Albert And Eliza


Albert and Eliza, a novel written by Isaac Mitchell, was serialized in the Political Barometer, a New York newspaper. Its first installment appeared on June 8, 1802, and it was published weekly until July 13, 1802. The author Mitchell not only wrote novels in the Political Barometer but was also the editor and publisher. Born near Albany, New York in 1759, he joined the newspaper business in 1798 in Poughkeepsie, New York. Though Mitchell worked with several newspapers, he was involved with the Political Barometer for the longest time from 1802 to 1806. The Political Barometer, a Poughkeepsie, New York weekly newspaper, was first named The Guardian when Jesse Buel and Nathaniel Joyner started the paper. The paper was an open advocate of Thomas Jefferson. When Mitchell, purchased Joyner’s interest in 1802 the paper was renamed to Political Barometer. By May of 1805, Buell’s name was removed as publisher and editor and Mitchell remained the sole proprietor of the newspaper, until 1806.

In its first publication on June 8, 1802, Mitchell and Buel state that the paper aims to incorporate both domestic and international materials and claims it is open to political discussion from either Federalist or Democratic-Republican parties. However, it was clear that Mitchell and Political Barometer was more in the favor of the Republicans. On September 16, 1806, Mitchell published his farewell editorial in his the Political Barometer. Within this farewell address, Mitchell stressed the important role that he and his newspaper played within the current political climate. As a fervent supporter of Republicanism, for Mitchell, nothing was more important and nothing was more vital than preserving his political party’s influence.

Although Mitchell went on to work as a newspaperman at other journals, it is during his time at the Political Barometer that his most popular works of literature were produced. In addition to Albert and Eliza, Mitchell also wrote and published two other longer novels: Melville and Phalez (1803), and Alonzo and Melissa (1804). Mitchell died from Typhus on November 26, 1812 and is buried in the Dutch Church Cemetery in Poughkeepsie, New York, next to his wife, Anah.

Mitchell’s three novels, Albert and Eliza, Melville and Phalex, and Alonzo and Melissa, were serialized and published in the Political Barometer. Alonzo and Melissa was later edited and published in a book with the title The Asylum in 1811 and now has become his most known novel. Aside from Mitchell’s editing and re-publication of The Asylum, his three novels at times have been ascribed to other authors. Albert and Eliza, for example, was pirated by Russel Ladd and was reprinted as a book in 1802. This was due to the common practice of literary piracy that took place in the early American republic. It is clear, however, from a note to his work Albert and Eliza that he is indeed the original author of all three Political Barometer works.

As with other serialized works, Albert and Eliza is also composed with complex subplots. The main story is about a young woman named Eliza’s fidelity and faithfulness to her betrothed Albert. Compared to the topics surrounding Albert and Eliza, such as fidelity, sentiment, and virtue, other characters raise rather proactive issues. For example, when it is revealed at the end of the novel that Blake, one of Eliza’s admirers, had married Ms. Smith without knowing the fact that she was actually his half-sister or when Blake kills his half-brother Palmer in a duel raise the issue of incest and fratricide. Along with the complex subplots, the lapses between each installment create curiosity and anticipation of the next story which is another feature of serialization. Whereas book readers can jump right into the ending, serialization creates terms between each episode and extends the reading experience to readers. Albert and Eliza also has intentional breaks between installments that heighten the tension in the story.

Works Consulted

Davidson, Cathy N. Revolution and the World: The Rise of the Novel in America. Oxford UP, 2004.

Fichtelberg, Joseph. “The Sentimental Economy of Isaac Mitchell’s The Asylum.” Early American Literature, no. 32, vol. 1, 1997, pp 1-19.

Giles, Paul. “Translantic currents and the invention of the American novel.” The Cambridge History of the American Novel. Ed. Leonard Cassuto, Cambridge UP, 2011, pp 22-36.

James Fenimore Cooper Society Website. “Isaac Mitchell: Collected Works”. James Fenimore Cooper society, Accessed 26 April 2017.

Platt, Edmund. The Eagle’s History of Poughkeepsie: From the Earliest Settlements 1683 to 1905. Platt and Platt, 1905.


The Legend.


[1. 8 June 1802]

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, de-
voted his addresses to a young lady of his neigh
bourhood, and as no unpropitious impediment op-
posed their union, the marriage day was appoint-
ed 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 rightful
heir to a considerable inheritance, and that he
himself, or some immediate branch of this fami-
ly, 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 sub-
mitted to the decision, and Albert immediately
prepared for his voyage, expecting to return in a-
bout one year. The parting scene was of the
most tender nature; but with the greatest confi-
dence in each other’s fidelity, they looked for-
ward to the time when they should, happily, a-
gain 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 pen-
sively returned to her father’s house.
Eliza was a girl, whose feelings were alive to
all the refinements of sensibily. In her present
situation, therefore, melancholy superceded her
high-wrought expectations of happiness, which
manifested itself in gloomy manners and rigid se-
clusion. 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 a-
way 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 tend-
ed to sink her still deeper in dejection. Her
health became impaired, and her friends, after
vainly attempting to arouse her attention to visi-
ble 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 solicitations of her friends,
than from her own choice.

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

There were no stage-representations in New-
York, at this early period; but there were fashi-
onable amusements, and polite company. To
these was Eliza frequently introduced, and every
effort was made, by her new acquaintance, to ren-
der her situation pleasing and interesting. Her
uncle was one of the settlers who came over from
England with a splendid fortune, and classed
with the first characters in the city; consequent-
ly the best company resorted to his house. He
had a daughter of about the same age with Eli-
za, and a son somewhat 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 power of social reciprocity, and
the discordant thrill of anguish more feebly vi-
brated the chords of affection. While she wan-
dered along the margin of the shore, and beheld
the distant approaching sails, as they dimly ap-
peared to rise out of the farthest verge of the o-
cean, she breathed a sigh to the remembrance of
former joys, fondly anticipated a speedy return
of those happy hours, which would effectually
obliterate every vestige of former care and anxie-
ty, and became tranquil.

(To be continued.)

[2. 15 June 1802]

AMONG those who visited at the house of
Eliza’s uncle, was a young man of
the name of Blake, who was nephew to the Go-
vernor of the province. Pleased with the man-
ners and appearance of Eliza, he frequently at-
tended her in public, and sometimes in com-
pany, only, of her cousins. He experienced, or
fancied he experienced, greater happiness when
in her presence, than he could any where else en-
joy, 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 for-
tune, and came over to America with his kins-
man on his appointment to the supreme magis-
tracy of the colony. He was a youth of fashion-
able 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 indescriba-
ble graces, which are ever the attendants of sym-
metry 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 wil-
ling 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 gentle-
men, 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 fa-
scinating 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 at-
tendance upon Eliza. She considered her as a
rival, and of course became her enemy. Of this,
however, both her pride and her interest prevent-
ed her from making an avowal. She put on the
appearance of the sincerest friendship to Eliza,
and assiduously participated in her most retired in-

The fame of Eliza had also raised up a serious
rival to Blake. A Mr. Palmer, a man of gal-
lantry, obsequiously bowed to her charms, and
assiduously strove to ingratiate himself into her fa-
vor. Blake and he seldom met, unless in pub-
lic, but Palmer sought every opportunity, in the
absence of his competitor, to engage her atten-
tion, and, if possible, diminish the preference
and esteem which he supposed she entertained for
Blake; this stimulated the latter to a more vigi-
lant perseverance; his visits to Eliza became
more frequent, and his attention more sedulous.
He waited on her one evening to offer him-
self as her partner at an approaching ball, and
found, to his extreme vexation, that her hand
had been previously engaged to Palmer. He
did not remonstrate; this would have been im-
proper; 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 vivaci-
ty depressed. On this he was rallied, and he
complained of an indisposition. Miss Smith and
Palmer well knew what antidote would have re-
moved the malady.

The next day he seriously consulted his situa-
tion. He found himself under the controul of
an unconquerable passion; a passion which, like
the electric fluid, finds no restraint but in the ob-
ject 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 honor-
able proposals? Was it not probable she would
accept them if made then in an honorable way?–
Blake new 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 acquaint-
ted with, on this side of 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 wan-
dered, 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 rust-
ling wing was in the tree,” and the faintly mur-
muring 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 beau-
ties of nature in an evening walk. He joined them,
and the gloom which hovered about his mind
was, in some measure, dissipated.

As they moved slowly on towards home, the
company walked on, and Eliza and Blake were
left together. She observed that an unusual pen-
siveness hung about him, and gaily enquired the
occasion. This presented a fair opportunity for
an ecclaircissement. The before mentioned obsta-
cles rushed across his mind, but Eliza was pre-
sent, and the consequences vanished. He, there-
fore, freely disclosed his situation, as it respected
her; told her that in attending to her from com-
plaisance, his happiness had become seriously in-
terested. That on her determination all his fu-
ture 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 E-
liza more than did this solemn declaration. She
had never considered any attention which she had
received from the gentleman, other than the offi-
cious, 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 sui-
tor; and although she was pleased with him as
an obsequious gallant, yet when set in compari-
son 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 enter-
tain, 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 utterance. She hastily with-
drew 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.)

[3. 22 June 1802]

ELIZA flung herself upon her bed, but with-
out any inclination to sleep. Her spirits
had been agitated, and it required time to com-
pose them. She saw herself in a dangerous situ-
ation. 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 consequen-
ces. She therefore resolved to write to her fa-
ther, desiring him to send for her home; this de-
termination gave some relief to her mind, she
became less restless, and at last fell asleep.
In the morning she was roused by her aunt,
who brought her a letter which the carrier had
just handed in; as soon as she fixed her eye up-
on the superscription, she knew it to be from Al-
bert. 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 Ameri-
ca. This letter had been written upwards of
two months, and was dated nine months after
he left America, so that the time was nearly ar-
rived 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 fi-
nally, pourtrayed in vivid colorings the joys of
their expected meeting.

This letter banished almost every trace of sor-
row from the bosom of Eliza. She considered
the affair of Blake, and was surprised that it
gave her so much anxiety. He had compliment-
ed her charms–this was not uncommon. –She
believed him to be actuated by generous princi-
ples, and that if he understood her situation, he
would withdraw his attention. She therefore
resolved, whenever a proper occasion should of-
fer to give him some intimation which might
deter him from continuing his addresses. This,
however, did not prevent her from writing a re-
quest 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 san-
guine hopes of success. He had, hitherto, supposed
himself not disagreeable to Eliza. Had he not oc-
casion to believe she held him in preference? –
What then could be the cause of her sudden a-
larm, and seeming disgust at his proposals? No-
thing appeared more probable than that some o-
ther 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 impos-
sible? Was it impossible that she could then
come to a determination? or that she could ac-
cede to his proposals? The former he wished to
hope; the latter he had great reason to fear.
To extricate himself from the torture of sus-
pense, he determined to see her that day, and, if
possible to bring her to a decision. As he en-
tered the door of her uncle’s house, he met Pal-
mer, 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
seized her; but it was momentary; with her usu-
al cheerfulness, she desired him to be seated, and
his confidence, which had forsaken him as he ap-
proached the house, returned.

Blake soon introduced the subject he came up-
on. 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 ex-
cited to deal thus frankly, from motives of delica-
cy to them both, but that she must consider her-
self excused from any further explanation.
So ingenuous a decision disconcerted every ar-
gument which Blake had prepared to enforce his
suit. His mind became paralyzed and his tongue
powerless. They both sat silent, and were hap-
pily 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; conse-
quently 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 fi-
nally consented. He came at the appointed
hour, which was about three o’clock in the af-
ternoon–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 exhibit-
ed. The yellow splendor of the faded foliage;
the lofty grandeur of the rugged mountain; the
solitary lapse of the winding stream, as it mur-
mured along the hollow valley; the rustling
sound of the lingering gales, as they idly pursu-
ed the withering leaves over the variegated fields;
the plaintive melody of the autumnal birds, all
conspired to thrill her bosom with a pleasing, me-
lancholy sensation. They passed Kingsbride,
and drove a little distance into the country, where
they stopped for refreshment, and loitered away
the time until evening. As they were about
to return, they perceived a shower arising.
They hastened into the carriage, and Palmer or-
dered the postillion to drive on with speed. They
passed Kingsbridge, and came very near Haer-
lem 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 till sometime in the evening. E-
liza grew very uneasy, particularly as she observ-
ed that Palmer drank very freely of wine. She in-
treated that they might proceed: he raised ob-
jections; the storm had not entirely ceased–
when it had they could soon reach town. He
drank more wine, she perceived he became in-
toxicated, and insisted upon going on immediate-
ly. 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 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 rose up, “I
shall consider it my duty to acknowledge my ob-
ligations 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 ser-
vant 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.)

[4. 29 June 1802]

PALMER was not a libertine in principle.
He felt no extraordinary attachment to E-
liza. He esteemed her as a gay, fashionable and
lovely girl, but had formed no dishonorable
designs respecting her. He had not even an in-
tention of tarrying all night at the inn in Haer-
lem, when driven thither by the storm; but be-
ing 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 posses-
sion, his senses became perverted, and his reason
overpowered by the arbitrary influence of passi-
on. 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 a-
lighted at the inn, a short time after them. —-
This accounts for the incidents of Haerlem

The next morning, Blake arose at an early
hour, determined, 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 pros-
pect of a rupture between them. About nine
o’clock he went to the house. Eliza was alrea-
dy 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 in-
vitation he accepted, and shortly after took his
leave, complimented with the polite obligations
of the family, and the grateful acknowledgments
of Eliza.

When he returned home, a servant was wait-
ing at the door, from whom he received the fol-
lowing 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 can-
not 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 build-
ing, precisely at 5 o’clock in the evening. –
Should you have any objections to these arrange-
ments, 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 ar-
rangments pointed out in your note of this mor-
ning. “I am, &c. J. Blake.”
Thursday morning, 11 o’clock.

Blake immediately made the necessary prepara-
tions, and at the hour appointed, they were both
on the spot. They agreed to fire, on a signal
given by the seconds, at the distance of ten pa-
ces. They took their stands, in a cool and deli-
berate 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 intend to fire?” enquired Pal-

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 up-
on 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 prosecuti-
on 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 ob-
ligations to Blake. He had extricated her from a
dangerous dilemma; and although she could not
receive him on the footing of a suitor, yet grati-
tude 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 hasti-
ly ran over the contents–he was thunderstruck!
A crowd of chaotic ideas rushed into his mind.
He found that Palmer had been only the ostensi-
ble barrier to his wishes, and although this ob-
stacle was now removed, yet he had a more for-
midable one to encounter. But who was Al-
bert? He had never even heard his name menti-
oned. 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 happi-
ness 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 Al-
bert to arrive. She framed a thousand excu-
ses for this delay, and abandoned them almost as
soon as framed. She had written to him, after
receiving his letter, but had no answer there-
to; hence she concluded that he must be about
to return, or he would have written to
her; and though gloomy presages often crossed
her imagination, yet she consoled herself in as-
surances of his speedy arrival.

Blake was constantly inventing some new en-
tertainment to divert Eliza. Balls, select par-
ties and visiting were the amusements of the win-
ter. As Eliza returned from a visit one evening,
attended by Blake, she was agreeably surprized
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 re-
turning to her family, and again enjoying the
pleasure of her native shades; but when her fa-
ther’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 melan-
choly, and could scarcely be prevailed upon to
see company. One afternoon, as she, with her
uncle’s family and Blake, was sitting in the pi-
azza, 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 let-
ters, one of which was for him; he handed a let-
ter 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 fa-
ther on Long-Island, which he had engaged should
receive safe conveyance. “What is the gentle-
man’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,” an-
swered the stranger; “he went over to take pos-
session 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 for-
tune. A young lady, with thirty thousand pounds
in her own power, fell desperately in love with
him; he made some scruples, and talked of at-
tachments in this country, but we soon jeered
him out of such silly notions; he married the la-
dy, and now figures away in 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 de-

(To be continued.)

[5. 6 July 1802]

FOR several days, Eliza did not leave her
chamber, and could scarcely be prevailed
upon to take any kind of nourishment. She gave
herself up to the keenest reflections, and the severest
anxieties of grief, which,
—-“Like a worm in the bud,”
“Fed on her demask cheek.”
As the tide of sorrows gradually abated, she
was left a monument of its ravages. On that coun-
tenance where joy and delight, late sported with
a thousand varying graces, pale melancholy now
fate 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 faith-
less? Could he give that hand to another, which,
with the most solemn adjurations, he had devo-
ted to her? Could that heart become suscepti-
ble of other impressions, which once glowed on-
ly with her charms, and bear for her alone? –
“Cruel fortune,” she would say, “how wretch-
edly hast thou deceived him! Thy gold, thy tin-
sel, 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 luxuri-
ous dissipation, yet shall the pathos of repentance
wring his bosom, when the gay, deceptive ob-
jects which now surround him, shall be stript of
their false attire, and lose their delusive power to
charm!” –Infatuated girl! thou hast yet but
partially experienced the fascinating influences of
grandeur and of novely. Thy thoughts are in-
nocent; 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 transi-
tion from the simple walks of Nature, to the most
exalted refinements of Art; his immediate ac-
quisition 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 irresistable attractions, and tender solicitudes
of female blandishment, must, unless Albert pos-
sessed more than human firmness, weaken, at least,
if not totally disengage, all prior attachments.
This extenuation, however, did not present it-
self to the anguished mind of Eliza. She consi-
dered him as the murderer of her peace, and as
the assassinator of all her future prospects of hap-
piness. Recollection, and the disappointed delu-
sions of anticipation, constantly harrassed her
senses, and she languished under all the bitterness
of the most poignant sorrow.

But the storm of grief began, at length, gradu-
ally 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 obligati-
ons and seemingly sincere professions, thus a-
bandon her to misery and wretchedness, for
the paltry consideration of property and fame?
Or was it more probable that the brilliancy
of new objects had raised a new passion in his
bosom? Amid the constellated beauties of Lon-
don, some one had been found whose charms and
graces had dissolved the ties between herself and
Albert, by changing his boasted sincerity into in-
constancy, 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, inviola-
bly, the property of another, and she determi-
nately 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 at-
tend her. Their walks were, by her desire, in
the most unfrequented parts of the city, and ge-
nerally, in the twilight of the evening. When
she was not disposed to walk, he would frequent-
ly sit in her room, and read to her passages from
some amusing book, which tended to exhilarate her
spirits, detach her ideas from gloomy subjects,
and lead them to the more brilliant fields of fan-
cy. Sometimes she consented to ride out with
him, a little distance from the city, in his coach.
By such attentions he became her principal con-
fidant; 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 circum-
stances; her cousins knew nothing of them. –
Her indisposition was imputed to other causes;
her aunt, however, had reason for a different o-

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 the decline, was dead; that on an investi-
gation of his accounts, his estate was found to be
insolvent; that his property had been divided a-
mong 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 pros-
pects, as her peace would be destroyed, should
her expectations be disappointed.

This caution was unnecessary. Eliza had al-
ready experienced all the disappointment which
her father’s letter contemplated and she had sur-
vived the shock of conflicting passions, which suc-
ceeded. 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 inclinations. Every
object which there presented, would awaken
feelings which she now wished might be oblitera-
ted. 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 inde-
fatigable in his exertions to amuse Eliza; and,
for this purpose, a continual round of entertain-
ments was kept up. Excursions into the coun-
try, in coaches and on horseback; walking along
the banks of the East and North Rivers, and barge-
sailing in the harbor, were among the first di-
versions. As they were out on one of the last
mentioned recreations, one pleasant after-
noon, 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 her relief. Before he reach-
ed the place, she sunk, but as she arose he
caught her, and, with much difficulty, conveyed
her safely to the barge. This accident discoura-
ged Eliza from again venturing upon the water.
Some time after this, as Blake was sitting with
Eliza, in her apartment, he addressed her as fol-
lows: –“You cannot be insensible, madam, that
it is with the highest pleasure I have been per-
mitted to devote some little services to you; in-
deed, I can truly say, that since I became ac-
quainted 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 fal-
lacy of public opinion, hazard your reputation,
which is far dearer to me than my own. There
is, therefore, but two alternatives, and these de-
pend 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 passi-
on; 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 ren-
der 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 ingenious–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 de-
termined, 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 ac-
knowledged 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 should 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 dis-
course 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 En-
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 *
it has happened well for this young man,
for his father died not worth a groat. —-Here
she fixed her eyes on 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, wither-
ing in the dust.”

The day which Eliza had set to give an an-
swer to Blake, had now arrived–the longest
month which she had ever experienced. Eliza in-
formed 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 situati-
on, connections and character, he had no objec-
tions to the union.—-As winter had now arri-
ved, 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 sighed 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 des-
pair.” “What means such a portentous pre-
diction?” replied Eliza. ‘“That you may here-
after know,” answered Miss Smith, “but never
from me.” At this instant Blake joined them,
which put an end to the conversation. Eliza
supposed these observations proceeded from the
disappointment which Miss Smith had experien-
ced, as her regard for Blake was no secret. Eli-
za, however, related the circumstance to Blake,
which she thought appeared a little to shock him,
but he changed the discourse, and no farther no-
tice 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 re-
turn 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, Eli-
za 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 the jour-
ney 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 sud-
den 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 through
the air, seized Eliza by the arm, and, in an in-
stant, 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 in pieces up-
on the rocks below. She awaked with a scream,
and rejoiced to find the scene illusory. The
lineaments of the stranger’s countenance were
not entirely erased from her memory; they ap-
peared familiar, but she could not recollect where
she had seen the original. The consequence of the
dream hung ominously upon her imagination; but
the bright rays of the sun which now darted in-
to her chamber, dispelled the gloom that hovered
around her. She arose immediately, got ready
for her journey, and at evening she, with her un-
cle’s family and Blake, was at her father’s house
Scenes of tenderness ensued upon Eliza’s re-
turn to her family. As it was but a few days
before the intended nuptials, invitations were im-
mediately sent abroad. Blake’s friends soon ar-
rived from New-York, among whom was the go-
vernor. On the afternoon of the day in which,
at evening, the marriage was to be consum-
mated, Eliza walked out alone, to contemplate
the beauties of the spring. It was the latter
part of the month of May. The air was embalm-
ed with the fragrance of the surrounding flow-
ers, and the mingling melody of various birds
echoed along the adjacent grove. She roved,
she scarcely knew whither, until she was instinc-
tively led to the shores of Montauk, and found
herself at last upon the very spot 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 up-
on the place; a tall ship was beating in for the
port. The joys of past days rushed, like a tor-
rent, upon her memory. She was suddenly a-
roused to a solemn sense of her desperate situati-
on. 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
except a hopeless object. What was to
be done? To advance was destruction!–to re-
treat–impossible! She hurried home, and strove
to suppress contemplation, amidst the hilarity of
the guest.

The moment at length arrived in which cer-
tainty must succeed to suspense and anxiety. E-
liza 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 servants, 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 at-
tended to. The stranger did not wait for com-
plaisance. –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 advancing a lit-
tle nearer, she perfectly recollected the fading
features of her long lost Albert! She uttered a
shriek of agony, and sunk, senseless, to the floor.

(To be continued.)

[6. 13 July 1802]

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 more of him. When
Eliza recovered, she desired that all might with-
draw 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 fa-
ther told him that she had already refused to see
him, but that he would again consult her, and if
she consented, he would have no objections. He
then left him, but soon returned, and informed
him that Eliza was willing to see him in the pre-
sence of her parents, to whom he wished to add
another person, and this was Blake, who, her fa-
ther observed, had now an undoubted right to be
present, when any thing of a personal nature
which concerned Eliza, was to be communicat-
ed. Albert intreated that he might be permit-
ted 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 provi-
so, that Blake should be previously acquainted
with it, which being done, and Blake, with some
reluctance, agreeing to it, Albert was immedi-
ately 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 unut-
erable anguish. Eliza sunk upon her mother’s
bosom. her father then thus addressed Albert:
“You know, Sir, that I sanctioned your preten-
sions to my daughter, previous to your leaving A-
merica. Your long stay in England; your im-
plicit silence, in this long absence, except in a
single instance, added to the reports of you
connecting yourself in marriage in that country, have
produced the events you now behold. There ap-
pears some mystery in this business: circumstan-
ces 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 appear-
ance, and a sense of her critical situation, the
least irritation might cause a relapse; he there-
fore retired, in much agitation.

Eliza’s uncle had related to her father the par-
ticulars of the stranger’s story, who presented the
letter to Blake, as mentioned before. Hence,
as he observed to Albert, he suspected some mys-
tery attending the affair. Eliza, from Albert’s
manner and conduct, imagined she had been de-
ceived, and her suspicions fell upon Blake. Al-
bert’s sentiments were the same. Blake was ad-
mitted into Eliza’s room after Albert was gone;
he did not, however, stay long; she wished to be
alone, and in this her parents chose to indulge
her. His feelings were wrought up to the high-
est pitch; Albert’s unexpected return had ren-
dered his situation peculiarly interesting, and his
hopes of happiness exceedingly precarious.–The
guests were informed, that a sudden illness hav-
ing 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 apart-
ment, with her parents only. Her father then
told him that they were ready to hear any expla-
nation or communication he wished to make.–
Albert informed them, that after he had accom-
plished his business in England, he set sail for
America; the second day after which they were ta-
ken 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, where
they continued for upwards of eighteen months;
it happened that they were then driven off the
sea coast in a storm, and picked up by a French
vessel, which carried them, and the two Turks
who were their overseers, to Bordeaux, from
whence Albert took passage on board a merchant-
man for America.–This was the ship which Eli-
za saw coming into port, the preceding after-
noon; 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 circumstan-
ces of his family, his father’s death, his mother’s
removal, and the 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 re-
lated at her uncle’s, when he delivered Blake the
letter, and what she heard at the milliner’s.
These circumstances Albert was enabled to ex-
plain. A distant relation of his father, and of
the same name, who lived on Staten-Island, had
put in his claim, and obtained part of the in-
heritance 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 at New-York, who brought the letter, and
the intelligence which had given Eliza so much
uneasiness. The father of the young man had
died, after removing to Long-Island, which
coincided with the milliner’s story. Albert had
mentioned this circumstance in his letter to his
father; he had written to his friends but once,
which was just before he sat out to return, af-
ter 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 ano-
ther. A question then arose, whether the mar-
riage ceremony had not been so far executed, be-
tween 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 mar-
ried. He advised, however, to send for the cler-
gy 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 con-
sultation, 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 admit-
ted before the convocation. She was immediate-
ly 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 be-
came 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 her to be his own daugh-
ter, by the woman before mentioned, who had re-
tired to Italy, where she died, leaving her two
children, with all her property, which was consid-
erable, 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 fam-
ily, their father projected sending them to Ame-
rica, 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 af-
fair. Miss Smith soon followed, where they wai-
ted, under fictitious names, for the interference
of some friends in England, to obtain a dissolu-
tion 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 exchang-
ed miniature likenesses, solemnly engaging never
to part with them till death. After Miss Smith’s
arrived 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 sepa-
ration, 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 to-
gether, 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 be-
longed to a friend, who was now 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 minia-
ture 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 the ostensible reason, but her prin-
cipal design was to prevent Blake’s connection
with Eliza.

At the close of this narration, the whole assem-
bly 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
heard 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 disappoint-
ed in the only object of his future felicity. He
hastily arose from his seat—distraction had seized
upon his brain–he cast a wild dispairing look
around him, and rushed out at 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 up-
on the floor! The ball had pierced his temples,
and he, probably, expired without a struggle.–
Thus died a man of whom it may, with propriety, be
said, was innocently guilty of offences at which
human nature revolts with terror, and who, per-
haps, 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 irresistable
decrees of fate.

Some time after this, Albert and Eliza married:
he had deposited the property which he had ob-
tained in the English fund, 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 in-
constant 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 honoured with a seat in the American Con-
gress. The facts above related, have long been
forgotten, except by the descendants of the fami-
ly, or some person to whom those descendants
have related them.

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