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Albert and Eliza

by Isaac Mitchell

Poughkeepsie, N.Y., Political Barometer. Vol. I, No. 1, (whole No. 1), June 8, 1802, through Vol. I, No. 6 (whole No. 6), July 13, 1802)

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: This text has been transcribed, as accurately as possible, from the original newspaper publication of the story from June 8 through July 13, 1802, in the Poughkeepsie weekly newspaper Political Barometer, then owned and edited by the author Isaac Mitchell. We have also included an issue-by-issue synopsis of the plot. Apparent typographical errors, and some non-standard spellings, have been identified by "[sic]" placed after them. Where letters, or necessary punctuation, appear to be missing, they have been inserted between [square brackets].
          Albert and Eliza was picked up by other newspapers, and then pirated as a separate work. Mitchell referred bitterly to this piracy, though without details, in his NOTE at the end of Alonzo and Melissa, to which readers are referred. Still later in 1812, probably after Mitchell's death, it appears to have been pirated again in Russel Ladd, The History of Albert and Eliza; to which is prefixed, The Cruel Father... [a clear reference to Alonzo and Melissa] (Philadelphia: Printed for R. Ladd, 1812). Other than that, and unlike Alonzo and Melissa, this story has remained virtually unknown, and so far as I know has not been discussed by literary critics. But it deserves to be considered in connection with that much longer and better-known work.
          Isaac Mitchell had joined Jesse Buel to found the Political Barometer, which was a successor to the Guardian which had been published for several years by Jesse Buel in partnership with Nathaniel Joyner.
          Some months after the appearance of Albert and Eliza, the Political Barometer published a poem with the same name, by a reader of a pirated version, which we have included at the end of the story.
                    Hugh MacDougall, Secretary, James Fenimore Cooper Society.



NUMB. 1.}               POUGHKEEPSIE, TUESDAY, JUNE 8, 1802               {VOL. I.

[No.1; June 8,1802, p. 4]


The public are assured that the principal incidents in the following story are literally true. They were transacted more than one hundred years ago, and have never before appeared in print.

IN the early settlement of North-America, the only son of a gentleman of Long-Island devoted his addresses to a young lady of the neighborhood, and as no impropitious impediments opposed their union, the marriage day was appointed under the most flattering auspices. Previous, however, to the consummation of that event, the father of the young man received advice from England, his native place, that by the death of one of his predecessors he became the rightful heir to a considerable inheritance, and that he himself, or some immediate branch of this family, should appear to substantiate the claim. As the old gentleman was considerably advanced in age, and his health in decay, it was concluded to send his son, whose name was Albert, and that his marriage should be suspended until his return. This was a heavy stroke to the young lovers, but as the circumstance was indispensable, they submitted to the decision, and Albert immediately prepared for his voyage, expecting to return in about one year. The parting scene was of the most tender nature; but with the greatest confidence in each other's fidelity, they looked forward to the time when they should, happily, again meet, and all past sorrows be lost in days of uninterrupted felicity.

Albert took his departure for England, and Eliza (the name of the lady) from Montauk-Point, pursued the ship with her eyes, until it mingled with the blue glimmer of distance, and, lessening, gradually receded, first the hulk, then the sails, till at last the whole was totally lost beneath the convexity of the billowy main. She stood a long time anxiously gazing at the place where the ship disappeared, and at length pensively returned to her father's house.

Eliza was a girl whose feelings were alive to all the refinements of sensibily [sic]. In her present situation, therefore, melancholy superceded her high-wrought expectations of happiness, which manifested itself in gloomy manners and rigid seclusion. She would frequently wander along the shores of Montauk, and from its extremest point would rivet her eyes to that distant part of the ocean where the ship which bore her Albert away was lost to her view. Here fancy presented innumerable barriers to the completion of her hopes. Perhaps the ship in which Albert sailed was already buried in the waves. Perhaps the fatigues of the sea, or some deleterious fever had forever closed the eyes of him she loved. Or, perhaps, absence and the charms of some trans-atlantic beauty might dissever his attachment from the maid of his vows, and bind them to more advantageous prospects. These reflections tended to sink her still deeper in dejection. Her health became impaired, and her friends, after vainly attempting to arouse her attention to visible and cheerful objects, resolved to send her to reside awhile at the city of New-York, with her father's brother, hoping that change of situation might produce a change of ideas, and she again be induced to realize the blessings of society. To this arrangement she consented, more out of complaisance to the solicitation of her friends, than from her own choice.

At New-York, objects widely different from any which Eliza had before experienced, presented themselves, which, in some measure, awoke her from the stupor of thought. She had never, before, seen the gay and busy world. So sudden a removal from scenes of rural simplicity, to the theatre of active and brilliant life, could not fail to illuminate the dark mists of sadness, which, by degrees, gave place to more lucid ideas.

There were no stage-representations in New-York, at this early period; but there were fashionable amusements, and polite company. To these was Eliza frequently introduced, and every effort was made, by her new acquaintance, to render her situation pleasing and interesting. Her uncle was one of the settlers who came over from England with a splendid fortune, and classed [sic] with the first characters in the city; consequently the best company resorted to his house. He had a daughter of about the same age with Eliza, and a son something older. Nothing was wanting, on their part, to promote the happiness of their friend, and by all the visitors she was held in the highest consideration. Her bosom felt the pleasing powers of social reciprocity, and the discordant thrill of anguish more feebly vibrated the chords of affection. While she wandered along the margin of the shore, and beheld the distant approaching sails, as they dimly appeared to rise out of the farthest verge of the ocean, she breathed a sign to the remembrance of former joys, fondly anticipated a speedy return of those happy hours which would, effectually, obliterate every vestige of former cares and anxiety, and became tranquil.

(To be continued.)

[No. 2; June 15, 1802, p. 4]

AMONG those who visited at the house of Eliza's uncle, was a young gentleman of the name of Blake, who was nephew to the Governor of the province. Pleased with the manners and appearance of Eliza, he frequently attended her in public, and sometimes in company, only, of her cousins. He experienced, or fancied he experienced, greater happiness when in her presence, than he could any where else enjoy, and he became a more constant visitor to the family.

Blake was considerably older than Eliza. He had seen some gay days in England, which place he had left soon after the death of his father, by whose will he became possessed of an ample fortune, and came over to America with his kinsman on his appointment to the supreme magistracy of the colony. He was a youth of fashionable taste, of easy address, engaging manners, and of an agreeable appearance. He was one of those characters who are distinguished by the appellation of a Lady's man. He had no idea of forming any serious connection with Eliza; but he esteemed her innocent gaiety, admired her beauty, and was charmed with those indescribable graces which are ever the attendants of symetry [sic] of form, sincerity of mind, and a vivacious, uncontaminated simplicity of manners. Eliza received his addresses as he designed them. She suffered him to attend her because she was willing to be attended by some person of distinction whenever she appeared in public; and to visit her on account of the respect with which he was treated, both in her uncle's family, and by all with whom he was acquainted. Balls were the principal amusements, and at these he was, with few exceptions, her partner. Her being ushered into notice by so conspicuous a character as Blake, gave her general eclat among the gentlemen, and caused her to become an object of envy to some of the ladies. It would be vanity to say that such flattering attention did not, in some degree, elate the heart of Eliza, for what bosom is there which is totally unsusceptible to the fascinating powers of adulation!

Blake had been particular to a Miss Smith, a lady of distinction in the city, who now became neglected, and consequently piqued, by his attendance upon Eliza. She considered her as a rival, and of course became her enemy. Of this, however, both her pride and her interest prevented her from making an avowal. She put on the appearance of the sincerest friendship to Eliza, and assiduously participated in her most retired intimacies.

The fame of Eliza had also raised up a serious rival to Blake. A Mr. Palmer, a man of gallantry, obsequiously bowed to her charms, and arduously strove to ingratiate himself into her favor. Blake and he seldom met, unless in public, but Palmer sought every opportunity, in the absence of his competitor, to engage her attention, and, if possible, diminish the preference and esteem which he supposed she entertained for Blake; this stimulated the latter to a more vigilant perseverence [sic]; his visits to Eliza became more frequent, and his attention more sedulous.

He waited on her one evening to offer himself as her partner at an approaching ball, and found, to his extreme vexation, that her hand had been previously engaged to Palmer. He did dot [sic] remonstrate; this would have been improper; besides, he could claim no privilege so to do. He soon took leave and withdrew, in chagrin and disappointment.

At the assembly Blake danced with Miss Smith, but his spirits were sunk, and his natural vivacity depressed. On this he was rallied, and he complained of indisposition. Miss Smith and Palmer well knew what antidote would have removed the malady.

The next day he seriously consulted his situation. He found himself under the controul of an unconquerable passion; a passion which, like the electric fluid, finds no restraint but in the object of its attraction, or in its own dissolution. What was to be done? Was not she who had raised this tempest in his bosom worthy of honorable proposals? Was it not probable she would accept them if made in an honorable way?--Blake knew nothing of Albert, or of her being under any prior engagements. But were there no other barriers to a union with Eliza? There were, and serious ones too.--Barriers which none except himself and one other person were acquainted with, on this side the Atlantic. Were these impediments insurmountable? Could they not be removed? No plan which had hitherto presented itself, appeared of sufficient validity to enable him to surmount the obstacle.

Under the pressure of these reflections, he wandered, when evening came, along the banks of the Hudson, above the city, where the elms and the willows, on the verge of the river, cast a dun, umbrageous shade. The sun was retiring behind the blue western hills, while the brazen summits of the steepled fanes, alone, held the last gleam of his reluctant ray. "The breeze's rustling wing, was in the tree," and the faintly murmuring wave dashed in melancholy cadence upon the pebbly shore. Twilight gathered around, when he heard voices and footsteps approaching. They came on--it was Eliza and her cousins, who were returning from participating the beauties of nature in an evening walk. He joined them, and the gloom which hovered about his mind was, in some measure, dissipated.

As the moved slowly on towards home, the company walked on, and Eliza and Blake were left together. She observed that an unusual pensiveness hung about him, and gaily enquired the occasion. This presented a fair opportunity for an ecclaircissement [sic]. The beforementioned [sic] obstacles rushed across his mind, but Eliza was present, and the consequences vanished. He, therefore, freely disclosed his situation, as it respected her; told her that in attending to her from complaisance, his happiness had become seriously interested. That on her determination all his future prospects rested; and that if her feelings did not forbid a reciprocal return of affection, he stood ready to proffer her his hand and his heart.

Had a peal of thunder burst, in sheeted flame, from the heavens, it would not have shocked Eliza more than did this solemn declaration. She had never considered any attention which she had received from the gentlemen, other than the officious, refined politeness, which is common to the superior walks of life. She had esteemed Blake as her friend, but never thought of him as a suitor; and although she was pleased with him as an obsequious gallant, yet when set in comparison with Albert, whose likeness still glowed upon her heart in as lively colours as ever, he sunk into deformity. She wished not to realize the idea that any person except Albert should entertain, for her, a more exalted sentiment than that of friendship and esteem. To the professions of Blake, therefore, she could make no answer, which, had she attempted, her sensations would have choked her utterence [sic]. She hastily withdrew her hand, which he made but a feeble effort to detain, quickened her step and soon overtook the company. Blake attended her to her uncle's door; as he withdrew he whispered her, "am I to receive no answer?" She hesitated, and then with vehemence replied, "Sir, it is impossible," and immediately retired to her chamber.

(To be continued.)

[No. 3; June 22, 1802, p. 4]

ELIZA flung herself upon her bed, but without any inclination to sleep. Her spirits had been agitated, and it required time to compose them. She saw herself in a dangerous situation. If Blake was sincere, which she had no reason to doubt, when comparing his conduct with his declaration, she knew not to what lengths the matter might be carried, nor how deeply she might be involved in the consequences. She therefore resolved to write to her father, desiring him to send for her home; this determination gave some relief to her mind, she became less restless, and at last fell asleep.

In the morning she was aroused by her aunt, who brought her a letter which the carrier had just handed in; as soon as she fixed her eye upon the superscription, she knew it to be from Albert. She broke the seal and found it contained the particulars of his voyage to England, and the kind reception he met with from the friends of his father's house. His business was nearly completed, and he expected in about three months, from the date of his letter, to set sail for America. This letter had been written upwards of two months, and was dated nine months after he left America, so that the time had nearly arrived when he was to leave England. Albert, in his letter, had breathed out the tenderness of his soul to Eliza, lamented their long absence, and the wide distance which separated them, and finally, pourtrayed [sic] in vivid colourings the joys of their expected meeting.

The letter banished almost every trace of sorrow from the bosom of Eliza. She reconsidered the affair of Blake, and was surprised that it gave her so much anxiety. He had complimented her charms--this was not uncommon.--She believed him to be actuated by generous principles, and that if he understood her situation, he would withdraw his attention. She therefore resolved, whenever a proper occasion should offer, to give him some intimation which might deter him from continuing his addresses. This, however, did not prevent her from writing a request to her father to permit her to return home.

Quite different were the feelings of Blake.--He had been repulsed where he had the most sanguine hopes of success. He had, hitherto, supposed himself not disagreeable to Eliza. Had he not occasion to believe she held him in preference?--What then could be the cause of her sudden alarm, and seeming disgust at his proposals? Nothing appeared more probable than that some other person had, recently, secured her affections, and this person could be no other than Palmer. This conclusion pierced his soul--Among all the embarrassments in love, none strike so deep--none wound so keenly, as the idea of a rival. Eliza's reply on Blake's pressing for an answer, was, "it is impossible." But what was impossible? Was it impossible that she could then come to a determination? or that she could accede to his proposals? The former he wished to hope; the latter he had great reason to fear.

To extricate himself from the torture of suspense, he determined to see her that day, and, if possible, to bring her to a decision. As he entered the door of her uncle's house, he met Palmer, who had been to invite Eliza to ride out with him on the following day. They bowed to each other with distant civility, and Blake was admitted into Eliza's room, who happened to be alone. As he entered, an involuntary tremor siezed [sic] her, but it was momentary; with her usual cheerfulness, she desired him to be seated, and his confidence, which had forsaken him as he approached the house, returned.

Blake soon introduced the subject he came upon. He asked pardon for the discomposure his declaration had thrown her into, the preceding evening; but as his happiness depended upon the result, he desired her to be explicit. She told him that she esteemed him as a friend--thanked him for his former complaisance, but that both her feelings and her situation forbade her to encourage his addresses; that she was excited to deal thus frankly, from motives of delicacy to them both, but that she must consider herself excused from any further explanation.

So ingenuous a decision disconcerted every argument which Blake had prepared to enforce his suit. His mind became paralized [sic] and his tongue powerless. They both sat silent, and were haply relieved from a very embarrassing situation by the entrance of company. Blake immediately arose to depart; Eliza waited upon him to the door; he disconsolately took her hand, bowed, and bade her good night.

Palmer had not been more particular to Eliza, than to several other ladies of the city; consequently his attention was less to be feared. She at first declined his offer to ride out with him, the day following, but he solicited, and she finally consented. He came at the appointed hour, which was about three o'clock in the afternoon--Eliza was handed into the coach, and they drove out towards Kingsbridge. It was that season of the year when decaying nature was fast sinking to her wintry tomb. As they passed along, Eliza was highly interested in the picturesque scenes which the landscape exhibited. The yellow splendor of the fading foliage; the lofty grandeur of the rugged mountain; the solitary lapse [sic] of the winding stream, as it murmured along the hollow valley; the rustling sound of the lingering gales, as they idly pursued the withering leaves over the variegated fields; the plaintive melody of the autumnal birds, all conspired to thrill her bosom with a pleasing, melancholy sensation. They passed Kingsbridge, and drove a little distance into the country, where they stopped for refreshment, and loitered away the time until towards evening. As they were about to return, they perceived a shower arising. They hastened into the carriage, and Palmer ordered the postillion to drive on with speed. They passed Kingsbridge and came very near to Haerlem before the shower overtook them. There were, then, but few scattering houses in this place, and but one inn of any respectability. Here Palmer proposed to stop, to which, as the storm became furious, Eliza agreed. They were shown into a decent room; Palmer ordered wine and a dish of fruit. The violence of the storm did not abate until sometime in the evening. Eliza grew very uneasy, particularly as she observed that Palmer drank very freely of wine. She intreated that they might proceed; he raised objections; they storm had not entirely ceased--when it had they could soon reach town. He drank more wine; she perceived he became intoxicated, and insisted upon going on immediately. He went out as though to give orders for the necessary preparations, but soon returning, and seating himself beside her, "Dear Eliza," said he, "the postillion is asleep, the evening is advanced, the roads are wet and slippery; you must content yourself to stay here until morning, and then, my blooming charmer, I will, with pleasure, convey you to your friends." Thus saying, he clasped her, with ardor, to his breast; she screamed for assistance; two men rushed into the room and disingaged [sic] her--it was the inn-keeper and Blake! Palmer attempted to resist them, and ordered them to leave the room; Blake asked Eliza whether she was detained there against her will, she answered that she was; he removed her immediately from the room; as they were going out, Palmer seized her arm and attempted to rescue her, but he was thrust back by Blake with so much force that he fell, with violence, to the floor. "If you can be found to morrow," said he to Blake, as he arose up, "I shall consider it my duty to acknowledge my obligations for this politeness." "You are not unacquainted that I reside at the government house," replied Blake, and Palmer withdrew to his room.

Blake engaged the inn-keeper to furnish a servant with a horse and chaise, to convey Eliza to town. He mounted his horse and rode behind until they arrived at her uncle's; he handed her into the door, tenderly bade adieu, and retired to his lodging.

(To be continued.)

[No. 4; June 29, 1802, p. 4]

PALMER was not a libertine in principle. He felt no extraordinary attachment to Eliza. He esteemed her as a gay, fashionable and lovely girl, but had formed no dishonorable designs respecting her. He had not even an intention of tarrying all night at the inn in Haerlem, when driven thither by the storm; but being warmed with wine, which, at times, he was accustomed to use with too much freedom, added to the idea of so enchanting a girl in his possession, his senses became perverted, and his reason overpowered by the arbitrary influences of passion. It is not, however, probable that he would have proceeded to any indecencies; a repulse would have awed him into reverence; but the delicate feelings of Eliza, abhorrently alive to every appearance of indecorum, could not brook an advancement beyond the most strict bounds of civility. Blake, under the melancholy burden of disappointment, unconscious of the excursion of Eliza and Palmer, had rode into the country merely for amusement, and on his return had alighted at the inn, a short time after them.----This accounts for the incidents of the Haerlem affair.

The next morning, Blake arose at an early hour, determining, as soon as convenience would permit, to call at the house of Eliza's uncle, to [learn] something concerning the affair, of which, [as yet,] he knew but little. He supposed that her attachment to Palmer was the principal cause of his rejection, and he secretly rejoiced at the prospect of a rupture between them. About nine o'clock he went to the house. Eliza was already up, and as soon as she understood he was there, desired to see him. She related to him every minute circumstance of the preceding day's adventure, while he endeavored to represent the conduct of Palmer in the most odious light. Blake was invited to stay to breakfast, which invitation he accepted, and shortly after took his leave, complimented with the polite obligations of the family, and the graceful acknowledgments of Eliza.

When he returned home, a servant was waiting at the door, from whom he received the following note.

To J. BLAKE, Esq.


          "You must undoubtedly have expected to hear from me before this time. You will accept a reasonable excuse--I slept late, and have but this moment arrived in town. A few hours cannot be considered too long to examine our pistols, and prepare for, possibly, serious events. I, therefore, take the liberty to request you to meet me, with a single friend, in the fields, one mile north of the town, just back of the new building, precisely at 5 o'clock in the evening.--Should you have any objections to these arrangements, you will please to notify me.

          "Yours, &c.                          S. PALMER."

9 O'clock, Thursday morning.

To which Blake returned the following answer.

To S. PALMER, Esq.


          "I shall punctually attend to the arrangements pointed out in your note of this morning.                    "I am, &c.                     J. BLAKE."

Thursday morning, 11 o'clock.

Blake immediately made the necessary preparations, and at the hour appointed, they were both upon the spot. They agreed to fire, on a signal given by the seconds, at the distance of ten paces. They took their stands, in a cool and deliberate manner, and at the signal given, Palmer fired, and Blake received the ball in his breast. He staggered, but did not fall. A momentary pause ensued----

"Do you not intend to fire?" enquired Palmer.

Blake. Are you now satisfied?

Palmer. You are wounded!

Blake. I am.

Palmer. Is the wound mortal?

Blake. It is only a flesh wound.

Palmer. Then I am not satisfied.

Blake. I must then act in my own defence--They both fired, and Palmer fell. He rolled upon the ground, and expired with a single groan.

Blake fainted through loss of blood, but soon recovered. His wound, it is true, was only a flesh wound, but it was deep, and had opened an artery. Palmer was shot through the region of the heart. His body was removed to the new building, which was unoccupied, and secretly buried in the night. The connections of the parties hushed up the affair, and as no surgeon was called, no other persons were privy to the affair, except the seconds. It was given out that Palmer had fled, on account of a prosecution about to be set on foot against him by the friends of Eliza. Blake kept his chamber a few days, and again appeared in public.

Eliza considered herself under the highest obligations to Blake. He had extricated her from a dangerous dilemma; and although she could not receive him on the footing of a suitor, yet gratitude forbade her, totally, to refuse his visits. He was, therefore, frequently at her uncle's, and sometimes permitted to attend her abroad. His conduct, now, appeared disinterested. He did not attempt to renew his addresses, but behaved to her more like a guardian friend and brother, than a lover; and so generously candid were all his actions, that she finally admitted his visits without reserve.

Winter came, and the time had elapsed in which Albert was expected. Eliza had, one day, been reading his letter, when she was suddenly called away by her aunt, on some business. In her absence, Blake entered her room; Albert's letter lay open upon her dressing table; he hastily ran over the contents--he was thunderstruck! A crowd of chaotic ideas rushed into his mind. He found that Palmer had been only the ostensible barrier to his wishes, and although this obstacle was now removed, yet he had a more formidable one to encounter. But who was Albert? He had never even heard his name mentioned. Whoever he was, it was certain he had not yet returned. It was possible he never might return. Or if he should, it might not be so soon as was expected, and in that case, perhaps Eliza might change her mind; at least his own happiness demanded that nothing should be wanting, on his part, to influence her so to do. Blake hurried away without seeing Eliza, resolving to pursue such measures as future circumstances should require.

Eliza became dejected, as the months rolled away, after the time she had calculated for Albert to arrive. She framed a thousand excuses for this delay, and abandoned them almost as soon as framed. She had written to him, after receiving his letter, but had had no answer thereto; hence she concluded that he must be about to return, or he would have again written to her; and though gloomy presages often crossed her imagination, yet she consoled herself in assurances of his speedy arrival.

Blake was constantly inventing some new entertainment to divert Eliza. Balls, select parties and visiting were the amusements of the winter. As Eliza returned from a visit on evening, attended by Blake, she was agreeable surprized [sic] to find her father, who had just arrived, and had come, upon her request, to carry her home.

Eliza was highly pleased with the idea of returning to her family, and again enjoying the pleasures of her native shades; but when her father's business was made known, her cousins so earnestly urged her to tarry through the winter, that, with her father's leave, she consented. The old gentleman, upon an invitation, through Blake, waited on the Governor, and in a few days returned to Long-Island.

The winter passed away, and spring arrived, but no news from Albert. Eliza became melancholy, and could scarcely be prevailed upon to see company. One afternoon, as she, with her uncle's family and Blake, was sitting in the piazza, in front of the house, a well-dressed man approached, who, after politely complimenting the company, enquired if a gentleman of the name of Blake was there. Blake answered to the enquiry; The stranger said he had just arrived from England, and had the charge of a few letters, one of which was for him; he handed a letter to Blake, and then asked if post-offices were established in this country, saying he had a letter from a young gentleman in England to his father on Long-Island, which he had engaged should receive safe conveyance. "What is the gentleman's name?" asked Blake. He mentioned the name of Albert's father. "Is the young man about to return to America?" enquired Eliza's uncle. "I believe he will not soon return," answered the stranger; "He went over to take possession of an estate which descended to him from his ancestors, and which he obtained."--"You know him, then!" interrupted Eliza's aunt.--"Know him, madam! very well, indeed; he is my particular friend.--Had it not been for my advice, he would not so easily have made his fortune. A young lady, with thirty thousand pounds in her own power, fell desperately in love with him; he made some scruples, and talked of attachments in this country, but we soon jeered him out of such silly notions; he married the lady, and now figures away with his coach and six, among the first characters in London."

During this short narration, Eliza, with all the symptoms of the keenest anxiety, kept her eye fixed upon the speaker, until he mentioned the marriage of Albert, when, suddenly, a death-like paleness overspread her face, intermingled with flashes of glowing red; she was sinking from her seat, when her aunt took her arm and assisted her into the house, and the stranger departed.

(To be continued.)

[No. 5; July 6, 1802, p. 4]

FOR several days, Eliza did not leave her chamber, and could scarcely to prevailed upon to take any kind of nourishment. She gave herself up to keenest reflections, and the severest anxieties of grief, which,

----" Like a worm in the bud,
          "Fed on her damask cheek."

As the tide of sorrows gradually abated, she was left a monument of its ravages. On that countenance where joy and delight, late sported with a thousand varying graces, pale melancholy now sate [sic] enthroned, in gloomy silence. The wound which Albert's perfidy had inflicted in her bosom, was too deep for the balsam of time to heal.--Could it be possible he should prove thus faithless? Could he give that hand to another, which, with the most solemn adjurations, he had devoted to her? Could that heart become susceptible of other impressions, which once glowed only with her charms, and beat for her alone?--"Cruel fortune," she would say, "how wretchedly hast thou deceived him! Thy gold, thy tinsel, and thy splendors, have allured him from the paths of rectitude; for although he has given his hand to another, his heart is still with Eliza; and though he may, for a while, riot in luxurious dissipation, yet shall the pathos of repentance wring his bosom, when the gay, deceptive objects which now surround him, shall be stript of their false attire, and lose their delusive power to charm!"--Infatuated girl: thou has yet but partially experienced the fascinating influences of grandeur and of novel[t]y. Thy thoughts are innocent; deception finds no place in thy breast. Such was Albert when he left the peaceful shades of his rural dwelling. He loved, and his love was as sincere as thine. But so sudden a transition from the simple walks of Nature, to the most exalted refinements of Art; his immediate acquisition of property; frequent intercourse with fashionable circles; the long absence, and the wide distance which separated him from the maid of his early choice; and, above all, the delicate and irresistible attractions, and tender solicitudes of female blandishment, must, unless Albert possessed more than human firmness, weaken, at least, if not totally disengage, all prior attachments. This extenuation, however, did not present itself to the anguished mind of Eliza. She considered him as the murderer of her peace, and as the assassinator of all her future prospects of happiness. Recollection, and the disappointed delusions of anticipation, constantly harrassed [sic] her senses, and she languished under all the bitterness of the most poignant sorrow.

But the storm of grief began, at length, gradually to subside. Pride came to the assistance of disappointed hope, and a delicate resentment, prompted by a deep sense of injury, succeeded to sensations of the most ardent affection. Was Albert capable of such perfidious volatility?--Could he, in defiance of the most sacred obligations, and seemingly sincere professions, thus abandon her to misery and to wretchedness, for the paltry considerations of property and fame? Or was it not more probable that the brilliancy of new objects had raised a new passion in his bosom? Amid the constellated beauties of London, some one had been found whose charms and graces had dissolved the ties between herself and Albert, by changing his boasted sincerity into inconstancy, and rendering the simple Eliza, the object, perhaps, of ridicule and contempt; at least of cold neglect and inattention. Whatever was the cause, his affections were now, inviolably, the property of another, and she determinately resolved,

----"To drive him out from all her thoughts,
          "As far as she was able."----

After taking this firm resolution she became more composed, but was averse to receiving any kind of company. Blake had frequently called, and was told she was indisposed; but as soon as she was able to walk out, he was permitted to attend her. Their walks were, by her desire, in the most unfrequented parts of the city, and, generally, in the twilight of the evening. When she was not disposed to walk, he would frequently sit in her room, and read to her passages from some amusing book, which tended to exhilirate [sic] her spirits, detach her ideas from gloomy subjects, and lead them to the more brilliant fields of fancy. Sometimes she consented to ride out with him, a little distance from the city, in his coach. By such attentions he became her principal confidant; but she did not entrust him, or any other person, with the affair of Albert. Her uncle and aunt had some little knowledge of the circumstances; her cousins knew nothing of them.--Her indisposition was imputed to other causes; her aunt, however, had reasons for a different opinion.

About this time Eliza received a letter from her father, in which he desired her to inform him whether she wished to return home. In a postscript to the letter, it was mentioned that Albert's father, whose health had, for some time, been on a decline, was dead; that on an investigation of his accounts, his estate was found to be insolvent; that his property had been divided among his creditors, and that Albert's mother had gone to reside with one of her brethren upon the continent. Albert's return was mentioned as doubtful; Eliza's father knew of but one letter he had written to his parents, the contents of which he appeared to be unacquainted with. He, therefore, gently admonished her not to place so strong a confidence in distant and uncertain prospects as that her peace would be destroyed, should her expectations be disappointed.

This caution was unnecessary. Eliza had already experienced all the disappointment which her father's letter contemplated, and she had survived the shock of conflicting passions, which succeeded. She could not forbear dropping a tear over the ruins of Albert's family, but she did not feel that interest in the circumstances which she once would have done. To return home, at the present juncture, she had no inclination. Every object which there presented, would awaken feelings which she now wished might be obliterated. She therefore wrote to her father that, if consistent with his family arrangements, she would continue a while longer with her uncle.

While the summer passed on, Blake was indefatigable in his exertions to amuse Eliza; and, for this purpose, a continual round of entertainments was kept up. Excursions into the country, in coaches and on horseback; walking along the banks of the East and North Rivers, and barge-sailing on the harbor, were among the first diversions. As they were out on one of the last mentioned recreations, one pleasant afternoon, it happened that the barge in which were Eliza, Miss Smith, and others, lingered a little behind the rest. They were standing up; Miss Smith, in walking hastily along the boat, made a false step, and fell forcibly against Eliza, by which she was suddenly precipitated into the deep. A scream was raised by the ladies; Blake, who was in another boat, at a little distance, turned his eyes, and saw Eliza struggling with the waves. He immediately plunged into the water, and swam to he[r] relief. Before he reached the place, she had sunk, but as she arose he caught her, and, with much difficulty, conveyed her safely to the barge. This accident discouraged Eliza from again adventuring upon the water.

Some time after this, as Blake was sitting with Eliza, in her apartment, he addressed her as follows:--"You cannot be insensible, madam, that it is with the highest pleasure I have been permitted to devote some little services to you; indeed, I can truly say, that since I became acquainted with you, I have experienced more real happiness than I ever before enjoyed. But the time has now arrived, when a continuation of these services may, as it respects yourself, be considered improper. I am set down as your admirer: If I continue my attendance, it may prevent you from receiving offers more agreeable to your mind; and, what is more, it may, as to the fallacy of public opinion, hazard your reputation, which is far dearer to me than my own. There is, therefore, but two alternatives, and these depend on your own choice. The first is, to break off all connection instantly; in this case I shall leave America immediately, and strive, by travel and change of objects, to divert a hopeless passion; for, when banished from you, I shall never more see a moment of real comfort.--The other is, that you accept my hand, which, with all the powers of my soul, shall ever be devoted to render your situation as happy as this life will admit. I will now leave you, that you may think of the subject, and will call to-morrow evening for your answer." He then withdrew, and Eliza was left to her own meditations.

Eliza felt the candor of this declaration. It was ingenuous--it was honorable. Blake had been, to her, the sincerest friend. He had once snatched her from the verge of death, at the risk of his own life--once, from that which, perhaps, would have been worse than death. He was a character held in high estimation--his property large--his connections respectable. Her father was a man of but moderate income; the time might be near when he would be no more, and then where was she to look for a guardian! She had no brother, and only two sisters, who were very young. Affection, it is true, she had none to bestow; but if ever she thought of connecting herself to any one, was it probable she would find a person of purer principles than Blake? She determined, however to do nothing rashly, and to take proper time before she gave an answer.

When Blake called, the following evening, she told him that so important an affair demanded serious consideration. That its consequences must embrace a variety of objects, and therefore some time would be requisite; that, for the present, she thought it advisable for him to withdraw his visits; and that, in one month from that time, she would give him a decisive answer. Blake acknowledged the propriety of these remarks, and after acceding to the plan, retired.

Eliza laid the affair before her uncle and aunt, who highly recommended Blake, and advised her, by all means, not to reject so fair an opportunity, as they expressed it, saying there were few ladies in the city, but who would think themselves much honored by being placed in her situation.

Eliza stepped into a milliner's shop, one day, and was obliged to wait for the following discourse to be ended, between the milliner and a strange lady, before she could be waited upon.

Milliner. Married, do you say, and to a lady of fortune in London?

Stranger. Not only to a fortune, but to a lady of family, and one of the first beauties in England.

Mil. And keeps a coach?

Stran. A coach and livery servants; and when I left London, about two months ago, there was talk of his purchasing a title.

Mil. Well, this is a strange business; I knew the family of the *******'s (here she mentioned Albert's family name) very well when I lived on the Island; they were always exceeding clever bodies; it has happened well for this young man, for his father died not worth a groat.----Here she fixed her eyes upon Eliza, and supposing she wanted something out of her shop, the discourse was broken off. Eliza purchased the articles she wanted, and left the shop. "And is it thus," said she, as she returned home; "is Albert to become an English nobleman! The time will most assuredly come, when in tears of blood, he will mourn over his sacrilegious honors, withering in the dust."

The day which Eliza had set to give an answer to Blake, had now arrived--the longest month which he had ever experienced. Eliza informed him that she had concluded to accede to his proposals, provided her father's consent could be obtained. This answer fully compensated Blake for the anxieties under which his mind had for a long time labored. He immediately wrote to her father, and received for answer, that, as he had been well informed of Blake's situation, connections and character, he had no objections to the union.----As winter had now arrived, it was concluded to defer the nuptials until spring, when they were to be celebrated at her father's house.

At a ball, one evening, as Eliza and Miss Smith were sitting together, after the fatigues of a contra-dance, Miss Smith took Eliza's hand, pressed it with vehemence, and sighing deeply, "Eliza," says she, "I esteem and pity you; your innocence and your credulity, my dear girl, are soon to be wrecked upon the shoals of despair." "What means such as portentous prediction?" replied Eliza. "That you may hereafter know," answered Miss Smith, "but never from me." At this instant Blake joined them, which put an end to their conversation. Eliza supposed these observations proceeded from the disappointment which Miss Smith had experienced, as her regard for Blake was no secret. Eliza, however, related the circumstance to Blake, which she thought appeared a little to shock him, but he changed the discourse, and no farther notice was then taken of it.

Soon after this, Miss Smith disappeared.--Blake informed Eliza that she had gone to New-Jersey, on a visit to a friend, and would not return in a considerable time. Eliza thought it a little singular that she had never informed her of her intentions. But as Miss Smith had lately, in some measure, withdrawn her intimacies, Eliza imputed this reserve to the same cause which produced the conversation at the ball.

The winter passed away, and spring at length arrived, the time in which the Hymeneal rites were to be celebrated between Blake and Eliza. Preparations were, therefore, made for her journey home, in which she was to be attended by Blake and the family of her uncle. The night before they were to set out, Eliza dreamed she was riding with Blake in his coach, when a sudden flash of lightning issued from the heavens, followed by a loud peal of crashing thunder! the horses started and ran furiously forward towards a dangerous precipice, beneath which a raging torrent foamed among the rocks. She thought that she endeavored to disengage herself from the carriage, but in vain; they were hurried along, with amazing swiftness, to the top of the cliff, and were just upon the point of being hurled down, when a man, who appeared to descend thorough the air, seized Eliza by the arm and, in an instant, bore her, in safety, to the other side of the river, from whence she beheld the coach, with Blake and the horses, precipitated headlong from the tremendous height, and dashed to pieces on the rocks below. She awakened with a scream, and was rejoiced to find the scene illusory. The lineaments of the stranger's countenance were not entirely erased from her memory; they appeared familiar, but she could not recollect where she had seen the original. The consequences of the dream hung ominously upon her imagination; but the bright rays of the sun which now darted into her chamber, dispelled the gloom that hovered around her. She arose immediately, got ready for her journey, and at evening she, with her uncle's family and Blake, was at her father's house.

Scenes of tenderness ensued upon Eliza's return to her family. As it was but a few days before the intended nuptials, invitations were immediately sent abroad. Blake's friends soon arrived from New-York, among whom was the governor. On the afternoon of the day in which, at evening, the marriage was to be consummated, Eliza walked out alone, to contemplate the beauties of the spring. It was the latter part of the month of May. The air was embalmed with the fragrant odours of surrounding flowers, and the mingling melody of various birds echoed along the adjacent groves. She roved, she scarcely knew whither, until she was instinctively led to the shores of Montauk, and found herself, at last, upon the very spot where she stood when Albert's ship disappeared from her sight. It was now something more than three years since that time. She earnestly fixed her eyes upon the place; a tall ship was beating in for the port. The joys of past days rushed, like a torrent, upon her memory. She was suddenly aroused to a solemn sense of her desperate situation. The lightnings of conviction flashed, and the thunders of terror followed!--She was about to deceive a worthy character, by yielding him her hand, while her affections were dead to all things except a hopeless object. What was to be done? To advance was destruction!--to retreat--impossible! She hurried home, and strove to suppress contemplation, amidst the hilarity of the guests.

The moment at length arrived in which certainty must succeed to suspense and anxiety. Eliza trembled as she was led up before the priest; and she shuddered when the direction was given for joining hands.--At this instant a stranger was announced by the servant, who desired to be immediately admitted, as he had something of importance to communicate to Eliza's father. It was a critical time--he could not then be attended to. The stranger did not wait for complaisance--A pale and emaciated figure pressed through the crowd, and came near to the place where the ceremony was performing. Eliza's eye caught his countenance--it was the person who had assisted her in her dream! But what was her amazement, when, upon his advancing a little nearer, she perfectly recollected the fading features of the long lost Albert! She uttered a shriek of agony, and sunk, senseless, to the floor!

(Concluded in our next.)

[No. 6; July 13, 1802, p. 4]

The women flew to the assistance of Eliza: raised her up, and conveyed her to another room. The house was in confusion. No one knew the cause of her sudden illness. Albert was not even known to her father; he had but slightly noticed him, and amidst the disorder which now took place, he thought no more of him. When Eliza recovered, she desired that all might withdraw from her except her parents; this being done, she then informed them, that the stranger who had thus suddenly made his appearance was Albert. She desired her father to enquire his business, but by no means to admit him into her presence. Her father immediately went out, and found Albert traversing the hall, seemingly in much agitation. A short conversation took place; Albert requested to see Eliza. Her father told him that she had already refused to see him, but that he would again consult her, and if she consented, he should have no objections. He then left him, but soon returned, and informed him that Eliza was willing to see him, in the presence of her parents, to whom he wished to add another person, and this was Blake, who, her father observed, had now an undoubted right to be present, when any thing, of a personal nature, which concerned Eliza, was to be communicated. Albert entreated that he might be permitted to see her, for a few moments, according to her own stipulation, in the presence, only, of her parents. This her father granted, with a proviso, that Blake should be previously acquainted with it, which being done, and Blake, with some reluctance, agreeing to it, Albert was immediately introduced. Eliza was reclining upon a sofa; as he entered, a deep crimson suffused her cheeks, to which a livid paleness soon succeeded. Albert trembled--their eyes met--he hesitated--

Albert. (As he slowly approached the sofa) "Eliza!" She answered only by a deep sigh. A solemn pause ensued----

Albert. (With more earnestness, advancing still nearer, and sighing responsively) "Eliza!"

Eliza. "Albert!"

Articulation became suspended--they could not pronounce another word--their eyes spoke unuterable [sic] anguish. Eliza sunk upon her mother's bosom. Her father then addressed Albert: "You know, Sir, that I sanctioned your pretensions to my daughter, previous to your leaving America. Your long stay in England; your im[pli]cit silence, in this long absence, except in a [single] instance, added to the reports of your con[tracting] yourself in marriage in that country, have produced the events you now behold. There appears some mystery in this business; circumstances will not, as you see, admit an explanation at present, If you will call to-morrow morning, at ten o'clock, the matter shall be investigated.--My daughter's peace of mind lies near my heart; and although it is probable that what is already done cannot be retracted, yet it will not be amiss to know the truth." Albert would have replied; but as Eliza had only partially recovered from the shock she had received by his sudden appearance, and a sense of her critical situation, the least irritation might cause a relapse; he therefore retired, in much agitation.

Eliza's uncle had related to her father the particulars of the stranger's story, who presented the letter to Blake, as mentioned before. Hence, as he observed to Albert, he suspected some mystery attending the affair. Eliza, from Albert's manner and conduct, imagined she had been deceived, and her suspicions fell upon Blake. Albert's sentiments were the same. Blake was admitted into Eliza's room after Albert was gone; he did not, however, stay long; she wished to be alone, and in this her parents choose [sic] to indulge her. His feelings were wrought up to the highest pitch; Albert's unexpected return had rendered his situation peculiarly interesting, and his hopes of happiness exceedingly precarious. The guests were informed, that a sudden illness having seized Eliza, she was obliged to retire from the company; they, therefore, after partaking of the wedding feast, withdrew, except the friends of the parties, who were detained.

The next day, Albert came at the appointed hour, and was received again into Eliza's apartment, with her parents only. Her father then told him, that they were ready to hear any explanation or communication he wished to make.--Albert informed them, that after he had accomplished his business in England, he set sail for America; the second day after which they were taken by an Algerine corsair, carried to Algiers, and sold for slaves. Some of the ship's crew were redeemed, others died in slavery; Albert and four more were chained to the gallies [sic], where they continued for upwards of eighteen months; it happened that they were then picked up by a French vessel, which carried them, and the two Turks who were their overseers, to Bourdeaux [sic], from whence Albert took passage on board a merchantman for America. This was the ship which Eliza saw coming into port, the preceding afternoon; it arrived in the evening, and Albert, as soon as he came on shore, went directly to the house which formerly belonged to his father, and found it unoccupied; he called at one of the neighbors, who informed him of the circumstances of his family, his father's death, his mother's removal, and celebration of Eliza's wedding that evening; almost in a state of distraction he hastened to the house; his arrival there, and what ensued in consequence thereof, is already known.

Eliza then mentioned what the stranger had related at her uncle's, when he delivered Blake the letter, and what she had heard at the milliner's. These circumstances Albert was enabled to explain. A distant relation of his father, and of the same name, who lived on Staten-Island, had put in his claim, and obtained a part of the inheritance which fell to Albert; a young man of about Albert's age was the person sent over to claim the property, who had married to a fortune in London, and his father's family had removed to Long-Island some time before the stranger's arrival in New-York, who brought the letter, and the intelligence which had given Eliza so much uneasiness. The father of this young man had died, after removing on to Long-Island, which coincided with the milliner's story. Albert had mentioned this circumstance in the letter to his father; he had written to his friends but once, which was just before he sat [sic] out to return, after which he had not another opportunity.

Blake was now called in. A cold and distant salutation passed between him and Albert. The circumstances were particularly related to him, and his opinion requested. He replied, that the decision must rest, solely, with Eliza; he was not, himself, so mad as to desire a connection with a person whose affections were placed upon another. A question then arose, whether the marriage ceremony had not been so far executed, between Eliza and Blake, as to become legally binding. The officiating clergyman was sent for, who gave it as his opinion, that although the ceremony was not fully completed, yet, so far that he considered them really and firmly married. He advised, however, to send for the clergy of the city, to consult upon the affair. This was agreed upon, and two days after they were convened at the house of Eliza's father. The parties and their friends were present at the consultation, the result of which was, that nothing except death or divorcement could separate Blake and Eliza. Just as this decision was given in, a woman was announced, who desired to be admitted before the convocation. She was immediately introduced--it was Miss Smith!--Blake was agitated, and changed colour upon seeing her; she desired to be heard by the convocation, when the following circumstances were unfolded.

Blake's father, who was a nobleman, had been illicitly connected with a woman of family in a remote part of England, by whom he had two children, one son and a daughter. He afterwards married in London, but never had any other child by his wife except Blake, who, like the sons of noblemen in general, proved to be a wild youth. In making the fashionable tour of Europe, he became acquainted with a lady in Italy, whom he married. His father, indulgent to him in all things, sanctioned the marriage; but what was his astonishment when, on Blake's bringing home his lady, his father found it to be his own daughter, by the woman before mentioned, who had retired to Italy, where she died, leaving her two children, with all her property, which was considerable, to the care of a distant relation. This daughter, who was now the wife of Blake, was Miss Smith! To save the reputation of the family, their father projected sending them to America, until a separation could be legally obtained; he however died before this plan could be put in execution, and Blake came over to America with his kinsman, the governor, as has been related; the governor, however, knew nothing of the affair. Miss Smith soon followed, where they waited, under fictitious names, for the interference of some friends in England, to obtain a dissolution of the marriage, which had not yet been done. Miss Smith had not seen her brother since he was quite a youth, when he went to live with a friend at Paris. At parting they had exchanged miniature likenesses, solemnly engaging never to part with them till death. After Miss Smith's arrival at New-York, she resided with a relation of her mother, who knew nothing of her history. From the moment that Blake and she discovered their affinity, they broke off all connection; yet Miss smith could never realize the brother in the lover; hence she had endeavoured to frustrate his alliance with Eliza. She even acknowledged that she designedly pushed her from the barge, as has been mentioned, with an intent to drown her; for if she could consent to live in a state of separation, she could not submit to his connecting with another. By his persuasion, she had yielded to retire to Jersey; there she became acquainted with a gentleman who boarded at the house where she resided. One day, as they were walking together, a miniature fell from his bosom, which she immediately knew to be her own likeness.--Surprised and amazed, she desired to know how he came by it; he informed her that it once belonged to a friend, who was no more, and who, shortly before his death, deposited it with him. Miss Smith then told him that this person could have been no other than her brother. This led to an explanation, by which it was found that Palmer, who fell in the duel with Blake, was the brother of Miss Smith, and the son of Blake's father! and the person who now had the miniature in his possession, was Palmer's second in that duel. Palmer had come over from France, and resided at New-York, under a feigned name.--Supposing his sister in Italy, he had no idea of her appearing in New-York, in the person of Miss Smith. Palmer was so much altered from the miniature which she still had with her, that although she saw him frequently, she had not the least suggestion of his being her brother. On her discovering the melancholy circumstances of his death, she left her retreat in New-Jersey, and hastened to New-York, where she arrived about the time that the clerical gentlemen were sent for, to consult upon the validity of the marriage between Eliza and Blake. She immediately took the resolution of proceeding to Long-Island, and laying the whole affair before the parties, and the clerical convocation; and although she thereby involved her own character, yet she should do a peculiar service to the innocent.----This Miss Smith gave as an ostensible reason, but her principal design was to prevent Blake's connection with Eliza.

At the close of this narration, the whole assembly was filled with amazement, and looked upon each other with astonishment. Blake shuddered with horror. He knew that Miss Smith had a brother, whom he had never seen, but he never had a suggestion that this brother was Palmer. His emotions became insupportable. He had unconsciously married his sister; unknowingly slain his brother, and was now totally disappointed in the only object of his future felicity. He hastily arose from his seat--distraction had seized upon his brain--he cast a wild, despairing look around him, and rushed out of the door. In a few minutes the report of a pistol was heard in his chamber, the people ran up stairs; his door was locked; they burst it open; he lay dead upon the floor! The ball had pierced his temples, and he, probably, expired without a struggle.--Thus died a man who it may, with propriety, be said, was innocently guilty of offences at which human nature revolts with terror, and who, perhaps, had never been conscious of a single act which is generally denominated criminal. He possessed a noble, brave, and generous spirit; but the evil torrent of life bore too heavily upon him, and he fell a victim to the wayward and irresistible [sic] decrees of fate.

Some time after this Eliza and Albert married; he had deposited the property which he had obtained, in the English funds, which he now wrote for and received. They then took leave of the place where these scenes were transacted; they removed on to the main, a considerable distance up Connecticut River, where they settled in an unfrequented part of the country. Albert sent for his mother, who with tears of joy was received by her children, Albert and Eliza. There they passed their days, in as much happiness as this inconstant and dissatisfactory life will permit.--Their descendants were people of respectability, some of whom have held important offices under the government, others have been members of the legislature of Connecticut, and one of them has been honored with a seat in the American congress. The facts above related, have long been forgotten, except by the descendants of the family, or some persons to whom those descendants have related them.

[It will readily be perceived that the foregoing narrative is designed only as a delineation, or hasty sketch of that which, if in the hands of some person of leisure and abilities, might be made an interesting history. Should BROWN, the American novelist, or some other person possessing equal powers of taste and invention, take up the subject, he might, by the introduction of a few new characters, transferment of objects, and variation of scenery, form, perhaps, as interesting a novel as any of American manufacture.]

[No. 39; March 1, 1803, p. 4]

Albert and Eliza was republished in the Sun, after which the following poetic effusion appeared in that paper.



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ALONE on the sea-beaten shore
     Where plaintively whistles each gale,
And broken waves monstrously roar,
     ELIZA thus told her sad tale.

"Oh! why on the dismal commotion
     Of Atlantic's broad flood could you rove,
Oh! ALBERT, why trust in the Ocean.
     A life due to me and to Love.

"Three years since, my heart sure p[r]esaging,
     The fate which I fear is your own--
From Montauk I was pensively gazing,
    And lamentinng what sure is your doom.

"Oh why else on Albion's curst Isle
     You're, ELIZA, unhappy, forget?
Or why else not bless with a smile,
     The girl by all dangers beset?

"A BLAKE or a PALMER to thee!
     Avaunt the comparison vile;
From their arms to thy bosom I'll flee,
     And there rest from sorrow a while.

"But alas! my fond hopes are all vain,
     And ALBERT no more will return;
My bosom enjoys nought but pain,
     My eyes seem as made but to mourn."

Thus ELIZA had wander'd and wept,
     'Till she came to the point of Montauk,
Where the billows in peace coolly slept,
     As she cheerless enjoy'd her lone walk.

When from the far verge of the sky,
     A tall ship appear'd to her view,
As the billows pass'd silently by,
     They wafted the noise of the crew.

As the vessel approach'd to the shore
     Sad thoughts her fair bosom oppress'd,
But it bore to her ALBERT once more,
     And in mutual embraces they're bless'd.

In connubial wedlock they're join'd,
     Whose souls did congenially blend,
And in each, society find,
     A Husband, a Wife and a Friend.



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