Alida; or, Miscellaneous Sketches of Incidents During the Late American War. Founded on Fact

Produced by Louise Hope

[The text of _Alida_ is given twice. First it is presented "straight", as printed. This is followed by the same text, paragraph by paragraph, quoting its sources where known; some significant errors of fact are also noted.

Footnotes are in the original. Typographical errors are listed after the first version of the text.]

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Having read the new work entitled "ALIDA," or Miscellaneous Sketches of Occurrences during the late American War, which abounds with elegance of language, sublime poetry, and useful lessons--as an American, I have a pride in saying, that our press has seldom been honoured with a work as improving and interesting to the reader, and as well written as any to be found either among the older or modern authors.

J. H. Hardenbrook.

It may be here proper to rectify a slight mistake in two of the complimentary pieces written on the contents of Alida, in which the work was innocently stated to have been expressly _written_ for the aid of benevolent purposes; instead of which it should have read [expressly _printed_] for the aid of benevolent purposes. The truth is, some part was written as a journal of incidents, and to amuse leisure hours somewhat usefully; other parts to commemorate some particular facts for the gratification of the author and near relatives, not expecting any other eye to meet a single line of it. But on being looked over by an affectionate pious friend, the author was solicited to allow it to be printed. It was at length acceded to, on the ground that the proceeds, however little over the expenses attending it, should be appropriated to charitable purposes.

It is but just to embrace this opportunity to express the reciprocal kind feelings of the author, not only for the friendly and encouraging encomiums above alluded to, with other kind approvals which have appeared in print,--but for the _call_ of a third edition so soon, being within the _first_ year of its appearance. The favourable reception which the former editions of this work has met with from the public, in these trying times (when so many valuable works are permitted to lay useless on the shelves of the book-sellers,) encourages the editor to attempt the publication of another edition. The author has embraced the opportunity carefully to revise and correct the typographical mistakes in the former editions, and to enlarge the work with additional prose and poetry, which it is humbly hoped will be found both pleasing and useful.

[Illustration:

ALIDA. "Optimum vitae genus eligito nam consuetudo faciet jucundissimum."]

Alida:

or,

Miscellaneous Sketches

of

Incidents

During the Late American War.

Founded on Fact.

With Poems.

By An Unknown Author.

If I could gain, howe'er so little, to improve, I'd give it to the world for benefit.

Third Edition, revised and improved.

New-York:

Printed for the Author, and for sale by the Booksellers.

M DCCC XLI.

The proceeds of this work, over the expenses of publishing, to be appropriated to charitable purposes.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1840,

By Henry Ludwig,

In the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New-York.

H. LUDWIG, PRINTER, 72 Vesey-st., N. Y.

This Work

Is Respectfully Inscribed

To The Amiable, Sensible, and Pious

Miss Caroline Sisson,

Niece to His Excellency, Charles Collins, Governor Of Rhode-Island, Whose Highly Exemplary Character,

With That of His EXCELLENT LADY,

Must Deservedly Gain for Them Applause and Respect Wherever They Are Known,

And From Personal Knowledge of This Most Worthy Family, The Author Has Reason to Subscribe Herself Their Very Much Obliged,

Affectionate Friend.

Contents.

Chapter I.-- The Parentage of Alida .... A description of her father's residence .... She is sent to the village school.

Chapter II.-- Alida loses her mother and one of her brothers.

Chapter III.-- Alida is removed to a female seminary in New-York to finish her education .... A description of her only surviving brother.

Chapter IV.-- A war is meditated between the United States and Great Britain .... Causes why it was expected to take place.

Chapter V.-- War declared in a manifesto by the President of the United States against Great Britain .... Causes of the war stated.

Chapter VI.-- An indissoluble friendship .... Celebration of a birth-day .... Description of a parish minister.

Chapter VII.-- Entrance of a gentleman on professional study with an eminent attorney in New-York.

Chapter VIII.-- Meeting of two rivals.

Chapter IX.-- Disappointment of the rivals.

Chapter X.-- An unexpected meeting.

Chapter XI.-- Unexpected misfortune.

Chapter XII.-- A separation.

Chapter XIII.-- A second marriage .... Removal to New-York for the winter .... A hero joins the army under Colonel Van Rensselaer .... The battle of Queenstown-- He is taken by the British, and sent with other prisoners to England .... Capture of York.

Chapter XIV.-- Melancholy reflections.

Chapter XV.-- Battle of Lake Erie and victory of Commodore Perry .... Battle of Detroit and victory of General Harrison.

Chapter XVI.-- Passage in a steamboat from New-York to the village of * * * * .... A band of military music.

Chapter XVII.-- Battle of Niagara-- Colonel Miller's achievement .... Description of the President .... Description of Mrs. Madison .... Battle of Bladensburgh.

Chapter XVIII.-- Battle of New-Orleans .... Battle on Lake Champlain .... Hartford convention .... Conclusion of peace.

Chapter XIX.-- The joyful celebration of peace in New-York.

Chapter XX.-- A splendid entertainment to celebrate the event of peace.

Chapter XXI.-- Proposal of an elopement and a clandestine marriage.

Chapter XXII.-- Description of New-York .... Battery .... Castle Garden.

Chapter XXIII.-- Alida's return from the city to the country.

Chapter XXIV.-- Alida returns to New-York and joins a party to visit the Falls of Niagara .... Scenery of the Hudson river .... Albany .... Schenectady .... Union College.

Chapter XXV.-- Arrival at Utica .... Falls of Trenton .... Singular excavation of the rocks of these Falls .... Return to Utica .... Journey in a stage-coach .... Salt Lake .... Salt spring at Salina .... Arrival at Auburn .... Cayuga Lake .... Seneca Falls .... Geneva .... Canandaigua .... Arrival at Rochester .... Genessee river .... Arrival at Lockport .... Journey in a dearborn .... Grand Island.

Chapter XXVI.-- Buffalo .... Arrival at Manchester .... Eagle Tavern .... Falls of Niagara .... Goat Island .... Camera obscura .... Cross from the Canada to the American side .... Forsyth's Hotel.

Chapter XXVII.-- Journey from Niagara to Lake Champlain .... Arrival at Caldwell .... Hudson or Glenn's Falls .... Arrival at Saratoga .... Congress Hall .... Introduction to the Governor .... American character .... Journey from Saratoga to Albany .... Passage up the river to Catskill .... Pine Orchard .... Passage from Catskill to Hudson .... Passage from Hudson to West Point .... Military School at West Point .... Fort Putnam .... Passage from West Point to New-York .... Alida's return to her native residence.

Chapter XXVIII.-- Sickness and death of Alida's father .... Reflections.

Chapter XXIX.-- Albert, the only surviving brother of Alida, takes possession of the paternal estate.

Chapter XXX.-- Effect of misrepresentation.

Chapter XXXI.-- Return of a friend .... The joyful meeting.

Chapter XXXII.-- Anticipated happiness.

Chapter XXXIII.-- A candid confession.

Chapter XXXIV.-- Restoration of former fortune.

Poems.

Hymn .... Christian Institute .... Friendship .... To Maria .... The Sun .... The Voice of Time .... In Memory of Mrs. William Richards .... Invocation to Prayer.

Subscribers' Names.

Alida.

Chapter I.

"Rien n'est si contagieux qui l'exemple; et nous ne faisons jamais de grand biens: ni de grand maux, qui n'en produisent de semblables."

The ancestry of Alida was of ancient date in English heraldry, some of whom emigrated to America a short time before the revolution, and settled in the southern provinces, while her father fixed his abode in the state of New-York.

In the calm retirement of the country, at a considerable distance from the bustle of the town, was situated his beautiful residence, which had every advantage in point of prospect that luxuriant nature could give when it is most lavish of its bounties.

The mind of its owner took particular delight in rural pleasures and amusements; in dissipating a part of his time in the innocent scenes of rustic life, and in attending to the cultivation of his estate, which was large and extensive.

Here he would contemplate, in all their variety, the natural beauties of creation, when arrayed in its richest attire; in the inimitable splendour of the surrounding scenery; or amuse himself in attendance to diversified employments, some of which, as pastimes, served the two-fold purposes of recreation and amusement.

Thus his years glided on in the most harmonious tranquillity; where his cares were dissipated alternately in the bosom of his family, and the "tumults of life, real or imaginary, fleeted away in a mutual confidence and unreserved friendship."

Here he would accustom himself to rise at early dawn, and dwell with particular pleasure on the morning scenery. The dappled, rosy-fingered, blushing morn, arrested his attention; those mild tints that particularly express the break of day, just awakening from repose; when the curtain of the night seems insensibly withdrawn, and the varied landscape exhibits itself by degrees, while the colours of the atmosphere yet seem doubtful, and the scene imperfect to the view; when the darkness is not entirely fled, nor the light of the new day is fully seen; when coolness sits upon the hills, and the dews hang trembling upon every leaf; when the groves begin to resound with the murmurs of warbling melody, and the valleys echo with reverberated sounds.

How pleasing at such a time to adore in his works the wonders of the Creator. That period when the sun begins to diffuse his early rays, to tip the mountains with light, and the breezes in the air mildly prognosticate the soft blushes of the morning:

"For far beyond the pageantry 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-- The heaven-embosom'd inn--the rainbow's dye, Where lucid forms appear to Fancy's eye; The vernal flower, mild Autumn's purpling glow. The Summer's thunder, and the winter's snow."

Or, when the evening approached, he would observe the twilight hour, which for a time hangs balanced between darkness and the pale rays of the western sky, communicating a solemn pleasure to every thing around. When evening began to throw her dusky mantle over the face of nature, and the warm glow of the summer sun had departed; when the stars were glistening in the heavens, and the moon had already risen, shedding its pale lustre over the opposite islands "that appeared to float dimly among the waves, the twinkling fire-fly arose from the surrounding verdure, and illumined the meadow below with a thousand transient gems." The rustling breezes played among the trees of the wood, while the air was filled with the fragrance of various flowers, and the sound of melodious music was wafted from the neighbouring village, rendered apparently more soft and sweet by the distance.

The buildings on the estate consisted of a large mansion-house, farm-house, and an ancient stone cottage that stood on the margin of the water, shaded by willow trees, and surrounded by romantic scenery.

The charming appearance which nature threw around the place on which the mansion-house was situated, was scarcely less interesting in winter than in the more gay and verdant months of the summer season. The falling of the snow and hail, and the sparkling icicles hanging upon the woods and shrubbery, sometimes almost conveyed the idea of enchantment to the imagination of the spectator.

The view on all sides was magnificent. The bay, gently winding, glided into the river beyond, where ships, steamboats, and craft of every description, floated upon the waters, and gave interest to the appearance of several beautiful villages that were seen at a little distance in the landscape.

This villa was separated about a mile from the flourishing village of ----, where the many white buildings, some of which might be called magnificent, had a remarkably pleasing and picturesque appearance, forming a lively contrast with the evergreen trees with which they were interspersed.

The house of Alida's father was the seat of hospitality;--scenes of festivity would sometimes have place within its walls;--"music and mirth would occasionally echo through its apartments." He was kind, generous, and benevolent; while his independence, assisted by a charitable disposition, enabled him to contribute largely to the happiness of others. His manners were highly pleasing, his conversation was interesting, humorous, and instructive; and, although at this time he was rather advanced in years, yet the glow of health still shone upon his cheek and sparkled in his eye; and his fine expressive countenance still gave lustre to a peculiar dignity and energy in his personal appearance.

It was now many years since he had made this delightful spot his residence. He had married early in life a lady of engaging manners, and captivating beauty, who was amiable, sensible, and pious, and whose mind was a pattern of every female excellence, combined with a taste and judgment that had been properly directed by a suitable education; who had been taught to esteem no farther all the acquirements and qualities of which the human mind is capable than as they might be conducive to enable us to excel in the duties of the Christian religion, and cause us more fully to experience "the blessings of the truth."

These parents had reared up all their family except Alida, their youngest child, who at this time was placed at a boarding-school, at the village of ----, where she was taught, in addition to the different studies belonging to a Christian education, the French and Italian languages.

Their elder daughters had married, and were settled at some distance from them, and their two sons were engaged in mercantile business in New-York. It was their principal endeavour, as their thoughts often revolved in anxious solicitude for the welfare and future happiness of their children, to unite their efforts to persuade them, and inculcate in their minds all that was praiseworthy, by the immediate influence of their own example, considering that the precepts which they taught them, however wise and good, would avail but little unassisted by the aid of example.

"Le mauvais usage que nous faisons de la vie, la deregle, et la rend malheureuse."

It was their first care to exercise the minds of their children, in all the important moral and religious duties; to be careful in due time to regulate their natural propensities; to render their dispositions mild and tractable; to inspire them with the love, respect, and implicit obedience due to parents, blended with a genuine affection for relations and friends.

"To endeavour to form their first ideas on principles of rectitude, being conscious of the infinite importance of first impressions, and beginning early to adhere to a proper system of education, that was principally the result of their own reflections and particular observations."

Their children were assembled annually to celebrate the birthday of their father, together with other social friends and acquaintances, consisting chiefly of those whose beneficent feelings were in accordance with their own, in testifying their gratitude to their Creator for daily benefits, blended with a thankful cheerfulness, which is the offspring of moral excellence.

O, Thou enthroned where perfect day, In brightest beams of glory, play Around thy radiant throne; Where angels strike celestial lyres, And seraphs glow with sacred fires, Address'd to thee alone.

Still may thy providential care, With blessings crown the circling year, Each human ill restrain: O, may thy truth inspire my tongue, And flow through all my varying song, And shine in every strain.

Give me the calm, the soft serene, Of summer, when it glads the scene, And scatters peace around; Bless'd image of the happy soul. That does the heav'n-born mind control, While conscious joys abound.

That this may be my bounteous share, Ascends my ever constant prayer To Thee, all-perfect Mind! O, aid me in the gen'rous strife, Through each inconstant scene of life, To all thy ways resign'd.

Chapter II.

The scenes that once so brilliant shone are past, and can return no more to cheer the pensive heart; and memory recalls them with a tear; some lowering cloud succeeds, and all the gay delusive landscape fades.

While Alida remained at the village school, surrounded by the festive scenes of childhood, and pursuing her studies with assiduous emulation, with the hope of meriting, in future time, the praises of her fond parents, an unforeseen misfortune awaited her that no human foresight could have power to arrest.

The health of her mother had been long declining, and her illness at this time increased so far as to render medical assistance useless, and baffled the skill of the ablest physicians. A trial so new, so afflicting, and so grievous to her youthful mind, to lose one of her honoured parents, and to be unexpectedly summoned to her parental home to receive the last benediction of a beloved mother, and at this early period of her life to be deprived of her kind care and protection, was unfortunate in the extreme.

Every anxious solicitude and responsibility now rested alone upon a widowed father, who mourned deeply their common bereavement, while he felt conscious that all his fatherly care and caresses could never supply to Alida all the necessary requisitions that she had unhappily lost in so dear and interested a friend. When he observed her spirits languish, and the tear frequently starting in her eye, and her former sprightly countenance shaded with the deep tinges of melancholy, he saw that the cheerfulness and gaiety of her natural disposition had received a powerful check, which promised to be lasting.

From this unhappy period she remained at home a long time with her father. In kindred grief there was derived a congenial sympathy, and her society contributed in some degree to allay his sorrow, as the deep concern he felt in her welfare caused him sometimes to restrain the flow of it in her presence. Self-exertion roused him in a measure from his lethargy, and by thus assuming serenity, to become in reality something more composed. Nevertheless, he would often witness the excess of anguish which had taken place in the bosom of his child, and behold her interesting face bathed in tears, and her youthful brow clouded with a sadness that nothing seemingly could dissipate.

His situation now became more sequestered than ever; he roamed in solitude, or pleased himself in ranging through silent glens in loneliness. His thoughts were absorbed in the gloomy experience of the misery of a painful separation from a dear and beloved object; he wept for her whose mild and winning graces had power to soften and illuminate the darkest shades of life, or alleviate the distressful scenes of adversity.

His mind was wholly absorbed in those gloomy reflections that scarcely admitted a ray of consolation, when the weekly newspaper arrived from the neighbouring village; he took it up, hoping to find something to amuse his thoughts; he opened it to read the news of the day; he ran his eye hastily over it, and was about to lay it aside, "when the death list arrested his attention by a display of broad black lines," and he, who had not yet become reconciled to his present misfortune, was now about to experience another equally severe.

What could equal his bitterness, his surprise and grief, when he read the disastrous news that his youngest son (who had lately gone on a foreign expedition) had died of a fever in a distant land a few weeks previous!

The paper fell from his palsied hand,--a sudden faintness came over him,--he fell back almost senseless in his chair,--exhausted by excess of grief, he remained a long time in a stupifying anguish.

The tidings were so unlooked-for of the premature death of his unfortunate son, who about this time was expected to arrive in New-York. For him an only brother was inconsolable; and Alida, who had long been accustomed to his kindness and caresses, was overcome with a dejection that time alone could alleviate.

Her father observed her affliction in commisseration with his own,--he was dejected and lonely, and the world appeared like a wilderness; nothing could lessen his present evil, or soothe his afflicted mind.

The former peaceful serenity of his life was materially clouded; and in his turn calamitous wo had overtaken him--the inalienable portion of humanity,--and the varied and shifting scenery in the great drama of time had brought with it disaster. His spirit was sunk in despondency, and his sensations became utterly absorbed in melancholy; and all the pious and philosophical reflections that he exerted himself to bring to his remembrance, could scarcely afford even a transitory consolation in this afflicting dispensation.

From foreign lands the tidings borne, With pain to wake a parent's anguish, O, brother dear, beloved of all, For thee a brother's heart must languish.

"That eye of brightness glows no more, That beaming glance in night is clouded;" On Maracaibo's distant shore, "In death's dark cell untimely shrouded."

Alas! for him no kindred near In hopes to minister relief; He sees no tear of pity shed, He sees no parents' anxious grief.

And as still evening came on, In saddest solitude and tears, His thoughts would turn on distant home, On peaceful scenes and happier years.

He thought, too, what a favour'd clime His gallant bark had left behind; He thought how science there, sublime, Beam'd her full radiance on the mind.

Though destined in a stranger's land, Detain'd from all he held most dear, Yet one kind hand, benevolent, Was found the gloomy hours to cheer.

O, how consoling is the eye Of him who comes to soothe our woes; O, what relief those cares supply Which a kind, watchful friend bestows.

When from this hand full well he found How much can lenient kindness do The generous Briton strives with care His drooping spirits to renew.

Yes, stranger, thou wast kind, humane, With quick assistance prompt to move; To ease the lingering hours of pain, In pity's kind endeavour strove.

When sickness o'er thy pallid cheek Had stole the lustre from thine eye, When near the doubtful crisis drew, And life approach'd its latest sigh,--

He moved thee to his own retreat, In his own mansion watch'd thee there; Around thy couch he still remained, Thy drooping heart with hopes to cheer.

"Peace, wing'd in fairer worlds above," Has ta'en thy form away from this; Has beckon'd thee to seats of glory, To realms of everlasting bliss.

So rich in piety and worth, Too soon, alas! lamented one, Thou hast been call'd away from earth, And heaven has claim'd thee for its own.

Chapter III.

"'T is by degrees the youthful mind expands; and every day, Soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm; Then infant reason grows apace, and calls For the kind hand of an assiduous care." "Delightful task, to rear the tender thought, To pour the new instruction o'er the mind, To breathe the enlivening spirit, and to fix The generous purpose in the glowing breast."

The period at length arrived, when it became necessary that Alida should receive further instruction in the various branches of female literature. With this view, her father thought proper to change the place of her studies from the village school to the New-York Seminary.

It was his idea that nothing afforded so pleasing a prospect as the graces of beauty, aided by wisdom and useful knowledge, and that care should be taken that the mind should first be initiated in the solid acquirements, before the embellishments of education should be allowed to take up the attention or engross the thoughts; and that the first purposes of the teacher should be directed to endeavour to cause the mental powers of the scholar to be excited, in the first place, to attain to whatever is most useful and necessary, and that suitable application and industry was the only means whereby we may gain celebrity in any art or science, or therein arrive at any degree of perfection.

"His heart glowed with paternal fondness and interesting solicitude, when he beheld the countenance of his child sparkling with intelligence, or traced the progress of reason in her awakened curiosity when any new object attracted her attention or exercised her imagination." Delightful indeed were the sensations of a parent in the contemplation of so fair a prospect, which in some degree recalled again to his bosom some transient gleams of happiness.

The season was now far advanced in autumn, and the trees were nearly stripped of their foliage; the radiant sun had in part withdrawn his enlivening rays to give place to the approaching coldness of winter, when Alida left her home, amid the innumerable regrets of her juvenile companions, to accompany her father to the city to finish her education.

They journeyed in a stage-coach from the village of ----, which, in the course of a few hours, conveyed them amid the tumultuous din of the busy metropolis. The female seminary to which Alida repaired was pleasantly situated in the western part of the town, where the refreshing and salubrious breezes of the Hudson rendered it a healthy and desirable situation at all seasons of the year.

Although her father had only performed his duty in placing his child once more at school, yet it was at a greater distance from the paternal roof than formerly, and when he returned again to his residence, he felt his situation more lonely than ever, and he could scarcely reconcile himself to the loss of her society.

All was novel-like in the city to Alida, where she at once saw so many different objects to excite alternately her surprise, curiosity, and risibility, and where she experienced so many different sensations, arising from the sudden transition in being removed from scenes of uninterrupted tranquillity to those of gaiety and pleasure, of crowded streets and riotous entertainments, of obsequious beaux and dashing petits maitres, and where all appeared to her one continued scene of business and confusion, scarcely reconcileable.

In the meantime her mind became engrossed by various new occupations. Among her favourite studies was the French language, which, at this period, was considered as one of the necessary appendages to female education, when scarcely any new work could be read without a regret to those who did not understand it. Music, dancing, and drawing occupied her time alternately, and while these different amusements afforded a pleasing variety, they animated her mind anew with the powers of exertion that had been excited by early impressions--that whatever she attempted to learn, to be assiduous to learn it well, and that a mere superficial knowledge, in any science or accomplishment, was by no means desirable.

All her studies and amusements had their regular arrangements, and due application gave her many advantages over those of her own age, while it expanded her mind in a greater degree, and facilitated her progress in learning, and gave more ready improvement to her understanding and native capacities.

Her only surviving brother, whose name was Albert, had been a merchant in the city a number of years, and he still continued to live amid its perplexities, (although numbers had been unfortunate around him,) with as good success as could be expected at this time, on account of the restrictions on American commerce. One probable reason may be assigned why he had been more successful in his business than many others: he was guided in the management of his affairs by vigilance and industrious perseverance, and he was not only endued with the best abilities to fulfil the duties incumbent on his station in life, but was not remiss in the exercise of them. His manners, generally, were reserved, though he could be humorous and gay whenever occasion required; and when in convivial society, he could make one among the number of those who amused themselves in sallies of wit and pleasantry. He had acquired much useful and general information in his commerce with the world at large, which he employed at this time in various conversations on politics, as he could not be able to render himself serviceable to his country in any other way, being exempt from his childhood from performing military duty. His personal advantages were only surpassed by the superior qualifications of his mind, that had long been under religious influence and impressions. In his public and private life he fully answered the expectations of his numerous acquaintance and friends, as well as the most sanguine wishes of an anxious and affectionate father, who yet seemed disposed to indulge in melancholy reflections, while his friends kindly endeavoured, by many pious and philosophical discourses, to awaken him to a consideration of his former piety, and humble trust in an all-wise Providence, reminding him that our greatest consolation consists in resigned and devotional feelings of gratitude to our Maker, even in the severest afflictions; who, although he may have thought fit to deprive us of some, for the many remaining blessings we may still be in possession of; and that a firm reliance on Providence, however our affections may be at variance with its dispensations, is the only consolatory source that we can have recourse to in the gloomy hours of distress; and that such dependance, though often crossed by troubles and difficulties, may at length be crowned with success in our most arduous undertakings, and we may again meet with unlooked-for and unexpected happiness.

"Afflictions all his children feel, Affliction is the Father's rod; He wounds them for his mercy sake, He wounds to heal."

The clear, calm sunshine of a mind illumined by piety, and a firm reliance upon Supreme wisdom, crowns all other divine blessings. It irradiates the progress of life, and dispels the evils attendant on our nature; it renders the mind calm and pacific, and promotes that cheerfulness and resignation which has its foundation in a life of rectitude and charity; and in the full exercise of Christian principles we may find still increasing happiness.

Chapter IV.

Still may the soaring eagle's quenchless eye, Watch o'er our favour'd country, brave and free, Where the bright stars and stripes in honour wave, The sacred emblems of our liberty.

Many disagreeable circumstances now combined to disturb the happy tranquillity of the American government. "A war had for some time existed between France and England. America had endeavoured to maintain a neutrality, and peacefully to continue a commerce with both nations. Jealousies, however, arose between the contending powers with respect to the conduct of America, and events occurred calculated to injure her commerce and disturb her peace.

"Decrees were first issued by the French government preventing the American flag from trading with the enemy; these were followed by the British orders in council, no less extensive than the former in design, and equally repugnant to the laws of nations. In addition to these circumstances, a cause of irritation existed sometime between the United States and Great Britain. This was the right of search claimed by Great Britain as one of her prerogatives. To take her native subjects, wherever found, for her navy, and to search American vessels for that purpose. Notwithstanding the remonstrances of the American government, the officers of the British navy were not unfrequently seen seizing native British subjects who had voluntarily enlisted on board our vessels, and had also impressed into the British service some thousands of American seamen.

"In consequence of the British and French decrees, a general capture of all American property on the seas seemed almost inevitable. Congress, therefore, on the recommendation of the president, laid an embargo on all vessels within the jurisdiction of the United States.

"In a moment, the commerce of the American republic, from being, in point of extent, the second in the world, was reduced to a coasting trade between the individual states. The opposition to the act in several of the states was so great that they unanimously declared against it, and individuals throughout the whole seized every opportunity of infringement; therefore Congress thought proper to repeal the embargo law, and substituted a non-intercourse with France and England."

It was now generally expected that the session in Congress, with the decision of the president, would eventually terminate in actual hostilities. The difficulties the chief executive had to encounter were many and perplexing, being fully convinced, under existing circumstances, that the Americans must engage in combat after all. He therefore knew it to be necessary to rouse the feelings of the American people, to realize, more clearly than they did, the true situation of their country, that they might be prepared for the approaching crisis that he believed unavoidable.

This period was full of anxiety and danger. A war was deprecated by all the leading patriots of the day; they were fully persuaded that it must take place; they therefore unitedly determined to prepare for the storm in the best manner they were able. All material business was in a manner suspended in New-York; the face of things wore a dismal aspect, and the greater part of the community were in dismay. A heavy gloom hung over the inhabitants generally, while all their affairs appeared in a declining state, discouraging to the industry and best prospects of the people.

Alida's father was no friend to political controversy, yet he passed much of his time in conversing with his friends on the present affairs of America. He knew that party spirit and animosity existed more or less at this time, and that he must consequently often meet with those of opposite opinions; yet his honest and patriotic zeal for the good of his country still remained the same. He was attached to liberty from principle; he had talents to discriminate and see into the justice of the measures of government; his retirement gave him full opportunity to reflect on them seriously, and solve them in his own mind, and see their absolute necessity, in order to maintain the honour, freedom, and independence of the American nation. Would the same wisdom in the government continue that had so nobly preserved us since our independence? But he had no reason at present to suppose otherwise, and that he who now guided the helm of affairs, was one of steady and uncorrupt principles, of stable character, altogether uninfluenced by any sinister views, and was willing to sacrifice his individual repose for the noble purpose, and with the hope of settling it again on the nation, with a firmer basis, at some future period, when the expected contest should be decided.

What feelings of commotion and deep anxiety must agitate the bosom of the magnanimous hero who is labouring truly for the interest of his country, and is actuated alternately by the claims of justice and humanity, and on whom a whole community must depend for council in cases of severe emergency, when his chief satisfaction consists in promoting the interest and welfare of that community. When the hour of exigency arrives, his mind, endued with the light of piety, feels its own littleness, his weighty thoughts are big with the impending danger that no human arm may be able to arrest. Impressed with religious awe, and feeling conscious of his dependence for aid on the all-wise Disposer of events, he bends in humble supplication to implore the favour of that great and beneficent Being whose power alone can save, and in whose mighty arm alone is victory.

The father of Alida received regular intelligence by the daily papers respecting the political excitement in New-York; besides, he made frequent visits to the city to see his several children, as one of his daughters had resided there since her marriage. There was every kind of conveyance at the neighbouring village suited to the accommodation of travellers, both summer and winter, and the rapid improvement of the town had long been a current topic of the inhabitants as well as visiters, while they praised the proprietor of the new pavilion, in his manner of conducting it, and his excellent accommodations; and it was the general opinion that in the course of a few years this would become a place of no small consideration.

Chapter V.

O, who that sighs to join the scenes of war? If heaven-born pity in thy bosom glow, Reject the impurpled wreath; the laurel crown Can flourish only in the scenes of wo.

At length it became the unhappy fate of America to be a second time involved in a war with Great Britain. "In a manifesto of the president, the reasons of the war were stated to be the impressment of American seamen, by the British; the blockade of the enemy's ports, supported by no adequate force; in consequence of which the American commerce had been plundered in every sea; and the British orders in council."

The declaration of war was a source of unavoidable regret to the good and wise president,* which affected his mind with feelings approaching to melancholy. No one possessed qualities more inclined to peace, and a wish to settle all affairs of state in a pacific manner, more than he did, if it were possible, and it could have been done without sacrificing all the dearest rights and interests of the people; and nothing but these repeated persuasions in his mind, founded on the principles of justice and honour, caused him at length to be willing to yield to the stern necessity of deciding the existing differences by combat. He possessed the qualities of a statesman in an eminent degree; he had well reflected on what he considered as inevitable. He was well versed in political science, and now only saw the realization of anticipated events, of which there had been sufficient warning. Although he had to contend with innumerable difficulties, having once formed his opinion of what was to be done, his patriotism was undeviating, and his integrity inflexible.

[* James Madison.]

Since his country was again brought to a lamentable destiny, he now became ardently active in its cause, and was prepared to carry to the full extent such measures of defence and resistance as should be necessary to repel every invasion of the just rights and privileges of the Americans that they had long been in possession of since their dear-bought independence, and could not therefore be willing to submit to anything like oppression, even from the mother country.

This national calamity, that seemed to awaken feelings of hilarity to some few among the multitude, but those of the deepest regret to so many others, where the parties must at length become personally engaged and animated against each other with an enthusiastic ardour, and with the hope to signalize themselves by their bravery--where the impetuosity of youth and the experience of age are called forth in open field to execute the decided discussions of government, and to engage with patriotic zeal in the common defence of their just rights and liberties; impelled with ambitious impulse to enlist themselves under the proud banners of their country, while the sound of martial music strikes a feeling of enthusiasm and enterprise to the bosom of the patriot.

Thus, in the name and cause of honour, the youth, generous and brave, with all those who are compelled to take arms, sally forth with the ambitious hope to bear down at once all contending opposition, and give themselves no time to reflect on the many disconsolate ones they leave behind them, that, however deeply concerned, can neither engage or assist in the shocking contest; while they go forward hastily to meet the foe, and hosts are advancing to dispute with them the victory, and they can indulge no thought concerning those who, when the battle is over, may have to lament the loss of a father, brother, or some other dear friend, and who mournfully await the decisive tidings, which perhaps is to render them for ever disconsolate; while they remain a prey to that incessant anguish which naturally awaits those who have lost, in this manner, their dearest friends and relations.

Thick clouds were darkly pending Above the battle fray, And foemen were contending For the fortune of the day.

And high in air the banner bright, Waving o'er land and sea, The potent symbol of their might, The emblem of the free.

Brave hearts that stood amid the storm That burst in fury round; With many a stern and manly form, Sunk powerless to the ground.

Deep gloom had settled round them, And darkness veil'd the sky, When Freedom, with her starry train, Descended from on high.

When, at her bidding, lo, a chief Amid the throng appear'd; When, the goddess halted by his side, And thus his spirits cheer'd:

"Oh, let not care oppress thee, But banish far thy fears, For, in blessing, I will bless thee, And will wipe away thy tears;

"And a banner thou shalt still retain, And a hand to lead the brave To glory and to victory, Or to the hero's grave."

Then fear not, honoured chieftain, For yet again shall be, Your flag shall wave o'er every land, And float on every sea.

What though in foreign clime it waves, Careering on the wind, Whatever shore the ocean laves, A due respect will find.

And the thunders of your ships of war Along the deep shall roll, While the canvas of your merchantmen Shall sweep from pole to pole.

"And now, oh gallant chief," she cried, "Hold fast the glorious prize; The flag with blue and crimson dyed, And stars that gemmed the skies,

"Have left their native spheres to shed Their radiance o'er the field; Then while it waves above your head, To the foeman never yield.

"Bright forms shall hover o'er thee In the midst of war's alarms; And in triumph shall restore thee To a nation's waiting arms.

"Then on to Freedom's stormy height, Go forth in valour and in might, And bear aloft this emblem bright, Amid the battle fray."

Now around their chief they rally, And with zeal their bosoms glow; While the hoarse cannon bellows forth Defiance to the foe.

The battle rages loudly, A dreadful carnage flows; When the messenger of victory The clarion trumpet blows.

Now clap your wings, oh Liberty, And upward take your flight; And let the gladsome tidings ring Throughout the realms of light.

And bid your eagle sound her cry, Wide o'er the land and sea; For patriot arms have triumphed, And the nation still is free.

Once more the song of Victory Shall spread the earth around, And the freemen on a thousand hills Re-echo back the sound.

And a banner long shall wave on high, And long your children stand, United, with a sacred tie, To guard their native land.

Chapter VI.

And may each day returning, with it bring That peace that o'er the weary senses fling A calm content; where no alloy attends The pleasing intercourse of happy friends.

Albert, the brother of Alida, during his residence in New-York, had formed an indissoluble friendship with a young gentleman who had lately graduated at Columbia College. His name was Theodore. He was about twenty years of age: he had been esteemed an excellent student. His appearance was manly, open, and free. His eye indicated a nobleness of mind; he was naturally cheerful, although his aspect was tinged with melancholy, and his disposition was rather of the romantic cast. His father was an eminent merchant in the city, and had long been engaged in the various scenes of commerce. His son was designed for the law; but as the students were allowed some vacant time after their graduation before they entered upon their professional studies, he thought to improve this interim in mutual friendly visits, mingling sometimes with select parties in the amusements of the day, and in travelling through some parts of the United States.

The spring was advancing, and already began to shed its cheering influences over the face of nature, when, after a long period of clouds and darkness, the sun, with his illuminating beams, was chasing away the gloomy remains of winter, and recalling again to life and animation the innumerable beauties of creation.

The day was fixed on when Alida was to return to her native residence. Albert was to attend her home, and he invited his friend Theodore to accompany him. It was evening when they arrived at the house of Albert's father, where they found considerable company collected, as was customary on the celebration of his birth-day.

He received his children with gladness and joy, and Theodore with friendly politeness.

"This meeting must be highly pleasing to you, miss," said Theodore to Alida, "after your long absence from home." "It is so, indeed," replied she, "and highly gratifying to my father, to meet here his children, and relations, on the annual occasion of celebrating his birth-day, when we are honoured with so numerous a company of uncles, aunts, cousins, nephews, and nieces, that one would suppose we were connected with half the families in the state. And sometimes they do not all leave us, in several weeks afterwards, and regale themselves in riding about the country and visiting the neighbours in the vicinity."

In the course of the evening they were joined by a number from the neighbouring villages, and among the rest was the son of a gentleman who had been long acquainted with the family. He was a gay young man; his address was easy; his manners rather voluptuous than refined; confident, but not ungraceful.

He led the ton in fashionable circles, and was quite a favourite with the ladies generally. His name was Bonville. He had seen Alida long before, but her additional graces since that time appeared far to exceed his expectations.

Alida at sixteen displayed many pleasing attractions. Her height rose to the majestic. She was tall and graceful, and her expressive features were adorned with hair of light auburn, which hung about her neck in natural ringlets; while her dark blue eyes, mingled at once the rays of sprightly intelligence, and a pleasing affability.

She was arrayed on this occasion, in a dress of white muslin, richly inwrought with needle-work. A silk embroidered sash surrounded her waist, and she wore on her head a wreath of artificial flowers. Her elder sisters manifested their pleasure in beholding the artless, unadorned school-girl, metamorphosed to the interesting young lady of fascinating manners and amiable deportment.

Social converse and rural amusements took up the greater part of the evening, when the general conversation of the gentlemen turned upon a topic in which they were all more or less interested, on what might be the unhappy result of the present contest, in which the American nation was engaged, which continued to engross their thoughts, and it was a late hour when the company separated.

Those who remained behind accompanied Alida on the next Sabbath to the village church, where they heard an able and sublime discourse delivered by the parish minister; highly edifying to the understanding and improving to the minds of the hearers.

This divine was fully competent in the possession of Christian principles and knowledge for his arduous calling, and had a happy talent of conveying them to others with effect, and communicating them in persuasive eloquence, for the benefit and reformation of mankind.

His powers of intellect and sentiments were no less liberal and enlarged, than they were ingenious and elegant. His aspect was serene, and his manners were cheerful, and the unruffled calmness of his mind bore the same character of exalted excellence, and gave testimony of a peaceful bosom, rich in good works.

He manifested a lively interest in the welfare of his congregation, and by his genuine goodness and pious example made many proselytes.

It was his endeavour to unite the minds of the people in one interest, and excite them to be zealous in the common cause of Christianity, where each individual, acting for the benefit of the whole, would find their own happiness blended with that of society in general, and be blessed in the reciprocal communication of charity and benevolence.

Chapter VII.

"Come, Friendship, twine a wreath for me, And weave it with the choicest flowers, To cheat the ling'ring steps of time, And gladden all life's passing hours."

The time now arrived when Theodore was to enter upon his professional studies, and he became engaged in the office of an eminent attorney in New-York. He frequently absented himself, however, to accompany Albert to visit his father's family, and since his acquaintance with Alida, there was a charm that attracted him thither. If he had admired the manly virtues of the brother, could he fail to adore the gentle graces of the sister? If all the sympathies of the most ardent friendship had been drawn forth toward the former, must not all the softer sensibilities of the heart be attracted by the milder and more refined excellencies of the other?

Bonville had become the admirer of Alida; of course he and Theodore sometimes met. He had made no serious pretensions, but his particularity indicated something more than fashionable politeness. His manners, his independent situation, entitled him to respect. "It is not probable, therefore, that he will be objectionable to her friends, or to Alida herself," said Theodore, with an involuntary sigh, and as his visits became more frequent, an increasing anxiety took place in his bosom. He wished her to remain single; the idea of losing her by marriage, gave him inexpressible regret. What substitute could supply to him the happy hours he had passed in her company? What charm could wing the lingering moments when she was gone?

How different would be the scene when debarred from the unreserved friendship and conversation of Alida. And unreserved it could not be, were she not exclusively mistress of herself. But was there not something of a more refined texture than friendship in his predilection for the company of Alida? If so, why not avow it? His prospects, his family, and of course his pretensions might not be inferior to those of Bonville.

But perhaps he was preferred. His opportunities: his prior acquaintance with the lady. Distance was no barrier to his addresses. His visits became more and more frequent. Was it not then highly probable that he had gained her affections?

Thus reasoned Theodore, but the reasoning tended not to allay the tempest that was gathering in his bosom. He ordered his carriage, and was in a short time at the seat of Alida's father. It was summer, and towards evening when he arrived. Alida was sitting by the window when he entered the hall. She arose and received him with a smile. I have just been thinking of an evening's walk, said she, but had no one to attend 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 letter which he had found in the yard. Alida received it. "'Tis a letter," said she, which I sent by Bonville to a lady in the village, and the careless man has lost it. Turning to Theodore, I forgot to tell you, that your friend Bonville has been with us a few days; he left us this morning. "My friend," replied Theodore, hastily. "Is he not your friend?" inquired Alida. "I beg pardon, madam," said he "my mind was absent." "He requested us to present his respects to his friend Theodore," said she. Theodore bowed and turned the conversation.

They now walked out, and took a winding path which led through pleasant fields until they reached the water, and continued to pursue their way along the shore till they came to a beautiful and shady grove, where the thick foliage afforded a delightful retreat from the warm rays of the sun, and at the extremity of which was a sloping eminence, which commanded an extensive prospect of the surrounding country, part of Long-Island sound and the junction of the bay with the eastern river.

A soft and silent shower had descended. A thousand transitory gems trembled upon the leafy foliage, glittering in the western ray. A bright rainbow sat upon a southern cloud; the light gales whispered among the branches, agitated the young harvest to billowy motion, and moved the tops of the deep green forest with majestic grandeur; while flocks, herds, and cottages were scattered over the resplendent landscape.

"This is a most delightful scene," said Alida. "It is, truly," replied Theodore, "do you think that New-York can boast of so charming a prospect?" "Yes, one," answered she, it is the walk on the battery, the water prospect is similar to this, but the landscape is not so variegated.

See that ship, Theodore, coming down the sound, how she ploughs through the white foam, while the breezes flutter in the sails, varying with the vivid rays of the sun. "Yes," said Theodore, it bounds with rapid motions over the waves, and ere the day has departed it will probably safely reach the wharf of the city.

They walked leisurely around the hill, and then moved slowly towards home. The sun was sinking gradually behind the western horizon. Twilight arose dimly in the east, and floated along the air. Darkness began to hover around the woodlands and valleys. The beauties of the landscape slowly receded; the breezes had gone down with the sun, and a perfect calm succeeded.

"I shall never forget this charming promenade," said Theodore, as he approached the threshold of the door, with a deep drawn sigh, "and the remembrance of the sweet pensive scenery of this delightful spot, will ever continue to haunt my memory."

Chapter VIII.

To lull affection's sigh, And dry the tear of sensibility; I'll think of thee, in all my lonely hours, Though thou, perhaps, may ne'er remember me.

The next day Theodore returned to his studies; but different from his former visits to Alida, instead of exhilarating his spirits, this had tended to depress them. He doubted whether she was not already engaged to Bonville. His hopes would persuade him this was not the case; but his fears declared otherwise.

It was some time before he renewed his visits again. In the interim he received a letter from a friend in the neighbourhood of Alida's father; an extract from which follows: "We are soon to have a wedding here; you are acquainted with the parties--Alida M. and Bonville. Such at least is our opinion from appearances, as this gentleman is now there more than half his time. You will undoubtedly be invited. We had expected that you would have put in your claims, from your particular attention to the lady. She is a fine girl, Theodore." I shall never be a guest at Alida's wedding, said Theodore, as he hastily paced the room; but I must again see her before that event takes place, when I shall lose her forever.

The ensuing day he repaired to her father's. He inquired for Alida; she was gone with a party to the shores of the sound, attended by Bonville. At evening they returned. Bonville and Theodore addressed each other with much seeming cordiality. "You have deserted us, Theodore," said Alida, "we concluded you had forgotten the road to this place." "Was not that a hasty conclusion?" said Theodore. "I think not," she answered, "if your long absence should be construed into neglect. But we will hear your excuse," said she, smiling, "by and by, and perhaps pardon you."

He thanked her for her condescension.

The next morning Bonville set out to go to New-York. Theodore observed that he took particular leave of Alida, telling her, in a low voice, that he should have the happiness of seeing her again, within two or three weeks certainly.

After he was gone, as Alida and Theodore were sitting in the room alone, "Well," said she, "am I to hear your excuses, Theodore?" "For what, madam?" "For neglecting your friends." "I hope it is not so considered, madam." "Seriously, then, why have you stayed away so long? Has this place no charms in the absence of my brother?"

"Would my presence have added to your felicity, Alida?" "You never came an unwelcome visiter here." "Perhaps I might be sometimes intrusive when Bonville is your guest." "I have supposed you were on friendly terms," said she. "We are, but there are seasons when friendship must yield its pretensions to a superior claim."

"Will you answer me one question, Alida, are you engaged to Bonville?" "He has asked me the same question concerning you," replied she, (blushing.)

"Do you," continued Theodore, "prefer him to any other?" Alida, (blushing deeply.) "He has made the same inquiries respecting you."

"I beg, madam, you will deal with me candidly," said Theodore, (taking her hand with anxiety.) "I am entitled to no claims, but you know what my heart would ask. I will bow to your decision. Bonville or Theodore must relinquish their pretensions. We cannot share the blessing."

The cheeks of Alida were suffused with a varying glow, her lips were pale, her voice tremulous, and her eyes cast down. "My father has informed me," she said, "that it is improper to receive the particular addresses of more than one. I am conscious of my inadvertency, and that the reproof is just. One, therefore, must be dismissed." But, (she blushed deeper,) and a considerable pause ensued.

At length Theodore arose. "I will not press you further," said he. "I know the delicacy of your feelings; I know your sincerity; I will not therefore insist on your performing the painful task of deciding against me. Your conduct in every point of view has been discreet. I would 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. Our affections are not under our direction; our happiness depends on our obedience to their mandates. Whatever, then, may be my sufferings, you are unblameable, and irreproachable."

He took his hat in extreme agitation, and prepared himself to take leave. Alida had recovered in some degree from her embarrassment, and collected her scattered spirits.

"Your conduct, Theodore," said she, "is generous and noble. Will you give yourself the trouble, and do me the honour to see me once more?" "I will," said he, "at any time you shall appoint."

"Four weeks, then," said she, "from this day, honour me with a visit, and you shall have my decision, and receive my final answer." "I will be punctual to the day," he replied, and bade her adieu.

Theodore's hours from this time winged heavily away. His wonted cheerfulness fled; he wooed the silent and solitary haunts of musing, moping melancholy. He loved to wander through lonely fields, when dewy twilight robed the evening mild, or to trace the forest glen, through which the moon darted her silvery intercepted rays. His agitated thoughts preyed upon his peace incessantly, and deeply disturbed his repose.

He looked anxiously to the hour when Alida was to make the decision. He wished, yet dreaded the event. In that he foresaw, or thought he foresaw, a withering blight to all his hopes, and a final consummation to his foreboding fears. He had pressed Alida, perhaps too urgently, to a declaration. Had her predilection been in his favour, would she have hesitated to avow it? Her father had advised her to relinquish one, and to retain the other, nor had he attempted to influence or direct her choice. Was it not evident, then, from her confused hesitation and embarrassment, when solicited to discriminate upon the subject, that her ultimate decision would be in favour of Bonville?

While Theodore's mind was thus in agitation, he received a second letter from his friend in the neighbourhood of Alida. He read the following clause therein with emotions more easily to be conceived than expressed: "Alida's wedding-day is appointed. I need not tell you that Bonville is to be the happy deity of the hymenial sacrifice. I had it from his own declaration. He did not name the positive day, but it is certainly to be soon. You will undoubtedly, however, have timely notice, and receive an invitation."

"We must pour out a liberal libation upon the mystic altar, Theodore, and twine the nuptial garland with wreaths of joy. Bonville should devote a rich offering to so valuable a prize. He has been here for a week, and departed for New-York yesterday, but is shortly to return."

And why have I ever doubted this event? said Theodore. What infatuation hath then led me on in the pursuit of fantastic and unreal bliss? I have had, it is true, no positive assurances that Alida would be disposed to favour my addresses. But why did she ever receive them? Why did she enchantingly smile upon me? Why fascinate the soft powers of my heart by that winning mildness, and the favourable display of those complicated and superior attractions which she must have known were irresistible? And now she would have me dance attendance to her decision in favour of another--insulting; let Bonville and herself make it, as they have formed this farcical decision. I absolutely will never attend it. Why did she not spurn me from her confidence, and plainly tell me that my attentions were untimely and improper?

But, I have engaged to see her at an appointed time; my honour is therefore pledged for an interview; it must take place. I shall endeavour to support it with becoming dignity, and I will convince Alida and Bonville, that I am not the dupe of their caprices. But, let me consider--What has Alida done to deserve censure or reproach? Her brother was my early friend; she has treated me as a friend to that brother. She was unconscious of the affection which her charms and mental graces had kindled in my bosom. Her evident embarrassment, on receiving my declaration, witnessed her surprise and prior attachment. What could she do to save herself the pain of a direct denial? She has appointed a day when her refusal may come in a more delicate and formal manner--and I must therefore meet it.

Chapter IX.

The time draws near when I shall meet those eyes, that may perchance look cold on me--"but doubt is called the beacon of the wise, the test that reaches to the bottom of the worst."

On the appointed day, Theodore proceeded to the house of Alida's father, where he arrived late in the afternoon. Alida 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 white muslin, richly embroidered. Her hair was in dishevelled curls; she was contemplating a bouquet of flowers which she held in her hand. Theodore fancied she never appeared so lovely. She arose to receive him.

We have been expecting you for some time, said she; we were anxious to inform 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 visiting him lately so frequently as usual. Theodore thanked her for the information; said that business had prevented him; he esteemed him as his most valuable friend, and would be more particular in future.

"We have been thronged with company several days," said Alida. The last of them took their departure yesterday. And I have only to regret, that I have nearly a week been prevented from taking my favourite walk to the grove, to which place you attended me when you were last here. "We will walk there, then, if you have no objections, as no doubt it is much improved since that time," said Theodore. They resorted thither towards evening, and seated themselves in the arbour where they sat some time contemplating the scenery.

It was the beginning of autumn, and a yellow hue was spread over the natural beauties of creation. The withering forest began to shed its decaying foliage, which the light gales pursued along the russet fields;--the low sun extended its lengthening shadows;--curling smoke ascended from the neighbouring village and the surrounding cottages;--a thick fog crept along the valleys;--a grey mist hovered over the tops of the distant hills;--the glassy surface of the water glittering to the sun's departing ray;--the solemn herds lowed in monotonous symphony;--the autumnal insects, in sympathetic wafting, plaintively predicted their approaching fate.

The scene is changed since we last visited this place, said Alida; "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," said Theodore, "before I shall have the pleasure of your company here again." "That may probably be, though it is nearly two months yet to winter," said Alida.

"Great changes may take place within that time," said Theodore. Yes, changes must take place, she answered, but nothing, I hope to embitter present prospects.

As it respects yourself, I trust not, madam. "And I sincerely hope not, as it respects you, Theodore." That wish, said he, I believe is vain.

Your feelings accord with the season, Theodore; you are melancholy. Shall we return?

"I ask your pardon, madam; I know I am unsociable. You speak of returning; you know the occasion of my being here. You cannot have forgotten your own appointment and consequent engagement?" She made no answer.

I know, Alida, that you are incapable of duplicity or evasion. I have promised and now repeat the declaration, that I will silently submit to your decision. This you have engaged to make, and this is the time you have appointed. The pain of present suspense can scarcely be surpassed by the pang of disappointment. On your part you have nothing to fear. I trust you have candidly determined, and will decide explicitly.

"I am placed in an exceedingly delicate situation," answered Alida, (sighing.) "I know you are, madam," said Theodore, "but your own honour, your own peace, require that you should extricate yourself from the perplexing embarrassment."

"That I am convinced of," replied she. "I know that I have been inadvertently indiscreet. I have admitted the addresses of Bonville and yourself, without calculating or expecting the consequences. You have both treated me honourably and with respect. You are both on equal grounds as to standing in life. With Bonville I became first acquainted. As it relates to him, some new arrangements have taken place since you came here."

Theodore interrupted her with emotion. "Of those arrangements I am acquainted, I received the intelligence from a friend in your neighbourhood. I am prepared for the event."

Alida remained silent. "I have mentioned before," resumed Theodore, "that whatever may be your decision, no impropriety can attach to you. I might add, indeed, from various circumstances, and from the information I possess, I perhaps should not have given you further trouble on the occasion, had it not been from your own direction. And I am now willing to retire without further 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, the consequence of which I know, and my proposition may save your feelings."

"No, Theodore," replied she, "my reputation depends on my adherence to my first determination; justice to yourself and to Bonville also demand it. After what has passed, I should be considered as acting capriciously, and inconsistently, should I depart from it. Bonville will be here to-morrow, and you must consent to stay with us until that time; the matter shall then be decided." "Yes," said Theodore, "it shall be as you say, madam. Make your arrangements as you please."

Evening came on, and spread around her sombre shades;--the breeze's rustling wing was in the tree:--the sound of the low, murmuring brooks, and the far-off waterfall, were faintly heard;--the frequent lights in the village darted their pale lustre through the gloom:--the solitary whip-poor-wills stationed themselves along the woody glens, the groves and rocky pastures, and sung a requiem to departed summer;--a dark cloud was rising in the west, across whose gloomy front the vivid lightning bent its forky spires.

Theodore and Alida moved slowly towards home; she appeared enraptured with the melancholy splendours of the evening, but another subject engaged the mental attention of Theodore.

Bonville arrived the next day. He gave his hand to Theodore with seeming warmth of friendship. If it was reciprocated, it must have been affected. There was no alteration in the manners and conversation of Alida; her discourse, as usual, was sprightly and interesting. After dinner she retired, and her father requested Theodore and Bonville to withdraw with him to a private room. After they were seated, the old gentleman thus 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 have both addressed Alida; 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 pretenders, 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, to make in her name this decision. The following are my terms: no difficulty shall arise between you, gentlemen, in consequence of her determination; nothing shall go abroad respecting the affair; it shall be settled under my roof. As soon as I have pronounced Alida's declaration, you shall both depart, and absent 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 shall be happy to receive your visits." Theodore and Bonville pledged their honour to abide implicitly by these injunctions.

He then further observed: "This, gentlemen, is all I require. I have said 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 now arrived, and I now inform you--that she has decided in favour of Theodore."

These words from Alida's father, burst upon the mental powers of Bonville like sudden and tremendous thunder on the deep and sullen silence of night. Unaccustomed to disappointment, he had calculated on assured success. His addresses to the ladies generally had been honourably received. Alida was the first whose charms were capable of rendering them sincere. He was not ignorant of Theodore's attentions to her; it gave him, however, but little uneasiness. He believed that his superior acquired graces would eclipse the pretensions of his rival. He considered himself a connoisseur in character, especially in that of the ladies. He conformed to their taste; he flattered their foibles, and obsequiously bowed to the minutia of female volatility. He considered himself skilled in the language of the heart; and he trusted that from his pre-eminent powers in the science of affection, he had only to see, to make use of, and to conquer.

He had frankly offered his hand to Alida, and pressed her for a decisive answer. This from time to time she suspended, and finally named a day in which to give him and Theodore a determinate one, though neither knew the arrangements made with the other. Alida finding, however, the dilemma in which she was placed, and she had previously consulted her father. He had no objections to her choosing between two persons of equal claims to affluence and respectability. This choice she had made, and her father was considered the most proper person to pronounce it.

When Bonville had urged Alida to answer him decidedly, he supposed that her hesitation, delay and suspensions, were only the effect of diffidence. He had no suspicion of her ultimate conclusion, and when she finally named the day to decide, he was confident her voice would be in his favour. These sentiments he had communicated to the person who had written to Theodore, intimating that Alida had fixed a time which was to crown his sanguine wishes. He had listened, therefore, attentively to the words of her father, momentarily expecting to hear himself declared the favourite choice of the fair. What then must have been his disappointment when the name of Theodore was pronounced instead of his own! The highly-finished scene of pleasure and future happy prospects which his ardent imagination had depicted, now vanished in a moment. The bright sun of his early hopes was veiled in darkness at this unexpected decision.

Very different were the sensations which inspired the bosom of Theodore. He had not even calculated on a decision in his favour; he believed that Bonville would be the choice of Alida. She had told him, that the form of deciding was necessary to save appearances; with this form he complied, because she desired it, not because he expected the result would be in his favour. He had not, therefore, attended to the words of Alida's father with that eagerness which favourable anticipations commonly produce.

But when his name was mentioned; when he found that he was the choice, the happy favourite of Alida's affection, every ardent feeling of his soul became interested, and was suddenly aroused to the refinements of sensibility. Like an electric shock it re-animated his existence, and the bright morning of joy quickly dissipated the gloom which hung over his mind.

Chapter X.

"Dark gathering clouds involve the threat'ning skies, The billows heave with the impending gloom; Deep hollow murmurs from the cliffs arise, Ride on the blast, and urge the howling storm."

Several weeks passed away, and Theodore felt all that anxiety and impatience which a separation from a beloved object can produce. He framed a thousand excuses to visit Alida, yet he feared a visit might be premature. He was, however, necessitated to make a journey to a distant part of the country, after which he resolved to see her.

He performed the business he went on, and was returning. It was toward evening, and the day had been uncommonly sultry for the autumnal season. A rising shower blackened the western hemisphere; the dark vapours ascended in folding ridges, and the thunder rolled at a distance.

Theodore saw he should be overtaken by the rain. He discovered an elegant seat about a hundred yards distant from the road; thither he hastened to gain shelter from the approaching storm.

The owner of the mansion met him at the door, and politely invited him in, while a servant stood ready to take his horse.

He was ushered into a large apartment, genteelly furnished, where the family and several young ladies were sitting. As he glanced his eye hastily around the room, he thought he recognized a familiar countenance. A hurried succession of confused ideas for a moment crossed his recollection. In a moment he discovered that it was Alida.

By this unexpected meeting they were both completely embarrassed. Alida, however, arose, and, in rather a confused manner, introduced Theodore to the company as the friend of her brother.

The rain continued most part of the afternoon. Theodore was urged by the family, and consented to stay the night. A moonlight evening succeeded the shower, which invited the young people to walk in an adjoining garden. Alida informed Theodore that the owner of the mansion was a distant relative of her father, who had two amiable daughters, not far from her own age. She had been invited there to pass a week, and expected to return within two days. "And," she added, smiling, "perhaps, Theodore, we may have an opportunity once more to visit our favourite grove, before winter entirely destroys the remaining beauties of the summer."

Theodore felt all the force of the remark. He recollected 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 last there;--that they are productive of unexpected and unexampled happiness to me, is due, Alida, to yourself alone."

Theodore departed next morning, appointing the next week to visit Alida at her father's house. Thus were the obstacles removed which had presented a barrier to their united wishes. They had not, it is true, been separated by wide seas, unfeeling parents, nor, as yet, by the rigorous laws of war; but vexations, doubts, and difficulties had thus far attended them, which had now happily disappeared, and they calculated on no unpropitious event which might thwart their future happiness.

All the hours that Theodore could spare from his studies were devoted to Alida; and their parents began to calculate on joining their hands as soon as his professional term of study was completed.

Hostilities that had previously commenced with England had been followed by several battles. "The panic and general bustle which prevailed at this time, will yet be remembered by many." These circumstances were not calculated to impress the mind of Alida with the most pleasant sensations. She foresaw that the burden of the war must rest on the American youth, and she trembled in anticipation for the fate of Theodore. He, with others, should it continue, must take the field in defence of his country. The effects of such a separation were dubious and gloomy. Theodore and herself frequently discoursed on the subject, and they agreed to form the mystic union previous to any wide separation. One event tended to hasten this resolution: The attorney in whose office Theodore was engaged received a commission in the new-raised American army, and marched to the lines near Boston. His business was therefore suspended, and Theodore returned to the house of his father. He considered that he could not remain long a mere spectator of the contest, and that it might soon become his duty to take the field, therefore concluded to hasten his marriage with Alida. She consented to the proposition, and their parents made the necessary arrangements for the event. The place was fixed upon which was to be their future residence. It was a pleasantly situated eminence, commanding an extensive prospect. 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 extended over a soil at one time swelling into woody elevations, and at another spreading itself into vales of the most enchanting verdure. To the north it extended to the palisades, wooded to their summits, and throwing their shadows over intervals of equal wilderness, till at length the eye, wandering far beyond, was arrested in its excursions by the blue mist which hovered over the distant mountains, more grand, majestic, and lofty. The inhabitants around were mild, sociable, moral, and diligent. The produce of their own fields gave them the most of what was necessary, and they were happily free from all dissipation and luxury.

Such was the site marked out for the residence of Theodore and Alida. They visited the spot, and were enraptured with its pensive, romantic beauties.

"Here," said Theodore, "we will one day pass our time in all the felicity of mind which the chequered scenes of life will admit. In the spring, we will roam among the flowers; in summer, we will gather strawberries in yonder fields, or raspberries from the adjacent shrubbery. The breezes of fragrant morning and the sighs of the evening gale will be mingled with the songs of the various birds which frequent the surrounding groves. We will gather the bending fruits of autumn, and will listen with pleasure to the hoarse, murmuring voice of winter--its whistling winds, its driving snow and rattling hail--with delight."

The bright gems of joy glistened in the eyes of Alida as Theodore described this pleasing scene of anticipation.

Winter came on; it rapidly passed away. Spring advanced, and the marriage day was appointed. Preparations for the hymenial ceremony were making, and invitations had already gone abroad. Albert was particularly sent for, and all was approaching to readiness for this happy event.

Theodore and Alida again promenaded to the spot which had been chosen for their habitation; they projected the structure of the buildings, planned the gardens, the artificial groves, the walks, and the green retreat of the summer-house; and already they realized in imagination the various domestic blessings and felicities with which they were to be surrounded.

Nature was adorned with the bridal ornaments of spring; the radiant sun was sinking behind the groves, casting his sable shades over the valley, while the retiring beams of day adorned the distant eastern eminences with yellow lustre; the birds sung melodiously in the grove; the air was freshened by light western breezes, bearing upon their wings all the entrancing odours of the season; while around the horizon clouds raised their brazen summits, based in the black vapour of approaching night; and as its darkening shades were advancing, Theodore and Alida returned home. They seated themselves awhile on the piazza, to contemplate the splendours of the evening, and to witness the beauties of one of the most picturesque draperies painted in the landscape of nature.

Chapter XI.

The dreadful din of war is heard Wide spreading o'er the land and sea; The battle's shout and cannon's roar Proclaim the nation shall be free.

The nodding plumes, like waving pines, Are shaken by the morning breeze; The gilded armour brightly shines, And patriots sigh for victories.

The tumults of a second war with Great Britain still increased, and was not only exhausting the finances of the country, but called for a still greater sacrifice--all the bravest American youth. A large army of reinforcements was shortly expected from England to land on our shores, and the confused noise of the warriors, with more vigorous and intrepid combat, were already anticipated.

Theodore had received a commission in a regiment of militia, and was pressed by several young gentlemen of his acquaintance, who had enlisted in the army, to join it also. He had an excuse: his father was a man in extensive business, was considerably past the prime of life, had a number of agents and clerks under him, but began to feel himself unable to attend to the various and burthensome duties and demands of a mercantile life. Theodore was his only son; his assistance, therefore, became necessary, until, at least, his father could bring his business to a close, which he was now about to effect.

Theodore stated these facts to his friends; told them that on every occasion he should be ready to fly to the post of danger when his country was invaded, and that as soon as his father's affairs became settled, he would, if necessary, join the army.

The president was now active in making every exertion in his power, to rouse the feelings of his countrymen to act their parts with honour in the scene that was now before them. He knew that much of the responsibility rested on himself. The capacity he was in with regard to the nation, caused the most material and important business--of directing and superintending the weighty affairs of government--to fall upon his hands; and such was the situation of the country, that it not only called for the exertion, the wisdom, sound judgment, and policy of the presidential chair, but likewise of every patriotic bosom to participate in their endeavours to oppose the depredations against it. The chief executive was entered on a theatre in which he was to act a conspicuous part in this war of America with Great Britain, and to occupy a station in the page of history, where the interesting detail will reach the ear of remotest ages in the dates of time.

In the mean time, the father of Theodore had been absent for three or four days to one of the commercial seaports, on business with some merchants with whom he was connected in trade. He returned the next day after Theodore had got home; his aspect and his conversation were marked with an assumed and unmeaning cheerfulness. At supper he ate nothing, discoursed much, but in an unconnected and hurried manner, interrupted by long pauses, in which he appeared to be buried in contemplation. After supper he asked Theodore "if it were not possible that his union with Alida could be concluded within a few days?" Theodore, startled at so unexpected a question, replied, that such a proposal would be considered extraordinary, perhaps improper; besides, when Alida had named the day, she mentioned that she had an uncle who lived at a distance, whose daughter was to pass the summer with her, and was expected to arrive before the appointed time. It would, he said, be a delicate thing for him to anticipate the nuptials, unless he could give some cogent reason for so doing, and at present he was not apprised that any such existed. His father, after a few moments' hesitation, answered, "I have reasons which, when told,"--here he stopped, suddenly arose, hastily walked the room in much visible agony of mind, and then retired to his chamber.

Theodore and his mother were much amazed at so strange a proceeding. They could form no conjecture of its cause, or its consequence. Theodore passed a sleepless night. His father's slumbers were interrupted; he was restless and uneasy: his sleep was broken and disturbed by incoherent mutterings and plaintive moans. In the morning when he appeared at breakfast, his countenance wore the marks of dejection and anguish. He scarcely spoke a word; and after the cloth was removed, he ordered all to withdraw except Theodore and his mother; when, with emotions that spoke the painful feelings of his bosom, he thus addressed them:

"For more than thirty years I have been engaged in commerce, in order to acquire independence for myself and my family. To accomplish this, I became connected with some English importing merchants, in a seaport town, and went largely into the English trade. Success crowned our endeavours. On balancing our accounts, two years ago, we found that our expectations were answered, and that we were sufficiently wealthy to close business, which some proposed to do; it was, however, agreed to make one effort more, as some favourable circumstances appeared to offer, in which we adventured very largely, on a fair calculation of liberal and extensive proceeds. Before returns could be made, the war came on, embarrassments ensued, and by indubitable intelligence lately received, we find that our property in England has been sequestered; five of our ships, laden with English goods, lying in English harbours, and just ready to sail for America, have been seized as lawful prizes; added to this, three vessels from the Indies, laden with island produce, have been taken on their homeward bound voyage, and one lost on her return from Holland.

"This wreck of fortune I might have survived, had I to sustain only my equal dividend of the loss; but of the merchants with whom I have been connected, not one remains to share the fate of the event--all have absconded or secreted themselves. To attempt to compound with my creditors would be of little avail, so that the consequence to me is inevitable ruin.

"To abscond would not secure me, as most of my remaining property is vested in real estate; and even if it would, I could not consent to it. I could not consent to banish myself from my country, with the view to defraud my creditors. No: I have lived honestly, and honestly will I die. By fair application and industry my wealth has been obtained, and it shall never justly be said that the reputation of my latter days were sullied with acts of meanness. I have notified and procured a meeting of the creditors, and have laid the matter before them. Some appeared favourable to me, others insinuated that we were all connected in fraudulent designs to swindle our creditors. To this I replied with becoming spirit, and was in consequence threatened with immediate prosecution. Whatever may be the event, I had some hopes that your happiness, Theodore, might yet be secured. Hence I proposed your union with Alida before our misfortunes should be promulgated. Your parents are old, a little will serve the residue of their days. With your acquirements you may make your way in life. I shall now have no property to give you; but I would still wish you to ensure to yourself that which you prize far above, and without which, both honours and emoluments would be unimportant and worthless."

At this moment a loud rap at the door interrupted the discourse, and three men were ushered in, which proved to be the sheriff and his attendants, sent by the more inexorable creditors of Theodore's father and company, to levy on the property of the former, which orders they faithfully executed by seizing the lands, tenements, and furniture. We will not stop the reader to moralize on this disastrous event--the feelings of the family can better be conceived than described.

Hurled, in a moment, from the lofty summit of affluence to the low vale of indigence, Christian philosophy after a while came to the aid of the parents, but who can realize the feelings of the son? Thus suddenly cut short, not only of his prospects of future independence, but even present support, what would be the event of his suit to Alida, and stipulated marriage? Was it not probable that her father would now cancel the contract? Could she consent to become his in his present penurious situation? and could he himself be willing to make her miserable?

In this agitated frame of mind he received a letter from a friend in the neighbourhood of Alida, requesting him to come immediately to his house, whither he repaired the following day.

This person had ever been the unchanging friend of Theodore; he had heard of the misfortunes of his family, and he deeply sympathized in his distress. He had lately married and settled near the residence of Alida's father. His name was Raymond. When Theodore arrived at the house of his friend, he was received with the same disinterested ardour he had ever been before, in the day of his most unbounded prosperity. After being seated, Raymond told him the occasion of his sending for him was to propose the adoption of certain measures which he doubted not might be considered highly beneficial, as it respected his future peace and happiness. "Your family misfortunes," continued he, "have reached the ear of Alida's father. I know old people, generally speaking, too well to believe he will now consent to receive you as his son-in-law under your present embarrassments. The case is difficult, but not insurmountable. You must first see Alida; she is now in the next room; I will introduce you in; converse with her, after which I will lay my plan before you."

Theodore entered the room. Alida was sitting by a window which looked into a pleasant garden, and over verdant meadows where tall grass waved to the evening breeze; further on, low valleys spread their umbrageous thickets where the dusky shadows of night had began to assemble. On the high hills beyond, the tops of lofty forests, majestically moved by the billowy gales, caught the sun's last ray. Fleecy summer clouds hovered around the verge of the western horizon, spangled with silvery tints or fringed with the gold of evening. A mournfully murmuring rivulet purled at a little distance from the garden, on the borders of a small grove, from whence the American wild dove wafted her sympathetic moaning to the ear of Alida. She was leaning on a small table as she sat by the window, which was thrown up. Her attention was fixed. She did not perceive Raymond and Theodore as they entered. They advanced towards her; she turned, started, and arose. With a melancholy smile she said she supposed it was Mrs. Raymond who was approaching, as she had just left the room. Her countenance was dejected, which, on seeing Theodore, lighted up into a languid sprightliness. It was evident she had been weeping. Raymond retired, and Theodore and Alida seated themselves.

"I have broken in upon your solitude, perhaps too unseasonably," said Theodore. It is however the fault of Raymond; he invited me to walk into the room, but did not inform me that you were alone.

"Your presence was sudden and unexpected, but not unseasonable," replied Alida. I hope that you did not consider any formality necessary in your visits, Theodore?

"I once did not think so," answered Theodore; now I know not what to think--I know not how to act. You have heard of the misfortunes of my father's family, Alida?

"Yes, I have heard the circumstances attending that event," said she; an event in which no one could be more deeply interested, except the immediate sufferers, than myself.

"Your father is also acquainted with my present situation," said Theodore; and how did he receive the intelligence?

"With deep regret," replied Alida.

Has he forbidden you to admit my addresses any longer? if even in an unqualified or indirect manner, it is proper I should know it.

"It certainly is," said Alida. Soon after we received the intelligence of your family misfortunes, my father came into the room where I was sitting: 'Alida,' said he, 'your conduct has ever been that of a dutiful child,--mine, of an indulgent parent. My ultimate wish is to see my children, when settled in life, happy and honourably respected. For this purpose I have bestowed on them a proper education, and design suitably to apportion my property among them. On their part, it is expected they will act prudently and discreetly, especially in those things which concern materially their future peace and welfare: the principal requisite to insure this is a proper connexion in marriage.' Here my father paused a considerable time, and then continued: 'I know, my child, that your situation is a very delicate one. Your marriage-day is appointed; it was named under the fairest prospects. By the failure of Theodore's father, those prospects have become deeply darkened, if not totally obliterated. To commit your fortune through life to a person in his present circumstances, would be hazardous in the extreme. The day named can at least be suspended; perhaps something more favourable may appear. At any rate, I have too much confidence in your discretion to suppose that you will, by any rash act, bring reproach either upon yourself or your connexions.' Thus spake my father, and immediately withdrew.

"In our present dilemma," said Theodore, "what is proper to be done?"

"It is difficult to determine," answered Alida. "Should my father expressly forbid our union, or to see each other at present, it is probable he will carry his commands into effect. I would advise you to call on him to-morrow with your usual freedom. Whatever may be the event, I shall deal sincerely with you. Mrs. Raymond has been my friend and associate from my earliest years--Raymond you know. In them we can place the utmost confidence. From them you will be enabled to obtain information should I be prevented from seeing you. My reliance on Providence, I trust, will never be shaken, but my future prospects, at present, are dark and gloomy."

"Let us not despair," said Theodore; "perhaps those gloomy clouds which now hover around us, may yet be dissipated by the bright beams of joy. Worth and innocence are the care of Heaven,--there rests my hope. To-morrow, as you propose, I will call at your father's. If I should be debarred in future from seeing you, I will write as formerly, and direct the letters to Raymond."

Alida now returned home, attended by Theodore. A whip-poor-will tuned its nightly song at a distance; but the sound which had so late appeared to them cheerful and sprightly, now passed heavily over their hearts.

Chapter XII.

"O, happiness, deceitful in thy dream," Though wreaths all blooming hang upon thy brow, And quick dissolves the visionary gleam, Succeeded soon by various scenes of wo.

When Theodore returned to the house of his friend, he unfolded the plan he had projected.

"No sooner," said Raymond, "was I informed of your misfortunes, than I was convinced that Alida's father (whom I have known for many years) would endeavour to dissolve your intended union with his daughter. And however he may doat on his children, or value their happiness, he will not hesitate to sacrifice his better feelings to the accomplishment of his wishes to see them independent. It appears that you have but one resource left. You and Alida are now engaged by the most solemn ties, by every rite except those which are ceremonial; these I would advise you to enter into, and trust to the consequences. Mrs. Raymond has proposed the scheme to Alida, but implicitly accustomed to filial obedience, she shudders at the idea of a clandestine marriage; but when her father will proceed to rigorous measures, she will, I think, consent to the alternative. The world is before you, Theodore," continued he; "you have friends, you have acquirements which will not fail you. In a country like this you can scarcely help obtaining a competency, which, with the other requisites you have in your power, will not fail to insure your independence and felicity."

"But the times have changed," said Theodore, since the commencement of the war, and probably I may yet have to join the army. After I have made my visit on the morrow to Alida's father, we will discourse further on the subject.

In the meantime, Theodore proceeded on the morrow, to make his intended visit. As he approached the house, he saw Alida sitting in a shady recess at one end of the garden, near which the road passed. She was leaning with her head upon her hand in a pensive posture; a deep dejection was depicted upon her features, which enlivened into a transient glow as soon as she saw Theodore. She arose, met him, and invited him into the house.

Theodore was received with a cool reserve by all except Alida. Her father saluted him with a distant retiring bow, as he passed with her to the parlour. As soon as they were seated, a lady who had lately come to reside some time in the family, (who was a relative of her father's,) entered the room and seated herself by the window, alternately humming a tune and staring at Theodore, without speaking a word.

This interruption was not of long continuance. Alida's father entered, and requested the two ladies to withdraw, which was instantly done; he then addressed Theodore as follows:

"When I gave consent for your union with my daughter, it was on the conviction that your future resources would be adequate to support her honourably and independently. Circumstances have since taken place which render this point extremely doubtful." He paused for a reply, but Theodore was silent. He continued, "You, perhaps, may say that your acquirements, your prudence, and your industry, will procure you a handsome income; but to depend on these altogether for your future exigencies is hazarding peace, honour, and reputation, at a single game of chance. If, therefore, you have no resources or expectations but such as these, your own judgment will teach you the necessity of immediately relinquishing all pretensions to the hand of Alida, and from this time to break off all communication with my daughter." He then immediately left the room.

Why was Theodore speechless through the whole of this discourse? What reply could he have made? What were the prospects before him but misery and wo? Where, indeed, were the means by which Alida was to be shielded from indigence, if connected with his fortunes?

The idea was not new, but it came upon him at this time with redoubled anguish. He arose and looked around for Alida, but she was not to be seen. He left the house and walked slowly towards Raymond's. At a little distance he met Alida who had been strolling in an adjoining avenue. He informed her of all that had passed; it was no more than they both expected, yet it was a shock their fortitude could scarcely sustain. Disappointment seldom finds her votaries prepared to receive her.

Alida told Theodore that she knew her father's determinations were altogether unchangeable at present. Her brother, she said, would be at home in a few days; how he would act on this occasion, she was unable to say; but were he ever so far their friend, he would have but feeble influence with her father. "What is to be the end of these troubles," continued she, it is impossible to foresee. Let us trust in the mercy of Heaven, and submit to its dispensations.

Theodore and Alida, in their happier days, had, when absent from each other, corresponded. This method it was now thought best to resume. It was agreed, besides, that Theodore should frequently visit Raymond's, and Alida would resort there also, as she should find opportunity. Having concluded on this, Alida returned home, and Theodore to the house of his friend.

The next morning Theodore repaired to the dwelling where his aged parents now resided. His bosom throbbed with keen anguish when he arrived there: his own fate unconnected with that of Alida. His father was absent when he first reached home, but returned soon after. A beam of joy gleamed upon his countenance as he entered the house. "Were it not, Theodore, for your unhappy situation," said he, "we should once more be restored to peace and happiness. A few persons who were indebted to me, finding that I was to be sacrificed by my unfeeling creditors, reserved those debts in their hands, and have now paid me, amounting to something more than five thousand pounds. With this I can live as well and conveniently as I could wish, and can spare some for your present exigencies, Theodore."

Theodore thanked his father for his kindness, but told him that from his former liberality, he had yet sufficient for all his wants. "But your affair with Alida," asked his father, "how is that likely to terminate?" "Favourably, I hope, sir," answered Theodore.

He could not consent to disturb the happy tranquillity of his parents by reciting his own wretchedness. He passed a week with them. He saw them once more comfortably seated at a calm retreat in he country; he saw them serenely blest in the pleasures of returning peace, and a ray of joy illumined his troubled bosom.

"Again the youth his wonted life regain'd, A transient sparkle in his eye obtain'd, A bright, impassion'd, cheering glow express'd The pleas'd sensation of his tender breast: But soon dark gloom the feeble smiles o'erspread; Like morn's gay hues, the fading splendours fled; Returning anguish froze his feeling soul; Deep sighs burst forth, and tears began to roll!"

His memory dwelt on Alida, from whom he had heard nothing since he had last seen her. He thought of the difficulties with which he was surrounded. He thought of the barriers which were now opposed to their happiness; and he immediately set out for the house of Raymond. He arrived at his residence near the close of the day. Raymond and his lady were at tea, with several young ladies that had passed the afternoon there. Theodore cast an active glance at the company, in hopes to see Alida among them, but she was not there. He was invited, and took a seat at table.

After tea was over, Raymond led Theodore into an adjoining room. "You have come in good time," said he. "Something speedily must be done, or you lose Alida forever. The day after you were here, her father received a letter from Bonville, in which, after mentioning the circumstances of your father's insolvency, he hinted that the consequence would probably be a failure of her proposed marriage with you, which might essentially injure the reputation of a lady of her standing in life; to prevent which, and to place her beyond the reach of calumny, he offered to marry her at any appointed day, provided he had her free consent. As Bonville, by the recent death of his father, had been put in possession of a splendid fortune, the proposition might possibly allure the father of Alida, to use his endeavour to bring his daughter to yield implicit obedience to his wishes. Were he to command her to live single, it might be endured; but if he should endeavour to persuade her to discard you from her thoughts entirely, and to give her hand to a person she could have no esteem for, would be to perjure those principles of truth and justice, which he himself had ever taught her to hold most inviolable. To add to Alida's distress, Bonville arrived there yesterday, and, I hope in some measure to alleviate it, Albert, her brother, came this morning. Mrs. Raymond has despatched a message to inform Alida of your arrival, and to desire her to come here immediately. She will undoubtedly comply with the invitation, if not prevented by something extraordinary."

Mrs. Raymond now came to the door of the room, and beckoned to her husband, who went out, but soon returned, leading in Alida, after which he retired. "Oh, Theodore," was all she could say, her further utterance was interrupted by her tears. Theodore led her to a seat, and overcome by sadness was unable to speak. Recovering at length, he begged her to moderate her grief.

"Where," said he, "is your fortitude, and your firmness, Alida, which I have so often seen triumphing over affliction?" Her extreme anguish prevented a reply. Theodore endeavoured to console her, though consolation was a stranger to his own breast.

"Let us not," said he, "increase our flood of affliction by a tide of useless sorrow. Perhaps more prosperous days are yet in reserve for us; happiness may yet be ours. Heaven cannot desert Alida," said Theodore; "as well might it desert its angels. This thorny path may lead to fair fields of light and verdure. Tempests are succeeded by calms; wars end in peace; the splendours of the brightest morning arise on the wings of blackest midnight. Troubles will not always last."

The grief which had almost overwhelmed Alida, now began to subside, as the waves of the ocean gradually cease their tumultuous commotion after the turbulent winds are laid asleep. Deep and long drawn sighs succeeded. The irritation of her feelings had caused a more than usual glow upon her cheek which faded away as she became composed, until a livid paleness spread itself over her features.

Raymond and his lady now came into the room. They strenuously urged the propriety and necessity for Theodore and Alida to enter into the bands of matrimony.

"The measure would be hazardous," remarked Alida. "My circumstances," said Theodore. "Not on that account," interrupted Alida, "but the displeasure of my father."

"Come here, Alida, to-morrow evening," said Mrs. Raymond. "In the mean time you will consider the matter and then determine." To this Alida assented and prepared to return home.

Theodore attended her as far as the gate which opened into the yard surrounding the dwelling. It was dangerous for him to go further, lest he should be discovered even by a domestic of the family. He stood here awhile looking anxiously after Alida as she walked up the avenue, her white robes now invisible, now dimly seen, until they were totally obscured, mingling with the gloom and darkness of the night, ere she reached the door of her father's mansion.

"Thus," said Theodore, "fades the angel of peace from the visionary eyes of the war-worn soldier, when it ascends in the dusky clouds of early morning, while he slumbers on the field of recent battle." With mournful forebodings he returned to the house of his friend. After passing a sleepless night, he arose and walked out into an adjoining field; he stood for some time, leaning, in deep contemplation, against a tree, when he heard quick footsteps behind him. He turned around, and saw Albert approaching. In a moment they were in each other's arms, and mingled tears. They soon returned to Raymond's where they conversed largely on present affairs.

"I have discoursed with my father on the subject," said Albert; "I have urged him with every possible argument, to relinquish his determination to keep you and Alida separate. I fear, however, he is inflexible."

"To endeavour to assuage the grief which rent Alida's bosom was my next object, and in this I trust I have not been unsuccessful. You will see her this evening, and will find her more calm and resigned. You, Theodore, must exert your fortitude. The ways of Heaven are inscrutable, but they are right. We must acquiesce in its dealings; we cannot alter its decrees. Resignation to its will, whether merciful or afflictive, is one of those eminent virtues which adorn the good man's character, and will ever find a brilliant reward in the regions of unsullied happiness."

Albert told Theodore that circumstances compelled him that day to return to the city. "I would advise you," said he, "to remain here until your affair comes to some final issue. It must, I think, ere long, be terminated. Perhaps you and my sister may yet be happy."

Theodore feelingly expressed his gratitude to Albert. He found in him that disinterested friendship which his early youth had experienced. Albert the same day departed for New-York.

The shades of night came on almost insensibly, as Theodore was anxiously expecting Alida. He anticipated the consolation her presence would bestow. Albert had told him she was more composed. The evening passed on, but she came not.

Raymond assured him she would soon be there. He paced the room, and then walked out on the way whither she was expected to come. He hesitated some time whether to advance or return. It was possible, though not probable, that she might have come some other way. He hastened back to the house of his friend; she had not arrived.

"Something extraordinary," said Mrs. Raymond, "has undoubtedly prevented her coming. Perhaps she is ill." Theodore shuddered at the suggestion. He looked at his watch: it was past twelve o'clock. Again he hastily sallied out and took the road to her father's. The night was exceedingly dark, being illuminated only by the feeble glimmering of the twinkling stars. When he came within sight of the house, and as he drew near, no lights were visible, all was still and silent. He entered the yard, walked up the avenue, and approached the door. A solemn stillness prevailed around, interrupted only by the discordance of nightly insects. The dwelling was shrouded in darkness. In Alida's room no gleam of light appeared.

"They are all buried in sleep," said Theodore, deeply sighing, and I have only to return in disappointment.

Theodore now withdrew slowly from the place, and repassed the way he came. As he went back through the garden, he found a person standing at the foot of it, near the road. After a moment's scrutiny, he perceived it to be Bonville.

"What, my chevalier, why are you here?" said he to Theodore. "Hast thou, then, eluded the watchful eyes of Argus, and the vigilance of the dragon?"

"Unfeeling and impertinent intruder!" retorted Theodore, "dost thou add impudence to thy interference? Go," said he, "you are unworthy of my anger. Pursue thy grovelling schemes. Strive to win to your arms a lady who must ever continue to despise you."

"Theodore," replied Bonville, "You and I were rivals in the pursuit for the hand of Alida. Whether from freak or fortune the preference was given to you, I know not; and I retired in silence. From coincidence of circumstances, I think she will now be induced to give the preference to me, especially after her prospects of connecting with you are cut off by the events which ruined your fortune. You, Theodore, have yet, I find, to learn the character of woman. It has been my particular study. Alida, now ardently impassioned by first impressions, irritated by recent disappointment, her feelings delicate and vivid, her affections animated, it would be strange if she could suddenly relinquish premature attachments founded on such premises. But remove her from your presence one year, with only distant and uncertain prospects of seeing you again, admit me as the substitute in your absence, and she accepts my hand as freely as she would now receive yours. I had no design. It never was my wish to marry her without her free consent;--that I believe I shall yet obtain. Under existing circumstances it is impossible but that you must be separated. Then, when cool deliberation succeeds to the wild vagaries of fancy, she will discover the dangerous precipice to which her present inclinations lead. She will prefer indifference and splendour to love and a cottage. At present I relinquish all further pursuit; to-morrow I shall return home. When Alida, from calm deliberation, and the advice of friends, shall freely consent to yield me her hand, I shall return to receive it. I came from my lodgings this evening to declare these intentions to her father; but it being later than I was aware of, the family had gone to rest. I was about to return, but, looking back again at the house, to see if I could descry a light, I stood a moment by the garden gate, when you approached and discovered me." So saying, he bade Theodore good night, and walked hastily away.

"I find he knows not the character of Alida," said Theodore, as he pursued his way to Raymond's. When he arrived at the house of his friend, he related all that had passed between himself and Bonville; and from what he related, the Raymonds concluded that Alida must be watched and guarded.

Chapter XIII.

Friendship! thou sovereign balm of every care. When all serene and placidly appear; Domestic happiness! of that possessed, Then may we leave to Providence the rest.

The father of Alida now thought proper to enter into a second marriage. A lady of worth and understanding had wrought upon his fancy, and won his particular regards. Her elegance of manner and dignified deportment engaged general attention; and although she was rather advanced in life, yet "the remains of former beauty were still visible in her appearance."

She was honourably descended from English parents, who had resided in New-York since the revolution. Her father had been actively engaged in business there, which had been ultimately crowned with the successful gifts of fortune.

Her education had been governed by the strictness of the English discipline. A foundation laid in early piety continued to influence her mind with unaffected ardour, blended with a generous benevolence, the genuine effects of the inexhaustible goodness of her heart. She was one who manifested to the world that a "doer of good" is far preferable to any other character, and in a superlative degree above those who maintain high principles in theory, without ever once reducing them to practice.

This lady had an only sister, who married a native of Ireland, and after the course of a few years went to reside there, where she had recently died. The children returned to this country, having lost their father long before, and several of her nephews now resided in the city. Having been always accustomed to reside in town herself, where her many excellent qualities had endeared her to numerous friends and acquaintances, who would now feel themselves lost without her society, therefore the parents of Alida formed the conclusion to pass their winters in the city, and return to the country in the summer season.

In the mean time, Alida's father thought the event fortunate, and was pleased at this time to remove his daughter from the place where the late scenes appeared so trying and afflictive, with the hope that in mingling her with the gay world she would in a while forget Theodore, while he in his turn would be induced to leave the neighbourhood.

It was now at that season when weary summer had lapsed into the fallow arms of autumn, and was approaching to the chilly breezes of winter. The morning was clear, and the light gales bore invigorating coolness on their wings as they tremulously agitated the foliage of the western forest, or fluttered among the branches of the trees that surrounded the mansion. The green splendours of the lawn had faded into a yellow lustre; the flowery verdure of the fields was changed to a russet hue.

A robin chirped in a favourite tree in the yard; a wren chattered beneath, while some few solitary birds still continued to warble their notes among the leaves of the aspen.

The surrounding groves partially rung with melody; while deep in the adjacent wilderness the woodpecker, hammering on some dry and blasted trees, filled the woods with reverberant echoes.

The face of the Sound was ruffled by the lingering breezes, as they idly wandered over its surface. Long Island was thinly enveloped in smoky vapour; scattered along its shores lay the numerous small craft, with larger ships, of the hostile fleet. A few skiffs were passing and re-passing the Sound. Several American war-sloops lay on a point which jutted out from the mainland into the river.

Alida walked leisurely around the yard, contemplating the various beauties of the scene, the images of departed joys (that she was now about to leave). The days when Theodore participated with her in admiring the splendours of rural prospect, raised in her bosom the sigh of deep regret. She entered the garden, and traced the walks, now overgrown with weeds and tufted grass. The flower-beds were choked with the low running brambles, and tall rushes and daisies had usurped the empire of the kitchen garden. The viny arbour was principally gone to decay, and the eglantine blushed mournfully along the fences.

Alida continued to walk the garden until the servant informed her that the carriage was waiting to take her to the city.

Although they set out rather late in the day, they arrived in town some hours before sunset. They drove immediately to their dwelling, which was situated in a pleasant part of Greenwich-street, near the Battery.

Alida, after she had thrown off her travelling apparel, seated herself by the window in silence. Her mind was absorbed in deep reflection and thoughtfulness. She watched the slow declining sun, as it was sinking beneath the horizon. Pensive twilight spread her misty mantle over the landscape. The western sky glowed with the spangles of evening; deepening glooms advanced. The last beam of day faded from the view, and all was enveloped in night. Innumerable stars glittered in the firmament, intermingling their quivering lustre with the pale splendours of the milky way.

When Alida was summoned to tea, her parents made various observations to endeavour to amuse her thoughts, and draw her from her taciturnity. After tea she again returned to the window, where she sat till a late hour, apparently in deep meditation, till at length growing weary and restless, she retired to her room.

As she had for several nights in succession slept but little, she soon fell into a slumber, and did not awake till near the dawn of day. She did not close her eyes again to sleep. Daylight soon appeared, and the cheerful sun darting his enlivening rays through the windows of this antique mansion, recovered her exhausted spirits, and dissipated, in some measure, the cheerless reflections that still continued to hover about her imagination.

She arose, and went down to breakfast with spirits somewhat revived, and changed to a temporary resignation to past events and recent occurrences. A thought impressed her mind which gave her new consolation.

"Who knows," said she, "but that the sun of peace may yet dispel the glooms of these distressful hours, and restore this throbbing bosom to its former serenity?"

In the meantime, Theodore remained in the neighbourhood of Alida until he heard the family had left and gone to the city. He then prepared himself to set out early the next day for the habitation of his parents.

He informed Raymond of his promise to write to Alida, and to transmit letters through his agency for her inspection every convenient opportunity.

After passing a weary watchful night, he arose at the first dawning of day, and proceeded on his journey with a heavy heart and painful reflections.

After he had passed through the neighbouring village, and gained the bridge, he looked over and bade the residence of Alida a mournful farewell. Fearful forebodings crossed his mind that they were separated forever; then again those more consolatory, that, perhaps, after a long delay, he and Alida might yet again meet and be happy.

Traits of glory had painted the eastern skies. The glittering day-star, having unbarred the portals of light, began to transmit its retrocessive lustre. Thin scuds flew swiftly over the moon's decrescent form. Low, hollow winds murmured among the bushes, or brushed the limpid drops from the intermingling foliage.

The dusky shadows of night fled to the deep glens and rocky caverns of the wilderness. The American lark soared high in the air, consecrating its matin lay to morn's approaching splendours.

The woodlands and forest tops on the high hills caught the sun's first ray, which, widening and extending, soon gemmed the landscape with a varying brightness.

It was late in the afternoon before Theodore arrived at his father's. He found his parents contented and happy at their present residence, which was extremely pleasant, and afforded them many accommodations.

"You have been long gone, my son," said his father: "I scarcely knew what had become of you. Since I have become a farmer, I know little of what is going on in the world, and we were never happier in our lives. We live as independently as we could desire, and realize the blessings of health and contentment. Our only disquietude is on your account, Theodore. Your affair with Alida, I suppose, is not so favourable as you could wish. But despair not, my son; hope is the harbinger of fairer prospects; rely on Providence, which never deserts those who submissively bow to its dispensations. Place entire confidence and dependence on the Supreme Being," said his father, "and the triumph of fortitude and resignation will be yours." His father paused. His reasonings, however they convinced the understanding, could not heal the wounds of Theodore's bosom. In Alida he had looked for as much happiness as earth could afford, nor could he see any prospect in life which could repair to him her loss.

Unwilling to disturb the serenity of his parents, he did not wish to acquaint them with the whole affair of his troubles. He answered, that perhaps all might yet be well; that, however, in the present state of his mind, he thought a change of place and scene might be of advantage. He said, moreover, that he no longer had an excuse, and that circumstances now compelled him to join the army.

A sorrow unknown before seized upon the minds of his parents as Theodore repeated these words. Sad and dreadful ideas crowded their imagination at this gloomy period, when in the war's dread emergency they must risk the life of an only son, to march to the field of battle. 'Tis true, he might be again restored to them, but were there not a thousand chances to one? They were overwhelmed with sorrow at these thoughts, till at length they finally felt themselves obliged to consent to what they considered his inevitable destiny, leaving the result of their united wishes and prayers for his safe preservation to an over-ruling Providence.

His father then offered him money he had on hand to defray his expenses. Theodore refused, saying, his resources had not yet left him. He then disposed of his horses and carriages, the insignia of his better days, but now useless appendages.

After taking an affectionate leave of his parents, he set out the ensuing day to join his companions on their route to meet the army, which was far distant. When hostilities first commenced, Theodore had said, that when it became actually necessary, and his father's affairs were settled, he would enlist in the service of his country. Nevertheless, he journeyed with a heavy heart and an enfeebled frame of spirits, through disappointment, vexation, and fatigue. The scenes he had so lately experienced moved in melancholy succession over his mind, and his despondency had not abated, even in a small degree, when he reached the army.

He now joined the forces under Colonel Van Renssalaer, "who, with a detachment of about one thousand men, crossed the river Niagara, and attacked the British on Queenstown heights. This detachment succeeded in dislodging the enemy, but not being reinforced by the militia from the American side, as was expected, they were ultimately repulsed, and obliged to surrender. Eight hundred British soldiers now came to the aid of the others, and pressed on to renew the attack. The Americans for a time continued to struggle against this force, but were finally obliged to surrender themselves prisoners of war."

The fate of war was hard for Theodore, on his first expedition. He was taken, and carried among the rest on board a prison-ship, and sent with a number of others to England.

This disastrous event, however, was shortly followed by one more fortunate for the Americans. "General Dearborn embarked at Sackett's Harbour, with sixteen hundred men, on an expedition against York, and succeeded in the capture of that place.

"York was the seat of government for Upper Canada, and the principal depot for the Niagara frontier. More naval stores were taken by the Americans than could be carried away. The government hall was burned, contrary to the orders of the American general."

Chapter XIV.

"See, winter comes," and boisterous on its way, See darkening clouds obscure the cheerful day; Its hollow voice is muttering in the gale, While chilling hail and snow the earth assail.

Some length of time had elapsed since the family had been settled in the city, and the cool breezes of autumn had changed to the hoarse murmuring gales of winter. No sound scarcely was heard except blustering winds, or their whistling murmurs around the angles of the mansion, blended with the more slow, monotonous cadence of the advancing waves of the Hudson.

The evenings were cold, dark, and gloomy, except when the resplendent rays of the moon's mild lustre was seen dispensing its light and cheering influence, dissipating, in a material degree, the dreariness of the evenings of this inclement season. Winter had commenced, "sullen and sad, with all his rising train." "Vapours, and clouds, and storms," succeeded each other. Instead of copious showers of rain, snow and ice were spread over the pavement in heavy masses.

One evening as a storm was approaching, and the winds blew tremendously, and the snow began to fall in abundance, Where now, thought Alida, is Theodore? though the cold may pierce and storms molest him, yet there is no friend to sympathise with him in his distress, or to mitigate the heaviness of his cheerless hours, and shed the rays of gladness over his troubled mind.

How great the contrast is now with his former fortunes, how severe his afflictions! He feels not so much the loss of wealth, but he sighs for the smiles of former associates and friends. She looked upon her finger, there was the ring he had given her in happier days. This she vowed to keep and cherish, through every trial and affliction. It was Theodore's last gift. Where was he now? What dangers he may have encountered, and what hardships endured! and what might he not yet have to suffer, ere she should behold him again, if indeed she ever should.

She had not heard from him in a long time. He had promised to write--why was he not faithful to his promise?

Thus meditated Alida. At length she articulated in a calmer tone, and her feelings became more composed.

Infinite Ruler of events! Great Sovereign of this ever-changing world! Omnipotent Controller of vicissitudes! Omniscient Dispenser of destinies! In thy hands are all things terrestrial, and the condition of our lives are at thy disposal. The beginning, the progression, and the end is thine. Unsearchable are thy purposes!-- mysterious thy movements!-- inscrutable thy operations! Thy will must be done. To bow in submission to thy decrees, is right:-- for we are unable to scrutinize the past, and incompetent to explore the future.

Alida had lived retired since she had been in town, although in the midst of gay scenes of every description. The acquaintance she had made were few. Her second mother had no relatives there, except her sister's children, which formed a principal part of her society.

Her oldest nephew was about twenty-five years of age. The personal appearance of Mr. Bolton was highly prepossessing. He was particularly distinguished for his genuine politeness, affability, and witticism.

He inherited a considerable patrimony from his grandfather, which proved to be a disadvantage, as it prevented him from applying himself to any particular occupation. Since his aunt's marriage, and his acquaintance with Alida, his visits had become frequent, accompanied with partial attention; though on her part, indifference was visible, as his earnest assiduities, were altogether unexpected, and implied a thing she had not thought of.

No one had as yet observed his growing fondness and predilection for Alida, except her father, to whom it was by no means pleasing. The habitual idleness of this young gentleman, caused him in a great measure to pass over the consideration of his many excellent qualities.

Among those, with whom Alida had become acquainted during her residence in the city, was the son of an old friend of her father's. This gentleman had place among the merchants in Broadway, and who, by a long course of industrious trading had amassed a handsome competency. There was something peculiar in his air and manner, which distinguished him among the men of business.

Speak of a person of commanding aspect, tall, slender, and majestic; quick in step, fluent in speech, with large light blue eyes, and light hair, approaching a little to the yellow. That was Mr. More. There was a neatness and uniformity in his appearance and dress. He might have been known by his blue suit, white vest, and cambric handkerchief. He was polite and agreeable, and by his associates, he was much esteemed as an acquaintance. His judgment was mature in regard to his business. He managed his affairs with prudence and economy, and still stood firm amid the shock of failures around him.

Though his means were ample, his expenditures were not extravagant; every thing about him partook of the convenient and useful. Suitably free from the fashion mania which sometimes attack young people like an epidemic, he preferred rational pleasures, and the company of a few young men of liberal views and sentiments, to the empty display and unsubstantial show, which wins the smile of moneyed plebians.

His general deportment, his countenance and manner, discovered a mind and disposition, that had always been accustomed to unremitting indulgence. He was ardent in friendship; possessing a heart of the keenest sensibility, with a scrupulous regard for the feelings of others. He had been much in female society--in company with the amiable and intelligent. Still he had never seen any one that he thought was possessed of congenial feelings, or whose mind would assimilate with his own.

When he became acquainted with Alida, his sensations were awakened to a new influence;--that he did not attempt to banish from his mind. He never before had seen any one he thought so worthy of esteem, or so calculated to inspire him with lasting friendship. "The kindness, and sincerity of her heart, speaks in her artless manner," said he, (as he was one evening returning home from her father's.) "She delights the old and captivates the young. Yet her beauty is not so dazzling at first glance, but every day that she is seen, the more her features charm, the more her manners please. Innocence dwells in the silvery curls of her light auburn hair, that waves over her shoulders in simple elegance. She has been reared with proper care and attention, and educated not to shine in a ball-room, but with a soft soothing friendship, to dissipate ennui and gloom, and make the happiness of the domestic circle."

Chapter XV.

Come, Contemplation, with thy boundless gaze. Inspire my song, while I his merits praise, A true description of his greatness name, And fame's bright annals, shall record the same.

Many were at this time risking their lives in defence of American liberty, and privileges;--nor were there at present any prospects of conciliatory measures between the contending powers. It became necessary for the people in the meantime, to call forth all their energies and patriotism, with the utmost exertion on their parts--in support of their country, in order to maintain the burden of the arduous conflict in which it was engaged, and sustain the present contest with honour to themselves, and with the hope that its final settlement might be to the satisfaction of America, and the future prosperity of the nation.

Many heroes ventured forth to the field of battle, with the ardent endeavour, still to preserve their independence; while at the same time the hearts of many were failing them with fear. It was a time for the patriot to use his influence to animate others anew to bravery, and persuade them to be zealous, in a just cause; at this season of general excitement, in which the feelings of the whole community had become strongly interested. Party spirit, and the conflicting interests of the different states were found to operate injuriously on many in their commercial transactions. The people were impoverished by the expenses of the war. Some were in debt. Creditors resorted to legal measures to enforce a collection of their demands, which involved many families in deep embarrassment. Peace was sighed for by the multitude, but there were yet no signs of its realization. An engagement had just taken place on Lake Erie. The American fleet was commanded by Commodore Perry, a young officer; that of the British under Com. Barclay, an old and experienced officer, who had served under Nelson. After a contest of three hours the Americans gained a complete victory, and captured every vessel of the enemy. Commodore Perry announced this victory in the following laconic style: "We have met the enemy, and they are ours." The Americans took six hundred prisoners, which exceeded their whole number engaged in the action. This battle was succeeded, several weeks afterwards, by another that was alike fortunate, between the American army under General Harrison, and the British under Gen. Proctor, in which they were defeated, and Detroit fell into the hands of the Americans. The success of this action may be entirely attributed, (under the favour of heaven,) to the abilities and military skill of General Harrison.

After General Hull had tamely surrendered to the British this important post, with the gallant force that composed the garrison, an event which spread consternation far and wide throughout the western country, and greatly increased the difficulty and arduous nature of Gen. Harrison's duties, he immediately organized the brave troops under his command, and commenced a course of rigid discipline, and military trainings, with the confident hope of retrieving the consequent disasters of this proceeding.

The American army advanced in order of battle, and were in the immediate neighbourhood of the enemy; the reconnoitering parties brought in intelligence of the dispositions Proctor had made, wherein he had committed an irretrievable error in ranging his regular soldiers in order, and extending his line by placing the files at a distance of three or four feet from each other. Harrison, with the rapid decision of an able general, instantly availed himself of the error of his opponent. The extended and weakened line of the enemy, could offer but a feeble resistance to the charge of his gallant troops, who dashed forward at the earnest solicitation of the people of the territory,--and with the public expression of the most flattering approbation, on the part of the chief executive;--till at length they gained a complete victory.

The various and arduous duties of the governor of Indiana, required, for this office, a man of very superior abilities--one possessed of stern integrity and prudent moderation, accompanied by the most unwavering firmness. Such a man Governor Harrison, in the long course of his administration, fully proved himself to be. And in acting his part as a general he merits no less the applauses of his countrymen, in training and leading their armies to victory. The nervous and impassioned eloquence, and classical felicity of illustration, with which he enforced his arguments, gained him much applause and influence,--and discovered his abilities to be of the highest order, blended with the truest republican principles;--in which were manifested an ardent zeal for the good of his country, and an earnest desire to serve her best interests. Though vested with unusual powers, both as governor and general, he was never known during the whole of his command, to exercise his authority in an unjust or oppressive manner. His measures were energetic but always qualified by his characteristic moderation and humanity, joined with integrity, prudence, and capacity for civil government. Many high encomiums were lavished upon him by those whose friends and neighbours had participated in this campaign, and who were consequently familiar with its details, and with the merits of their commander.

And Detroit is destined to be remembered, as the place of the battle ground of one of the most remarkable and decisive actions that took place during the late war.

Shortly after this action was over, Bonville, who was one among the soldiers, returned to New-York. He furnished plausible reason, and obtained a furlough from his commanding officer, for leave of absence. In the meantime, he thought again to visit Alida; he had at present a double motive again to address her,--and if he should prove successful, her expected fortune would make him ample amends for what he had squandered away in scenes of folly. And if the father of Theodore had become a bankrupt by misfortune, he had now almost become one by dissipation and extravagance.

Albert had been extremely busy through the day, and was just returning home from his store in Pearl-street one evening, when he met Bonville in Broadway on his way to his father's. He accosted him in a very friendly manner, and then interrogated him by numerous questions concerning the family,--and very inquisitively with regard to his sister. Albert made no reply that gave him any particular satisfaction. When they arrived at the house, they found no company except Mr. More. Alida was truly shocked and surprised at this unexpected visit from Bonville, who she had no idea was in town. After making to her his compliments, and expressing his pleasure at finding her well, he by degrees drew her into a conversation which lasted the greater part of the evening. He offered an ill-timed consolation for the absence of Theodore, and affected much regret,--although he said his case was not as deplorable as that of many others, as he was still among the living. That though he was a person he could not esteem, still he had felt so far interested in his welfare, as to make particular inquiries how the British were accustomed to treat their prisoners. He then gave some dark intimations against his general character, which could not fail to throw over the mind of Alida a deep dejection.

She was now apprised of the fate of Theodore:--She was unable to suppress the feelings of sorrow, that these words of Bonville had excited. She remained silent; wholly engrossed by the confused thoughts and sad ideas, that arose in succession in her mind, till at length she became regardless of all around her.

The penetrating eyes of Mr. More were fixed upon her during this conversation. He seemed wholly insensible to every other object. He was apprehensive that her heart was insensible to the strong affection that pervaded his own,--and he thought should she prove incapable of loving like himself, and should become devoted to another, thoughts he could scarcely endure,--though they sometimes impressed the idea that she might never be interested in his favour. Hope would again flatter him with the pleasing thought, that her bosom may have been fraught with congenial feelings, and her heart beat with sensations even more fervent than his own. Her image filled his waking thoughts, and disturbed with visionary happiness his sleeping hours,--yet it seemed to his devoted mind the love of merit alone; and he imagined that while she was happy, he could never be altogether otherwise.

After Mr. More and Bonville had taken leave, and her parents had retired to rest, Alida remained by the fire-side till a late hour. She was meditating on recent circumstances, on the many late trying events which had crowded so rapidly that they could scarcely be said to succeed each other, and which had given so great variety to her life, that for years had rolled on in the same peaceful, unvaried course. She felt displeased at Bonville for his insinuations concerning Theodore, which were ungenerous and ill-natured,--while he seemed to flatter himself with the idea that she would become forgetful of him. He had hitherto yielded to every selfish propensity, without once seriously reflecting on its consequences to himself or others. His understanding, warped by prejudice, and without control, often misled him, and the superiority an elevated station gave him caused him to neglect to practice those better principles of which his nature might have been capable. His pride would suffer to see Alida united to another, therefore he was determined not to relinquish her. He concluded that finally she would look upon Theodore with indifference, and become favourably disposed towards himself; while his regard for her should prove unchangeable. That, unacquainted as she was with the world, she would at length be brought to accede to his wishes. That his rhetoric operating on her inexperience would ultimately influence her in his favour.

Chapter XVI.

"Dejection pales thy rosy cheek, And steals the lustre from thine eye; The minutes of each tedious hour, Are mark'd by sad anxiety:

"And all thy soft, endearing smiles, That spoke with such expressive grace, Alas! are fled, and only care Is seen upon that pensive face."

The sublime works of nature had shed abroad their cheering influences, and the mild and salubrious breezes of spring had succeeded to the blustering gales of winter. The parents of Alida made preparation to return to the country. Alida's father was declining in health. He had imparted to his son his wish for him to close and settle his mercantile affairs in the city, (as the times were dreary,) and return to the paternal estate. In the meantime, Albert's assistance was necessary to alleviate his father, as he was now advanced in years, and had principally relinquished all public business, except attending to its calls only when requested in cases of emergency.

Mr. Bolton had been with the family several days, and attended them on board the steamboat. One would scarcely suppose that so interesting an exterior as his, blended with highly polished manners, should not have made some impression on the mind of Alida if her heart had been disengaged. Besides, he was a person too amiable not to be esteemed. His ideas with regard to Alida were altogether sanguine. He believed, as soon as he should ask the consent of her parents, he would easily obtain his wishes. He considered his own fortune already sufficient, without seeking more in the din of business. And he possessed many other advantages which pleaded in his favour. With these hopes of assured success, he made proposals to her father. The manner in which her father replied to him was altogether discouraging, which excluded the hope of his ever gaining the hand of his daughter by his consent. This denial was a sensible cause of chagrin to Mr. Bolton, but yet it did not discourage him.

The impatience sometimes of obtaining a thing which is refused to us, renders it still more desirable, and the heart is never in a greater flutter than when it is agitated with the fear of losing the object it most wishes to gain. Moreover, he believed that Alida was already interested in his favour, and he determined to suggest to her, the first opportunity, the plan to elope with him, and thus put it out of the power of her father to impede their happiness.

The day was calm and serene, and the air invigorating. The steam-boat floated slowly upon the waters in monotonous movement. There was music on board. A company of militia were going to the village of ----, where they usually paraded the town for several hours, took dinner at the hotel, and then returned again to the city.

Alida remained on deck nearly the whole way, to be a spectator of the various, beautiful landscapes that presented themselves on the river, particularly at this season of the year. A gentle breeze sprung up as they passed the little islands at the entrance of the bay, on whose glassy surface the sun shone with meridian splendour, illustrating the peculiar beauty of the diversified scenery. In the course of a few hours they arrived at the village of ----, where they obtained a conveyance to take them on to their family residence, where they arrived some time in the afternoon.

Although all nature was smiling around, and the variegated landscape never appeared more enchanting, birds of every description were seen chirping on the spray, and the trees resounded with their sportive melody, and Alida might still have been happy if she had never become acquainted with Theodore; yet while she had the appearance of serenity, she still cherished a secret uneasiness. She had never received any intelligence concerning him since they had last parted. She imagined herself altogether forgotten, as Bonville had frequently suggested. Besides, he had represented Theodore as worthless. Harrassed and oppressed by a thousand different conjectures, she could scarcely support herself under them with any degree of resignation.

In this frame of mind, in serious meditation, she took a seat by the window. The sun was declining slowly beneath the horizon to gladden other regions. The spire of the village church was tipped with gold, and the resplendent rays reflected from the window dazzled the eye. Above was the azure vault variegated with fleecy clouds; beneath was nature's verdant carpet. The little songsters of the adjoining grove were paying their tribute of praise in melodious strains. The bleating of the lambs, and the lowing of the milky train, re-echoed from the fields and valleys; while the gentle murmuring of the water-fall at the mill, with its rumbling cadence over the dam, was heard at a little distance. "How still is nature," said Alida. "The sun has withdrawn his radiance, yet the gleam from yonder western sky bespeaks him still at hand, promising to return with his reviving warmth when nature is refreshed with darkness. The bay is already beginning to be silvered over by the mild rays of the queen of night. Gently she steals on the world, while she bestows on us her borrowed splendour. She lights the wandering traveller, she warms the earth with gentle heat. She dazzles not the eye of the philosopher, but invites him to contemplate and admire. Scarcely a breeze is stirring; the shadow of each tree remains undisturbed; the unruffled bay and river glide smoothly on, reflecting nature's face. Again the attention is drawn, and the eye wanders to yon vast concave, where the mind follows in silent wonder, wandering among the planets, till, struck with beauty of the whole, it acknowledges 'the Hand that made it is divine.'

"Surely," said Alida, "all nature conspires to calm the mind, to restore tranquillity, to soften eve