.
The townsmen pressed upon, and insulted the
soldiers. The soldiers presented their muskets.
A crisis was approaching.

“Premature, stupid, heedless rabble, ever acting
like beasts from impulse, from instinct!”
muttered Deane between his teeth. “Can ye
not wait? Will ye, — must ye cast and crush

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yourselves beneath the scythed chariot of despotism,
when ye might collect your might to
overturn and shatter it? Stay, I will try; perhaps
it is not yet too late.” He pressed forword.

“Fire, fire if you dare!” shouted a townsman
to the military.

The soldiers insulted — chafed — terrified —
maddened — bewildered — mistook the orders of
the officers. They raised their muskets — hesitated
a moment — fired — and the streets of Boston
were wetted with the first blood of the
revolution.

Deane was hurrying forward. As the soldiers
raised their muskets, he grasped my arm. As
they fired, his clutch became suddenly like an
iron vice. It slackened in an instant — I turned
to him — he had sunk upon the ground — a
ball had pierced his heart.

I dragged him to the British Coffee-house,
on the opposite side of the street. My best
friend lay dead, but I shed not a tear. Impelled
by a mysterious, but, as it now seems
to me, an inevitable impulse, I rushed straight
to the house of his bride. I felt greedy for
more horrors — I longed to glut myself with her
despair.

I opened the street-door, a light step bounded
down the staircase.

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“Vassal dearest, dearest Vassal!” cried Mayflower,
with outstretched arms, and then seeing
me, she turned as pale as a ghost — “Morton—
Uncas Morton!” she faltered, with a bewildered
look.

“Vassal Deane is dead!” cried I.

“Where is my husband? — speak — quick —
Why does he not come? I have waited long,
too long. Why has he deserted his bride? My
brain has been filled with horrible forebodings,
and now my husband comes not; but my offended
lover.”

“Your forebodings were all just; I tell you
Deane is dead!”

She stared vacantly at me for an instant.
Suddenly she comprehended me, she sprang toward
me, caught my arm, and glared wildly
upon me.

“I tell you it is a lie, a foul, wicked lie!”
she shrieked. “Tell me, tell me it is a falsehood,”
she continued in the same tone, and
shaking me with both her hands with her utmost
strength.

I shook my head — I laughed outright — in
obedience to the promptings of the devil within
me. The whole horrible scene which, when I
think over it now, chills my very heart, struck
me then as ludicrous and trivial. It seemed to
me all a fiction.

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My laugh appalled her, there must have been
something awful in my merriment, for she began
to tremble from head to foot. She lowered her
tone from anger to supplication.

“Say, say, dearest Morton, that it is false, that
it is a jest, to punish me for my heartless conduct
towards you! By the love which you vowed
to me — by the vows and the plight I have
broken — I implore, I conjure you, to relieve me
from this horrible fear. Say it is false — say so—
speak!”

She writhed upon the ground — she kissed my
feet — she raised her eyes streaming with tears
to my face — she heard me say once more in a
decided tone, “Vassal Deane is dead, — there is
no hope” — and then she sank upon the floor.
Her swoon was like death.

I summoned assistance for her in the house,
and vanished like an evil spirit.

The next night I was tossing upon the Atlantic.

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