He arose and walked away: suddenly he stopped. “Yet, said he, if spirits departed lose not the power of recollection;—if they have knowledge of present events on earth, Melissa cannot have forgotten me—she must pity me.” He returned to the grave; he took her miniature from his bosom; he held it up, and earnestly viewed it by the moon’s pale ray.
“Ah, Franklin! he exclaimed, how tenderly pensive does she beam her lovely eye upon me! How often have I drank delicious extacy from the delicacy of those unrivalled charms! How often have they taught me to anticipate superlative and uninterrupted bliss! Mistaken and delusive hope! [returning the miniature to his bosom.] Vain and presumptuous assurance. Then [pointing to the grave] there behold how my dearest wishes, my fondest expectations are realized!——Hallowed turf! lie lightly on her bosom!—Sacred willows! sprinkle the dews gently over her grave, while the mourning breezes sigh sadly amid your branches! Here may the “widowed wild rose love to bloom!” Here may the first placid beams of morning delight to linger; from hence, the evening ray reluctantly withdraw!—And when the final trump shall renovate and arouse the sleeping saint;—when on “buoyant step” she soars to glory, may our meeting spirits join in beatifick transport! May my enraptured ear catch the first holy whisper of her consecrated lips.”
Alonzo having thus poured out the effusions of an overcharged heart, pensively returned to the inn, which he entered and seated himself in the common room, in deep contemplation. As usual at public inns, a number of people were in the room, among whom were several officers of the American army. Alonzo was too deeply absorbed in melancholy reflection, to notice passing incidents, until a young officer came, seated himself by him, and entered into a conversation respecting the events of the war. He appeared to be about Alonzo’s age; his person was interesting, his manners sprightly, his observations correct.—Alonzo was, in some degree, aroused from his abstractedness;—the manners of the stranger pleased him. His frankness, his ease, his understanding, his urbanity, void of vanity or sophistication, sympathetically caught the feelings of Alonzo, and he even felt a sort of solemn regret when the stranger departed. He soon retired to bed, determining to proceed on early in the morning.
He arose about daylight; the horizon was overcast, and it had begun to rain, which before sunrise had encreased to a violent storm. He found therefore that he must content himself to stay until it was over, which did not happen till near night, and too late to pursue his journey. He was informed by the inn-keeper, that the theatre, which had been closed since the commencement of the war, was to be opened for that night only, with the tragedy of Gustavus, and close with a representation of Burgoyne’s capture, and some other recent events of the American war. To “wing the hours with swifter speed,” Alonzo determined to go to the theatre, and at the hour appointed he repaired thither.
As he was proceeding to take his seat, he passed the box where sat the young officer, whose manners had so prepossessed him the preceding evening at the inn. He immediately arose: they exchanged salutations, and Alonzo walked on and took his seat. The evening was warm, and the house exceedingly crowded. After the tragedy was through, and before the after-piece commenced, the young officer came to Alonzo’s box, and made some remarks on the merit of the actors. While they were discoursing, a bustle took place in one part of the house, and several people gathered around a box, at a little distance from them. The officer turned, left Alonzo, and hastened to the place. To the general enquiry of, “what’s the matter?” it was answered, that “a lady had fainted.” She was led out, and the tumult subsided.
As soon as the after-piece was closed, Alonzo returned to the inn. As he passed along he cast his eyes toward the church-yard, where lay the “wither’d blessings of his richest joys.” Affection, passion, inclination, urged him to go and breathe a farewell sigh, to drop a final tear over the grave of Melissa. Discretion, reason, wisdom forbade it—forbade that he should re-pierce the ten thousand wounds of his bosom, by the acute revival of unavailing sorrows. He hurried to his chamber.
As he prepared to retire to rest, he saw a book lying on the table near his bed. On taking it up he found it to be Young’s Night Thoughts, a book which, in happier days, had been the solace of many a gloomy, many a lucid hour. He took it up and the first lines he cast his eyes upon were the following:
“Song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy: this group
Of bright ideas—flowers of Paradise,