Chapter 1

This e-text is based on the 1851 Boston edition of _Alonzo and Melissa_.
The story originally appeared in 1804 as a serial in the weekly
_Political Barometer_ of Poughkeepsie, N.Y., written by the newspaper's
editor, Isaac Mitchell. Pirated versions began to appear in 1811,
giving Daniel Jackson, Jr., as author.

The book was printed as a single unit, without chapter divisions.
The breaks in the e-text represent the 22 installments of the serial
version.

Note that the standard punctuation for dialogue is

"To this place, said Melissa, have I taken many a solitary walk...."

The following are listed at the end of the e-text:

Chronology of the Story
Quotations
Other Editions
Errors and Inconsistencies]

ALONZO AND MELISSA,

or

THE UNFEELING FATHER.

An

AMERICAN TALE.

In every varied posture, place, and hour,
How widowed every thought of every joy!

YOUNG.

BY DANIEL JACKSON, Jr.

Boston:
Printed for the Publishers.
1851.

PREFACE

Whether the story of Alonzo and Melissa will generally please, the
writer knows not; if, however, he is not mistaken, it is not unfriendly
to religion and to virtue.--One thing was aimed to be shown, that a firm
reliance on Providence, however the affections might be at war with its
dispensations, is the only source of consolation in the gloomy hours of
affliction; and that generally such dependence, though crossed by
difficulties and perplexities, will be crowned with victory at last.

It is also believed that the story contains no indecorous stimulants;
nor is it filled with unmeaning and inexplicated incidents sounding upon
the sense, but imperceptible to the understanding. When anxieties have
been excited by involved and doubtful events, they are afterwards
elucidated by the consequences.

The writer believes that generally he has copied nature. In the ardent
prospects raised in youthful bosoms, the almost consummation of their
wishes, their sudden and unexpected disappointment, the sorrows of
separation, the joyous and unlooked for meeting--in the poignant
feelings of Alonzo, when, at the grave of Melissa, he poured the
feelings of his anguished soul over her miniature by the "moon's pale
ray;"----when Melissa, sinking on her knees before her father, was
received to his bosom as a beloved daughter risen from the dead.

If these scenes are not imperfectly drawn, they will not fail to
interest the refined sensibilities of the reader.

ALONZO AND MELISSA.

A TALE.

In the time of the late revolution, two young gentlemen of Connecticut,
who had formed an indissoluble friendship, graduated at Yale College in
New-Haven: their names were Edgar and Alonzo. Edgar was the son of a
respectable farmer. Alonzo's father was an eminent merchant. Edgar was
designed for the desk, Alonzo for the bar; but as they were allowed some
vacant time after their graduation before they entered upon their
professional studies, they improved this interim in mutual, friendly
visits, mingling with select parties in the amusements of the day, and
in travelling through some parts of the United States.

Edgar had a sister who, for some time, had resided with her cousin at
New-London. She was now about to return, and it was designed that Edgar
should go and attend her home. Previous to the day on which he was to
set out, he was unfortunately thrown from his horse, which so much
injured him as to prevent his prosecuting his intended journey: he
therefore invited Alonzo to supply his place; which invitation he
readily accepted, and on the day appointed set out for New-London, where
he arrived, delivered his introductory letters to Edgar's cousin, and
was received with the most friendly politeness.

Melissa, the sister of Edgar, was about sixteen years of age. She was
not what is esteemed a striking beauty, but her appearance was
pleasingly interesting. Her figure was elegant; her aspect was
attempered with a pensive mildness, which in her cheerful moments would
light up into sprightliness and vivacity. Though on first impression,
her countenance was marked by a sweet and thoughtful serenity, yet she
eminently possessed the power to

"Call round her laughing eyes, in playful turns,
The glance that lightens, and the smile that burns."

Her mind was adorned with those delicate graces which are the first
ornaments of female excellence. Her manners were graceful without
affectation, and her taste had been properly directed by a suitable
education.

Alonzo was about twenty-one years old; he had been esteemed an excellent
student. His appearance was manly, open and free. His eye indicated a
nobleness of soul; although his aspect was tinged with melancholy, yet
he was naturally cheerful. His disposition was of the romantic cast;

"For far beyond the pride and pomp of power,
He lov'd the realms of nature to explore;
With lingering gaze Edinian spring survey'd;
Morn's fairy splendours; night's gay curtained shade,
The high hoar cliff, the grove's benighting gloom,
The wild rose, widowed o'er the mouldering tomb;
The heaven embosom'd sun; the rainbow's dye,
Where lucid forms disport to fancy's eye;
The vernal flower, mild autumn's purpling glow,
The summer's thunder and the winter's snow."

It was evening when Alonzo arrived at the house of Edgar's cousin.
Melissa was at a ball which had been given on a matrimonial occasion in
the town. Her cousin waited on Alonzo to the ball, and introduced him to
Melissa, who received him with politeness. She was dressed in white,
embroidered and spangled with rich silver lace; a silk girdle, enwrought
and tasseled with gold, surrounded her waist; her hair was unadorned
except by a wreath of artificial flowers, studded by a single diamond.

After the ball closed, they returned to the house of Edgar's cousin.
Melissa's partner at the ball was the son of a gentleman of independent
fortune in New-London. He was a gay young man, aged about twenty-five.
His address was easy, his manners rather voluptuous than refined;
confident, but not ungraceful. He led the ton in fashionable circles;
gave taste its zest, and was quite a favorite with the ladies generally.
His name was Beauman.

Edgar's cousin proposed to detain Alonzo and Melissa a few days, during
which time they passed in visiting select friends and social parties.
Beauman was an assiduous attendant upon Melissa. He came one afternoon
to invite her to ride out;--she was indisposed and excused herself. At
evening she proposed walking out with her cousin and his lady; but they
were prevented from attending her by unexpected company. Alonzo offered
to accompany her. It was one of those beautiful evenings in the month of
June, when nature in those parts of America is arrayed in her richest
dress. They left the town and walked through fields adjoining the
harbour.--The moon shone in full lustre, her white beams trembling upon
the glassy main, where skiffs and sails of various descriptions were
passing and repassing. The shores of Long-Island and the other islands
in the harbour, appeared dimly to float among the waves. The air was
adorned with the fragrance of surrounding flowers; the sound of
instrumental music wafted from the town, rendered sweeter by distance,
while the whippoorwill's sprightly song echoed along the adjacent
groves. Far in the eastern horizon hung a pile of brazen clouds, which
had passed from the north, over which, the crinkling red lightning
momentarily darted, and at times, long peals of thunder were faintly
heard. They walked to a point of the beach, where stood a large rock
whose base was washed by every tide. On this rock they seated
themselves, and enjoyed a while the splendours of the scene--the drapery
of nature. "To this place, said Melissa, have I taken many a solitary
walk, on such an evening as this, and seated on this rock, have I
experienced more pleasing sensations than I ever received in the most
splendid ball-room." The idea impressed the mind of Alonzo; it was
congenial with the feeling of his soul.

They returned at a late hour, and the next day set out for home. Beauman
handed Melissa into the carriage, and he, with Edgar's cousin and his
lady, attended them on their first day's journey. They put up at night
at the house of an acquaintance in Branford. The next morning they
parted; Melissa's cousin, his lady and Beauman, returned to New-London;
Alonzo and Melissa pursued their journey, and at evening arrived at her
father's house, which was in the westerly part of the state.

* * * * *

Melissa was received with joyful tenderness by her friends. Edgar soon
recovered from his fall, and cheerfulness again assumed its most
pleasing aspect in the family.--Edgar's father was a plain Connecticut
farmer. He was rich, and his riches had been acquired by his diligent
attention to business. He had loaned money, and taken mortgages on lands
and houses for securities; and as payment frequently failed, he often
had opportunities of purchasing the involved premises at his own price.
He well knew the worth of a shilling, and how to apply it to its best
use; and in casting interest, he was sure never to lose a farthing.
He had no other children except Edgar and Melissa, on whom he
doated.--Destitute of literature himself, he had provided the means of
obtaining it for his son, and as he was a rigid presbyterian, he
considered that Edgar could no where figure so well, or gain more
eminence, than in the sacred desk.

The time now arrived when Edgar and Alonzo were to part. The former
repaired to New-York, where he was to enter upon his professional
studies. The latter entered in the office of an eminent attorney in his
native town, which was about twenty miles distant from the village in
which lived the family of Edgar and Melissa. Alonzo was the frequent
guest of this family; for though Edgar was absent, there was still a
charm which attracted him hither. If he had admired the manly virtues of
the brother, could he fail to adore the sublimer graces of the sister?
If all the sympathies of the most ardent friendship had been drawn forth
towards the former, must not the most tender passions of the soul be
attracted by the milder and more refined excellencies of the other?

Beauman had become the suitor of Melissa; but the distance of residence
rendered it inconvenient to visit her often. He came regularly once in
two or three months; of course Alonzo and he sometimes met. Beauman had
made no serious pretensions, but his particularity indicated something
more than fashionable politeness.

His manners, his independent situation, his family, entitled him to
respect. "It is not probable therefore that he will be objectionable to
Melissa's friends or to Melissa herself," said Alonzo, with an
involuntary sigh.

But as Beauman's visits to Melissa became more frequent, an increasing
anxiety took place in Alonzo's bosom. He wished her to remain single;
the idea of losing her by marriage, gave him inexpressible regret. What
substitute could supply the happy hours he had passed in her company?
What charm could wing the lingering moments when she was gone? In the
recess of his studies, he could, in a few hours, be at the seat of her
father: there his cares were dissipated, and the troubles of life, real
or imaginary, on light pinions, fleeted away.--How different would be
the scene when debarred from the unreserved friendship and conversation
of Melissa; And unreserved it could not be, were she not exclusively
mistress of herself. But was there not something of a more refined
texture than friendship in his predilection for the company of Melissa?
If so, why not avow it? His prospects, his family, and of course his
pretensions might not be inferior to those of Beauman. But perhaps
Beauman was preferred. His opportunities had been greater; he had formed
an acquaintance with her. Distance proved no barrier to his addresses.
His visits became more and more frequent. Was it not then highly
probable that he had secured her affections? Thus reasoned Alonzo, but
the reasoning tended not to allay the tempest which was gathering in his
bosom. He ordered his horse, and was in a short time at the seat of
Melissa's father.

It was summer, and towards evening when he arrived. Melissa was sitting
by the window when he entered the hall. She arose and received him with
a smile. "I have just been thinking of an evening's walk, said she, but
had no one to attend me, and you have come just in time to perform that
office. I will order tea immediately, while you rest from the fatigues
of your journey."

When tea was served up, a servant entered the room with a letter which
he had found in the yard. Melissa received it.--"'Tis a letter, said
she, which I sent by Beauman, to a lady in New-London, and the careless
man has lost it." Turning to Alonzo, "I forgot to tell you that your
friend Beauman has been with us a few days; he left us this morning."

"My friend!" replied Alonzo, hastily.

"Is he not your friend?" enquired Melissa.

"I beg pardon, madam," answered he, "my mind was absent."

"He requested us to present his respects to his friend Alonzo," said
she. Alonzo bowed and turned the conversation.

They walked out and took a winding path which led along pleasant fields
by a gliding stream, through a little grove and up a sloping eminence,
which commanded an extensive prospect of the surrounding country; Long
Island, and the sound between that and the main land, and the opening
thereof to the distant ocean.

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

Hills piled on hills, receding, faded from the pursuing eye, mingling
with the blue mist which hovered around the extreme verge of the
horizon. "This is a most delightful scene," said Melissa.

"It is indeed, replied Alonzo; can New-London boast so charming a
prospect?"

Melissa. No--yes; indeed I can hardly say. You know, Alonzo, how I am
charmed with the rock at the point of the beach.

Alonzo. You told me of the happy hours you had passed at that place.
Perhaps the company which attended you there, gave the scenery its
highest embellishment.

Melissa. I know not how it happened; but you are the only person who
ever attended me there.

Alonzo. That is a little surprising.

Mel. Why surprising?

Al. Where was Beauman?

Mel. Perhaps he was not fond of solitude. Besides he was not always my
Beauman.

Al. Sometimes.

Mel. Yes, sometimes.

Al. And now always.

Mel. Not this evening.

Al. He formerly.

Mel. Well.

Al. And will soon claim the exclusive privilege so to do.

Mel. That does not follow of course.

Al. Of course, if his intentions are sincere, and the wishes of another
should accord therewith.

Mel. Who am I to understand by another?

Al. Melissa. [A pause ensued.]

Mel. See that ship, Alonzo, coming up the sound; how she ploughs through
the white foam, while the breezes flutter among the sails, varying with
the beams of the sun.

Al. Yes, it is almost down.

Mel. What is almost down?

Al. The sun. Was not you speaking of the sun, madam?

Mel. Your mind is absent, Alonzo; I was speaking of yonder ship.

Al. I beg pardon, madam. O yes--the ship--it--it bounds with rapid
motion over the waves.

A pause ensued. They walked leisurely around the hill, and moved toward
home. The sun sunk behind the western hills.--Twilight arose in the
east, and floated along the air. Darkness began to hover around the
woodlands and vallies. The beauties of the landscape slowly receded.
"This reminds me of our walk at New-London," said Melissa. "Do you
remember it?" enquired Alonzo. "Certainly I do," she replied, "I shall
never forget the sweet pensive scenery of my favourite rock." "Nor I
neither," said Alonzo with a deep drawn sigh.

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

* * * * *

It was some time before Alonzo renewed his visit. In the interim he
received a letter from a friend in the neighbourhood of Melissa's
father; an extract from which follows:

"We are soon to have a wedding here; you are acquainted with the
parties--Melissa D---- and Beauman. Such at least is our opinion from
appearances, as Beauman is now here more than half his time.--You will
undoubtedly be a guest. We had expected that you would have put in your
claims, from your particular attention to the lady. She is a fine girl,
Alonzo."

"I shall never be a guest at Melissa's wedding," said Alonzo, as he
hastily paced the room; "but I must once again see her before that event
takes place, when I lose her forever." The next day he repaired to her
father's. He enquired for Melissa; she was gone with a party to the
shores of the sound, attended by Beauman. At evening they returned.
Beauman and Alonzo addressed each other with much seeming cordiality.
"You have deceived us, Alonzo, said Melissa. We concluded you had
forgotten the road to this place."

"Was not that a hasty conclusion?" replied Alonzo. "I think not, she
answered, if your long absence should be construed into neglect. But we
will hear your excuse said she, smiling, by and by, and perhaps pardon
you." He thanked her for her condescension.

The next morning Beauman set out for New-London. Alonzo observed that he
took a tender leave of Melissa, telling her, in a low voice, that he
should have the happiness of seeing her again within two or three weeks.
After he was gone, as Melissa and Alonzo were sitting in a room alone,
"Well, said she, am I to hear your excuses?"

Alonzo. For what, madam?

Mel. For neglecting your friends.

Alonzo. I hope it is not so considered, madam.

Mel. Seriously, then, why have you stayed away so long? Has this place
no charms in the absence of my brother?

Al. Would my presence have added to your felicities, Melissa?

Mel. You never came an unwelcome visiter here.

Al. Perhaps I might be sometimes intrusive.

Mel. What times?

Al. When Beauman is your guest.

Mel. I have supposed you were on friendly terms.

Al. We are.

Mel. Why then intrusive?

Al. There are seasons when friendship must yield its pretensions to a
superior claim.

Mel. Perhaps I do not rightly comprehend the force of that remark.

Al. Was Beauman here, my position might be demonstrated.

Mel. I think I understand you.

Al. And acknowledge my observation to be just?

Mel. (hesitating.) Yes--I believe I must.

Al. And appropriate?

Melissa was silent.

Al. You hesitate, Melissa.

She was still silent.

Al. Will you, Melissa, answer me one question?

Mel. (confused.) If it be a proper one you are entitled to candour.

Al. Are you engaged to Beauman?

Mel. (blushing.) He has asked me the same question concerning you.

Al. Do you prefer him to any other?

Mel. (deeply blushing, her eyes cast upon the floor.) He has made the
same enquiry respecting you.

Al. Has he asked your father's permission to address you?

Mel. That I have not suffered him yet to do.

Al. Yet!

Mel. I assure you I have not.

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

Mel. (her cheeks suffused with a varying glow, her lips pale, her voice
tremulous, her eyes still cast down.) My parents have informed me that
it is improper to receive the particular addresses of more than one.
I am conscious of my inadvertency, and that the reproof is just. One
therefore must be dismissed. But--(she hesitated.)

A considerable pause ensued. At length Alonzo arose--"I will not press
you farther," said he; "I know the delicacy of your feeling, I know your
sincerity; I will not therefore insist on your performing the painful
task of deciding against me. Your conduct in every point of view has
been discreet. I could have no just claims, or if I had, your heart must
sanction them, or they would be unhallowed and unjustifiable. I shall
ever pray for your felicity.--Our affections are not under our
direction; our happiness depends on our obedience to their mandates.
Whatever, then, may be my sufferings, you are unblameable and
irreproachable." He took his hat in extreme agitation, and prepared to
take his leave.

Melissa had recovered in some degree from her embarrassment, and
collected her scattered spirits. "Your conduct, Alonzo, said she, is
generous and noble. Will you give yourself the trouble, and do me the
honour to see me once more?" "I will, said he, at any time you shall
appoint."--"Four weeks then, she said, from this day, honour me with a
visit, and you shall have my decision, and receive my final answer."
"I will be punctual to the day," he replied, and bade her adieu.

* * * * *

Alonzo's hours now winged heavily away. His wonted cheerfulness fled;
he wooed the silent and solitary haunts of "musing, moping melancholy."
He loved to wander through lonely fields, or along the verge of some
lingering stream, "when dewy twilight rob'd the evening mild," or
"to trace the forest glen, through which the moon darted her silvery
intercepted ray."

He was fondly indulging a tender passion which preyed upon his peace,
and deeply disturbed his repose. He looked anxiously to the hour when
Melissa was to make her decision. He wished, yet dreaded the event.
In that he foresaw, or thought he foresaw, a withering blight to his
budding hopes, and a final consummation to his foreboding fears. He had
pressed Melissa, perhaps too urgently, to a declaration.--Had her
predilection been in his favour, would she have hesitated to avow it?
Her parents had advised her to relinquish, and had permitted her to
retain one suitor, nor had they attempted to influence or direct her
choice. Was it not evident, then, from her confused hesitation and
embarrassment, when solicited to discriminate upon the subject, that her
ultimate decision would be in favour of Beauman?

While Alonzo's mind was thus agitated, he received a second letter from
his friend in the neighbourhood of Melissa. He read the following clause
therein with emotions more easily to be conceived than expressed:

"Melissa's wedding day is appointed. I need not tell you that Beauman is
to be the happy deity of the hymeneal sacrifice. I had this from his own
declaration. He did not name the positive day, but it is certainly to be
soon. You will undoubtedly, however, have timely notice, as a guest. We
must pour a liberal libation upon the mystic altar, Alonzo, and twine
the nuptial garland with wreaths of joy. Beauman ought to devote a rich
offering to so valuable a prize. He has been here for a week, and
departed for New-London yesterday, but is shortly to return."

"And why have I ever doubted this event? said Alonzo. What infatuation
hath thus led me on the pursuit of fantastic and unreal bliss? I have
had, it is true, no positive assurance that Melissa would favour my
addresses. But why did she ever receive them? Why did she enchantingly
smile upon me? Why fascinate the tender powers of my soul by that
winning mildness, and the favourable display of those complicated and
superior attractions which she must have known were irresistible?--Why
did she not spurn me from her confidence, and plainly tell me that my
attentions were untimely and improper? And now she would have me dance
attendance to her decision in favour of Beauman--Insulting! Let Beauman
and she make, as they have formed, this farcical decision; I absolutely
will never attend it.--But stop: I have engaged to see her at an
appointed time; my honour is therefore pledged for an interview; it must
take place. I shall support it with becoming dignity, and I will
convince Melissa and Beauman that I am not the dupe of their caprices.
But let me consider--What has Melissa done to deserve censure or
reproach? Her brother was my early friend: she has treated me as a
friend to her brother. She was unconscious of the flame which her charms
had kindled in my bosom.--Her evident embarrassment and confusion on
receiving my declaration, witnessed her surprise and prior attachment.
What could she do? To save herself the pain of a direct denial, she had
appointed a day when her refusal may come in a more delicate and formal
manner--and I must meet it."

At the appointed day, Alonzo proceeded to the house of Melissa's father,
where he arrived late in the afternoon. Melissa had retired to a little
summer house at the end of the garden; a servant conducted Alonzo
thither. She was dressed in a flowing robe of white muslin, embroidered
with a deep fringe lace. Her hair hung loosely upon her shoulders; she
was contemplating a bouquet of flowers which she held in her hand.
Alonzo fancied she never appeared so lovely. She arose to receive him.
"We have been expecting you some time, said Melissa; we were anxious to
inform you, that we have just received a letter from my brother, in
which he desires us to present you his most friendly respects, and
complains of your not writing to him lately so frequently as usual."
Alonzo thanked her for the information; said that business prevented
him; he esteemed him as his most valuable friend, and would be more
particular in future.

"We have been thronged with company for several days, said Melissa. Once
a year my father celebrates his birth day, when we are honoured with so
numerous a company of uncles, aunts, cousins, nephews and nieces, that
were you present, you would suppose we were connected with half the
families in Connecticut. The last of this company took their departure
yesterday, and I have only to regret, that I have for nearly a week,
been prevented from visiting my favourite hill, to which you attended me
when you was last here. It is much improved since then: I have had a
little arbour built under the large tree on its summit: you will have no
objection to view it, Alonzo?" He assured her he accepted the invitation
with pleasure, and towards evening they resorted to the place and seated
themselves in the arbour.

It was the beginning of autumn, and a yellow hue was spread over the
fading charms of nature. The withering forest began to shed its decaying
foliage, which the light gales pursued along the russet fields. The low
sun extended the lengthening shadows; curling smoke ascended from the
surrounding cottages. A thick fog crept along the vallies; a gray mist
hovered over the tops of the mountains. The glassy surface of the sound
glittered to the sun's departing ray. The solemn herds lowed in
monotonous symphony. The autumnal insects in sympathetic wafting,
plaintively predicted their approaching fate. "The scene is changed
since we last visited this place, said Melissa; the gay charms of summer
are beginning to decay, and must soon yield their splendors to the rude
despoiling hand of winter."

"That will be the case, said Alonzo, before I shall have the pleasure of
your company here again."

Mel. That probably may be, though it is nearly two months yet to winter.

Al. Great changes may take place within that time.

Mel. Yes, changes must take place; but nothing, I hope, to embitter
present prospects.

Al. (peevishly.) As it respects yourself, I trust not, madam.

Mel. (tenderly.) And I sincerely hope not, as it respects you, Alonzo.

Al. That wish, I believe, is vain.

Mel. Why so ominous a prediction?

Al. The premises, from which it is drawn, are correct.

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

Al. I ask your pardon, madam; I know I am unsociable. You speak of
returning: You know the occasion of my being here.

Mel. For the purpose of visiting your friends, I presume.

Al. And no other?

She made no reply.

Al. You cannot have forgotten your own appointment, and consequent
engagement?

She made no answer.

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

Mel. (sighing.) I am placed in an exceedingly delicate situation.

Al. I know you are; but your own honour, your own peace, require that
you should extricate yourself from the perplexing embarrassment.

Mel. I am sensible they do. It must--it shall be done.

Al. And the sooner it is done the better.

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

Al.