AFTER a youth ſpent in contributing to eſtabliſh the Independence of my country, I retired with my family to a little farm in New-Jerſey, that had deſcended to me from my fore-fathers. It was a pleaſant ſpot of twenty-five acres, ſituated on the Hudſon, and having a range of ſalt meadows behind, on which I fed my cattle.

My wife was a thrifty, notable woman, who baked her own bread, and was ſo often in the kitchen, that it might be ſaid, ſhe cooked her own dinner; but, otherwiſe, much the lady, without having had the originality of her character ſmoothed into inſipidity by modern refinement. If ſhe had any failing, it was a head-ſtrong attachment to the French Nation and its government. Deborah was a politician, and in her wiſdom declared that America would never flouriſh till ſhe entered into a treaty offenſive and defenſive with France.

My children were healthy, comely and dutiful. Of my two daughters—Eliza, now ſeventeen, poſſeſſed every beauty and elegance of form, while Serena, about two years younger, was obviouſly riſing into ſymmetry and grace.

In their tempers, Eliza was lofty and often impetuous; Serena of a mild and placid equability. Eliza could not reſtrain the emotions of paſſion; Serena repreſſed them with a tear. Both were formed for tenderneſs, and loved one another ſincerely.

My ſon, a promiſing lad, was ingenuous to a fault. If not diſtinguiſhed by the brilliancy of his talents or attainments, he was eminent for the warmth and ſympathy of his heart; and my ambition was not to behold him a great but virtuous character in life. Yet his mind was ſuſceptible of literary culture. He carried his dinner with him to ſchool before he was breeched, and took delight in diſputing with his ſiſters on the intricacies of the Engliſh Grammar.

My oldeſt neighbours, were Parſon Bartholomew, and Farmer Hayſtack. The Parſon was a worthy man, who enjoyed the reputation of rearing the beſt pork in the pariſh. It was rumoured, but I know not with what truth, that he took leſs care of his flock than his ſwine, but I think it is a juſtice I owe his memory to affirm that, when his pigs did not employ his mind, he made an excellent Sermon.

Farmer Hayſtack and his family were good, ſleek headed folks who ſlept well of nights. No cares diſturbed the old man's ſenſibility, but a ſhower of rain when his hay was making, or ſome quadruped breaking through his fence.

As he lived within a ſtone's-throw of our houſe, we neceſſarily became acquainted, and the ſtate of the weather, the price of horſe-fleſh, together with the health of the village, and the changing of its ſchoolmaſter, furniſhed my gueſt with a ſource of inexhauſtible converſation. This new ſchoolmaſter, he would ſay, makes a dozen that we have had ſince laſt Michaelmas was two years. I would ſend my little boy Jack to him when he gets out of his coats, for I hear for certain ſure he is a man of larning. But it hurts a boy's genus to have ſo many maſters, and Bill has now almoſt got through his letters.

Such was the tenor of Farmer Hayſtack's diſcourſe, and his eldeſt ſon was ſcarcely ſuperior in attainments to his father. Yet as he was a loquacious kind of fellow, and would fight any man that ſpoke diſreſpectfully of the French government; my wife was not only blind to his defects, but admitted his addreſſes to the ſoft and ſenſible Serena. For my part, I could never liſten with any temper to the inunity of his diſcourſe, or behold, without diſguſt the diſtorted muſcles of his vulgar countenance; but I was awed into ſubmiſſion by Dorothy, who, when politics came uppermoſt in her mind, was like one poſſeſſed.

As Farmer Hayſtack was ſcarcely rational, and Parſon Bartholomew ever delighting his fancy with viſions of ſpare-ribs and hind-quarters, I ſhould have been badly off for neighbours, had not Colonel Brandywine, the friend and fellow ſoldier of my youth, come to ſettle with his family on a neck of land near my dwelling.

My daughters congratulated themſelves on this event, as it brought them a polite acquaintance in the two Miſs Brandywines, who with their mother, and a brother at ſea, conſtituted the family of the Colonel.

The young ladies had viſited the Southern States, and reſided ſome years at Philadelphia; but notwithſtanding theſe advantages, I could not diſcern that they were ſuperior in knowledge to my daughters, who, though they had received only a domeſtic education, were well acquainted with hiſtory and geography, and had read the beſt Engliſh poets. Nay, Eliza was, or affected to be, enamoured of poetry, and had gone through the Iliad, with part of the Odyſſey.

CHAPTER II.

MY old friend and neighbour Colonel Brandywine, kept his Chriſtmas with his wife and daughters at my houſe. It was evening—We had drawn round a ſparkling fire of turf, and were amuſing ourſelves with a hundred innocent paſtimes, when my wife propoſed we ſhould tell ſtories, and my ſon Harry was unanimouſly called upon to begin. Why, then, ſaid Harry, I will tell you a ſtory about Pocahuntas, an Indian queen. Bravo! cried the colonel, lighting his pipe a ſecond time,—the ſtory, I gueſs of a ſquaw. No colonel, ſaid the boy, an Indian queen I aſſure you.—Once upon a time there was a captain Smith traded to Virginia, and bartered his goods with the Indians. He had learnt their language, and was often an umpire in the quarrels between them and the whites. He was, however, once betrayed into an ambuſcade of hoſtile Indians, and carried in triumph to Powhatan, their king. The king was ſo proud of having captain Smith in his power, that he ſummoned the tributary princes to attend his triumph. At length the priſoner was brought to the ſlake, and wood prepared to burn him.—But juſt as the fire was kindled, Pocahuntas, the youngeſt and darling daughter of the king, threw her arms around the priſoner, and declared, that unleſs he was pardoned ſhe would be burnt with him. The tears of innocence will prevail when the voice of humanity is unheard. Powhatan could not resiſt the tears and entreaties of his child. His ſavage breaſt relented, and he revoked the ſentence of captain Smith.

Braviſſimo! cried colonel Brandywine. Here is a health to the deſcendants of the tender Pocahuntas.

The boy had ſcarcely finiſhed his ſtory, and received the thanks of the company, when our dog was heard to bark, and preſently a voice to exclaim, Why, holloa here! you give your dog too great a ſcope of cable. There's no coming within hail of the houſe. Whoa, hoa, hoa! heave out there, heave out!

My ſon's voice, cried the colonel, as I am a living being! William! William, repeated Mrs. Brandywine and her daughters, with emotions of pleaſure and ſurpriſe; nor were the words uttered when a youth of nineteen, clad in a jacket and trowſers, and having a ſtick over his ſhoulder with a bundle depending from it, ſtood at the door. His mother received him in her arms, his ſiſters wept for joy, and the old man ſeizing his ſon's hand, ſaid, William, dear boy, thou art welcome home.

A good joke father, faith, to welcome me home in another perſon's houſe. It was with much difficulty I found out your cottage, and when I got to it, there was nobody within but an old negro woman, ſinging the Virginia jig, and two children dancing to the tune. But old Sue ſoon knew me and directed me hither.

And bleſſed, William, be thy coming. But why this humble dreſs, and wherefore this bundle? Yes, reiterated Miſs Brandywine, how comes it, Billy, that you who were formerly as ſpruce as sir Simon Snuff-box, ſhould now be degraded to the dreſs of a tarpaulin.

Why, Nancy, you ſhall hear. From a caſt-away ſailor you cannot reaſonably expect much elegance of dreſs—

Caſt away!

Yes, aſſuredly, caſt away—but before I trouble you with a detail of my adventures, let me deſire you to introduce me to this gentleman and his family.

I will do that myſelf, ſaid the colonel. This gentleman is Mr. Cheeſeman, my moſt particular friend—That lady is his wife, and theſe young women are his daughters. Cheeſeman, let us celebrate my ſon's coming with a military bowl of punch—let us draw our chairs round the fire, and, William, let us have the faithful recital of your adventures. But I ſay, my cunning traveller, let there be no hyperboles, no embelliſhments of your own, no mountains of ſugar and rivers of rum: you have not been twice round the Cape of Good Hope for nothing. Come, my boy, begin your travel's hiſtory.

William now drew his chair towards the fire, and bowing to my wife and daughters, began his narration as follows:

In our outward bound paſſage from Philadelphia to Joanna, we had much boiſterous weather, and the horrors of every gale were aggravated by the timidity of our captain. He was an original being in perſon and mind. He was ſo exceſſively ſat that Jack Haulyard, our ſecond mate, uſed to ſay the ſhip would never be in trim if he ſtaid ſo much abaft, for the old fellow was continually in his cabin. We however got ſafe to the coaſt Malabar; but juſt as we came within ſight of the high land of Chaul, our ſhip fell in with five ſail of Angria's Pirates, a ſnow, a ketch, and a ſchooner. It was night—the moon was riſing over the ſhore. 'Twould be difficult to deſcribe the conſternation of our captain. Mr. Brandywine, ſaid he, do you ſee thoſe bloody pirates? What ſhall we do? Fight them ſir, ſaid I. No! No! Mr. Brandywine, rejoined the captain, let us make all the ſail we can; there is no occaſion to fight when we have in our power to run.

This propoſal was executed. We 〈◊〉 up the helm, and • ouded every ſtitch of canvaſs to the breeze. But the pirates, aſſiſted by their oars, came up with us, hand over hand, and we had no alternative left but that of engaging them. Our captain however was of a different opinion. When he ſaw the point a gun at the headmoſt veſſel, he tremblingly exclaimed, Mr. Brandywine, Mr. Brandywine, I entreat you not to fire, or perhaps they will return 〈◊〉 do us a miſchief. I anſwered this magnanimous hero as he deſerved, by knocking him down on the deck, and took the command of the ſhip into my own hands. I furled my top-gallant ſails, hauled up the foreſail, and hove my mainyard aback, to wait for the pirates. But they thought better of it, and after exchanging a few ſhot, hauled up to the weſtward. I now gave the ſhip back to the Captain, who during the action had put his head into a tar-barrel, and the next morning we came to an anchor in Bombay harbour. Here the Captain, by his artful repreſentation of my conduct, procured me, not a crown of laurel, but a diſmiſſal from the ſhip. I was paid my wages, bound over to give ſecurity for my good conduct, and ſeverely reprimanded by the American Agent. But I told them both to go to the devil, and as long as my money laſted, lived like a Nabob▪ I hired a Palamquin, kept my Bibee and Huckabadar, and when the ſtanding part of my laſt guinea was gone, entered myſelf mate of a ſmall ſhip that was bound to Philadephia. We coaſted it to Cape Comorin, and then made the beſt of our paſſage homewards. But I ſoon found I belonged to a veſſel, that I ought not to have truſted my old ſhoes on board of. She appeared to be fitted out by the pariſh. There was not a rope on board ſtrong enough to hang a cat with—I never ſaw ſuch a miſerable tub. Yet, our Captain, loved her more than his wife, calling her his dear Virginia.

As we approached the American coaſt, a ſtrong gale blew us upon the Jerſeys, and it was not till the night, that we found ourſelves upon a lee-ſhore. About three in the morning, our ſhip ſtruck, and as our boat was ſtove, there was no way to ſave ourſelves, but by ſwimming. The Captain was a good ſwimmer; but the whole time he was in the water, he did nothing but exclaim, My poor, dear Virginia! He reached the ſhore in ſafety, but like another Orpheus, looking round at his Eurydice' a huge wave ſtruck him in the breaſt, and nearly caſt off his life-lines. Three ſeamen and a boy were drowned, but the reſt of the crew eſcaped by ſwimming. As to the Captain, I left him in bed at a Cottage, where he lay raving mad, calling out to thoſe around him, to reſtore him his Virginia. For my part, I made the beſt of my way homeward, and now forget my ſufferings in the joy of beholding my family.

We all liſtened with much attention to the recital of William, who ſat between his ſiſters, holding a hand of each in his own. His countenance was animated, and his perſon, though disfigured by the uncouthneſs of his dreſs, graceful and manly.

My chief regret in being wrecked, reſumed William, was the loſing half a dozen Camel-hair ſhawls, which I had deſigned as preſents for my family and friends.

A fig for the ſhawls, ſaid Mrs. Brandywine, we have got you, and can diſpenſe with every thing elſe.

As the young ſailor had undergone much fatigue, we had an early ſupper, and I will venture to affirm, that a ſweeter meal was never eaten ſince New-Jerſey had been colonized. Good humour without coarſeneſs, preſided at our board, and every countenance reflected an hilarity of heart. As to the Colonel, he could not reſtrain his joy, and an unconſcious ſigh ſtole from the boſoms of my daughters, while William related his ſufferings. After offering a prayer to the Omnipotent for his mercies, the Colonel with his children withdrew to their houſe, and our own family to reſt.

CHAPTER III.

THE next morning William called at our houſe, and politely hoped my wife and daughters felt no indiſpoſition from ſitting up ſo late to hear his ſtory. His appearance was much improved by a change of dreſs, and I do not remember to have ſeen a handſomer or better bred youth. 'Tis true that he ſometimes affected the phraſeology of a ſeaman, but his converſation otherwiſe was not without elegance, and I found him converſant with the branches of polite erudition. He had been educated at Columbia College, and was deſigned for the gown, but from ſome caprice had diſobeyed the wiſhes of his father, to embark for the Indies, whither he had been three voyages.

He found me ſitting with my ſon and daughters at their ſtudies. Serena was ſtudying Geography, and in the innocence of her heart intreated William to ſhew her the places he had viſited on the map. I am peculiarly fond of Geography, ſaid Serena; but I never behold a map without reflecting that the countries before me may contain diſpoſitions I ſhould like to be acquainted with, and ſighing that this will never be in my power. A beautiful ſentiment, ſaid William, and to gratify it you had better go a voyage with me; the ocean would be ſoothed into a calm at the ſmiles of Serena. Then, indeed, rejoined Serena, you aſcribe to me more than moral power. And more than 〈◊〉 you are, ſaid William; but go on my fair pupil with your ſtudies, and, in the mean time, I will addreſs you with a little poem on the ſubject. Serena ſmiled, and William ſnatching up a pen, wrote haſtily as follows—his eye, the whole time, in a fine phrenzy rolling:

ODE TO SERENA, looking over a Map. Powerful as the magic wand, Diſplaying far each diſtant land, Is that angel hand to me, When it points each realm and ſea. Plac'd in Geographic mood, Smiling, ſhew the pictur'd flood, Where, along the red ſea coaſt, Waves o'er whelm'd the Egyptian hoſt. Again the imag'd ſcene ſurvey, The rolling Helleſpontic ſea, Whence the Perſian from the ſhore, Proudly paſs'd his millions day. See! that little iſle afar Of Salamis, renown'd in war, Swelling high the trump of fame, With glory and eternal ſhame! And behold to nearer view, Here, thy own lov'd country too; New-Jerfey! which produc'd to me, Se pure, ſo bright a gem as thee.

Serena was much flattered by this poetical effuſion, which called a bluſh into her cheek; nor could I refuſe it my praiſe. Eliza declared it was the ſweeteſt thing ſhe had ever read, and my wife proteſted it deſerved to be publiſhed in the New-York Magazine. William could not refrain from ſmiling at the laſt compliment, which, however, was ſaid with too grave a face to be ironical.

Upon my word, Sir, ſaid my ſon, one would ſuppoſe that you had come from the ſhade of academic bowers, rather than the lap of Thetis. You poſſeſs what falls to the lot of few, felicity in writing an Ode—which, in my opinion, cannot be had from purchaſe, but gift—and a gift per ſe. Why, Sir, rejoined William, it is found that the efforts of the heart will always ſucceed beyond thoſe of fiction, aswe can always feel more than we can imagine. To ſay that I derived a ſenſible pleaſure from ſtudying the maps with your ſiſter, will be readily believed; and my ode on the ſubject is not a cold production of the head, but a warm effuſion from the heart.

A happy method, ſaid Henry, of diſguiſing the paſſion of love in the language of philoſophy. I have heard Fanny often ſay ſhe ſhould like a poet for her huſband, but I never yet knew that Serena was a votary of Apollo.

Fanny ſmiled triumphantly, but Serena, with more than uſual emotion, reſorted, You will do well, brother, to keep your opinions to yourſelf, and not pretend to determine that I have no reliſh for poetry. I am ſure I could read Goldſmith's Edwin and Angelina for ever.

What elegant language, cried Henry, keep your opinions to yourſelf.

And no fault that I know of, cried William, can be found with it. A ſource of pleaſure is derived from the idioms of every language, to deſtroy which would be to take away its greateſt charm. Simplicity in converſation is to me its moſt captivating beauty, and, therefore, in my judgment, the ladies of New-Jerſey talk better than thoſe of New-York. As to Miſs Serena's taſte for poetry, there cannot be a more convincing proof of it than her fondneſs for the ballad of Edwin and Angelina; and Goldſmith, while ſhe expreſſed her approbation of it, might have ſeen his apotheoſis in her eyes.

I know not whether Serena comprehended this elegance of adulation in its 〈◊〉 force, but the mention of her eyes was 〈◊〉 by her into a compliment, and ſhe held 〈◊〉 down with baſhful lovlineſs. Henry 〈◊〉 ••• poſed to ſhew William our farm, and they went out of the room together.

When they were gone, my wife took off her ſpectacles, and looking round at me triumphantly, called out, A conqueſt! Eliza, I plainly ſee has won the hea •• of the young ſailor.

Mama, anſwered Eliza, poutingly, ſay rather Serena. I am ſure all his compliments were laviſhed upon her.

Simpleton, cried my wife, where is your penetration. Did you not diſtinguiſh that the compliments paid to Serena were levelled at you. It was in this manner your father firſt made love to me. Yes, I clearly diſcerned that while he commended the head-dreſs of your aunt, it was my face he was in love with.

Here my wife chuckled, nor could I refrain from laughter. Soon after my ſon returned with William; who propoſed to take him to New-York. I have a horſe and chair in view to purchaſe, ſaid he, and I wiſh your ſon's opinion of the former. We will call at my fathers' and then proceed on our excurſion. Though I wanted my 〈◊〉 aſſiſtance to repair the 〈◊〉 in the backſide of the farm, I could not refuſe ſo polite and entreaty. Beſides I knew he was an excellent judge of horſe fleſh, and not to be impoſed upon even by a Virginian. I, therefore, ſignified my acquieſence, and went to work by myſelf, while my wife prepared our dinner, and my daughters dreſſed to pay a viſit to their neighbors, the miſs Brandywines.

CHAPTER IV.

THE following afternoon my ſon returned in a chair with William Brandywine, accompanied by a gentleman of about thirty, very faſhionably dreſſed and handſomely mounted. They had called at my houſe, but finding the family gone to viſit the colonel, they followed our foot-ſteps. The girls ran to the window at their approach, and in a few minutes. William entered with my ſon and the ſtranger. Give me leave, ladies, ſaid he, to introduce Doctor Lovell to your acquaintance. He is one of my particular friends, who once was ſurgeon to a ſhip of which I was an officer. The doctor was an excellent ſeaman below in a gale of wind.

The doctor bowed, and ſoon by his eaſy, unaffected manners, made himſelf agreeable to us all. His perſon was dignified, and his manners perfectly thoſe of a man of the world.

Your ſon, Mr. Cheeſeman, cried William, would, I am perſuaded, make a fortune in ſpeculations upon horſe-fleſh. The moſt expert jockey that ever nicked a horſe would never be able to lay an anchor out to windward of him. What do you think, doctor, of that horſe of mine? Why, I think, anſwered the doctor that he will run away with you. To appropriate your own language, he juſt now nearly pitched you over his bows.

Pſhaw, cried William, the beſt ſeaman in the world cannot hinder his ſhip from pitching or rolling; and it is a bad navigation from the Kilm • s to this houſe. At one time, I thought myſelf in the ſtraits of Baſſleman. But now I think of it, young Ladies, I have ſome pleaſant news to impart—

Oh, hang your news, ſaid Miſs Brandywine; Ladies are not politicians. They never read the papers, but for the deaths or marriages.

It is neither, replied William, about politics, weddings or burials—Coming along, we overtook an old blind negro, with a fiddle under his arm, led by a little boy. Old fellow, ſaid I, can you play a country dance? Yes Moſſer, anſwered the old boy, a dozen of them, and immediately ſtruck up the White Cockade. Then you are the very man I want, ſaid I, and propoſed to him to take a ſeat in the chair. But the negro, though he could not ſee me, ſaid I was too great a gentleman for him to ride with, and offered to call at my houſe; ſo I threw the boy half a dollar to give him, and enjoined him not to fail calling at Colonel Brandywine's:—We may expect him ſoon, and, Ladies, we can form a little dance.

The girls, at this information, appeared much rejoiced—The tea was haſtened, and a truſty meſſenger diſpatched, to bring the blind fiddler to the houſe. He ſoon after was announced, and entered, led by a negro boy, who, he told us, was his grandſon. I remarked that the old man reeled a little in walking, but this I aſcribed to his blindneſs; and the young people, cleared the parlour for a dance.

When the chairs and tables were removed, William led up the dance with my youngeſt daughter Serena, who, though ſhe had never received but three leſſons from an itinerant dancing maſter, exceeded both the Miſs Brandywines, in the unaffected eaſe of her carriage, and the graceful negligence of her ſteps. My other child was taken out by Doctor Lovell, and my Son compoſed the third couple, with the eldeſt daughter of the Colonel: of the young Ladies her ſiſter alone, was without a partner, and, to make up the deficiency, I took her hand myſelf. It is true, I was not dreſſed for the Ball-room, and had not ſhaken a foot at the fiddle for at leaſt a dozen years. But I was reſolved to do my beſt, and waited with ſome impatience for my turn to begin. My wife nodded her head in token of approbation, and whiſpered to Mrs. Brandywine, loud enough to be heard, that if it was not for the nails in my ſhoes, I ſhould dance as ſpry as any.

At length the dance was called, and the old negro in a corner, began to ſcrape his cat-gut. But never was there ſuch diſcord; it was the mere rubbing of his ſtick againſt the bridge of his fiddle, without the leaſt regard to notes. It was in vain that William remonſtrated with the blind fiddler, and told him he had played divinely on the road. The fellow was ſo drunk, that he could not ſit upright, and his face was diſtended with the moſt frightful contorſions.

Why, confound the fellow, cried William, he is drunk!—drunk as ten hundred top-fail ſheet blocks; tell me little 〈◊〉 , the reaſon your Dady don't play?

Oh Moſſer, cried the boy, Old Dady never play when he drink a little too much; we ſtop at half-way houſe, and old Dady ſpend Moſſer's half dollar in rum.

A ſad diſaſter, ſaid William, what, Ladies can we do?

'Oh! take the monſter away, exclaimed Miſs Brandywine—I declare I am ready to faint; the man is ſo intoxicated, he cannot ſit.

Never mind me, Miſſee, ſaid the old fellow; Me ſit very well—you Miſſee dance—why nobody dance? Orpheus play his fingers off, but nobody dance; there good tune Miſſee, old Orpheus play well for true.

Orpheus! cried Miſs Brandywine; never was the name ſo profaned; do brother take the old wretch away.

But if I take him away, ſaid William, what ſhall we do for a fiddler? The old boy, when he gets his hand in, will, I make no doubt, play very well; however, if you all inſiſt upon baniſhing him your preſence, here he goes—Yoa! hoa! up!—So ſaying, he took the old negro fiddler by the ſhoulder, and puſhed him towards the door, but not with more reluctance did the firſt Orpheus leave the ſhades, than this modern one the room. He reſiſted the efforts of the young Sailor, calling out, Miſſee, me play well for true; while the crying of the boy, at the violence offered to his grandfather, formed a Serio-Comic ſcene.

The Colonel, who had played in his youth on the violin, now propoſed to take the inſtrument, rather than the dance ſhould be ſpoiled; and we contrived to foot it away with much hilarity, notwithſtanding our ſecond fiddler was little better than the firſt. For my part, what I wanted in graceful agility, I made up by muſcular exertion; and comforted myſelf with the reflection, that though I was no great dancer myſelf, I had a ſon and two daughters in the room, who could do the 〈◊〉 for me.

The evening paſſed away much to our ſatisfaction, and it was a later hour than uſual when we repaired to our home.

CHAPTER V.

THE marked attention which the Son of my friend the Colonel paid my daughter Serena, did not eſcape the obſervation of Deborah and myſelf; but, one circumſtance interfered to make us view it with ſorrow. The Son of farmer Hayſtack, from his long attention to Serena, had a claim to her hand; and, to his father, who once propoſed their being joined in wedlock, I had ſignified my aſſent. Serena, who was ever happy when ſhe made me ſo, teſtified no repugnance to the match, and, as neighbour Hayſtack was a violent Democrat, my wife could have no objection. As to the Lover, he was not remarkable for his accomplishments, unleſs 〈…〉 My ſecret diſinclination to the marriage aroſe from the reflection, that he was not enlightened enough to be the yoke-fellow of the tender Serena.

It was, however, time to determine ſomething, and, after a morning in which William had behaved to my daughter with diſtinguiſhed attention, I took the opportunity in his abſence, thus, to accoſt her before my wife.

It is, perhaps, Serena, not improper to remind you of the promiſe you have made young Hayſtack to become his partner for life. I have too favourable an opinion of you, my child, to think you can act the coquette, and encourage one man with thoſe ſmiles that belong to another; therefore, the pleaſure you manifeſt at the attention of William creates ſuſpicions in my breaſt, that he is not wholly indifferent to you. Tell your father candidly, Serena, did he ever avow a paſſion for you?

To be candid, Papa, he has! It was only yeſterday William repeated, that no earthly power ſhould hinder me from becoming his wife. It was in vain that I expoſtulated, and told him another had a claim to me. He ſwore vehemently he would mount his horſe, and cut his rival Hayſtack's throat. To pacify him for the moment, I—

What? did you promiſe him marriage!

I did, Papa, indeed! for alas—I can never love, or think of another—

Then, cried I, with indignation, may you meet the reward of your diſingenuouſneſs. Was it for this baſeneſs that I undertook myſelf the care of your education, and guided your ſteps into the paths of virtue and truth. How ſharper than the ſerpent's tooth, to a father, is the ingratitude of a daughter. But—

I was going on, when a noiſe was heard without, and in a few minutes entered young Hayſtack with a pipe in his mouth. He accoſted Serena, who was weeping, with the following addreſs:

Yes, yes, Miſs Cheeſeman, this crying comes now I ſuppoſe from your treatment of me. I told father how 'twould be. He told me not be impoſed upon, but I ſays, father, I'll juſt have the curioſity to ſee to what lengths the ſailor and Senny will go, and my filly foal againſt your old horſe that's got the bots, but the girl comes back to Jack Hayſtack. He! he! he! Come ſweetheart ſay you repent.

Oh, leave me I intrest you!

Leave you! No, let me alone for not leaving you. Jack Cheeſeman will not look quietly over the hedge while another man ſteals his mare. I ſay, Sen • y, thou art mine. Thou art more dear to me than my houſe, my barn, or my new team; and I would as ſoon think of ſhooting my beſt pointer bitch as giving thee up to a Jack Tar.

I was about to interpoſe, when William Brandywine entered the room, accompanied by my ſon. On perceiving the diſtreſs of my daughter, he flew like lightning towards her and ſnatched the girl in his arms—who, all diſſolved in tears looked up at him with tenderneſs and ſunk her head upon his breaſt. It was an affecting ſcene. We were all moved to ſympathy except Hayſtack, who thus continued:

I ſay, Mr. Captain, I don't half like that there cuſtom of taking another man's bride in your arms. We farmers are plain up and down folks and never want the help of another to broach our new eider barrel—

I tell you, ſir, cried William, that whatever be your calling, you are a groſs, impudent fellow—

Fellow, anſwered Hayſtack, I call upon every perſon in this room to remember that this gentleman has accuſed me of ſheep-ſtealing—and that—

Begone, blockhead, rejoined William, it would be doing you too much honor to chaſtiſe you.

Chaſtiſe! ſaid Hayſtack, that is I gueſs as much as to ſay as how you'd flog me. Look ye now, Mr. Captain, though I am below your pitch, I'll fight, wreſtle or gouge with you for a paper of tobacco; or I'll fight you with a pitch-fork, and my filly-foal againſt your broken-winded chair-horſe, but I bang you like a ſack.

At the cloſe of this ſpeech, William endeavored the diſengage himſelf from Serena that he might ſpring at young Hayſtack; but, the afflicted girl, anticipating his deſign, clung fondly around him. My ſon now stepped up to the Farmer, and clinching his fiſt addreſſed him as follows:

Mr. Hayſtack, the horſe which you are pleaſed to call broken-winded was purchaſed by me, and therefore this laſt inſult I muſt take to myſelf. I have flogged many a better fellow than you, in my time, and I will let you ſee that you cannot always bully with impunity. The boy, on ſaying this, raiſed his arm, and would have dealt a 〈…〉 young farmer Hayſtack, had I not interpoſed my authority. Children, cried I, reſtrain the impetuoſity of your paſſion. Convert not my houſe into a ſcene of tumult and ſtrife. Mr. Hayſtack I will ſpeak with you in private, and Serena go thou and take a chair next thy mother.

Hayſtack now prepared to follow me, putting himſelf in a boxing attitude near the door, and menacing both William and my ſon with his fiſt. You're a couple of knaves, cried he, and as for you, miſs Deceitful, you are an arrant ſtrumpet.

Hold, wretch, cried I, this obloquy diſſolves a contract which nothing elſe could make me infringe. Begone, baſe calumniator, begone form my ſight, and know that thy vileneſs alone can ſhield thee from my wrath. He made no reply, but walked out of the houſe, whiſtling ſome vulgar tune, and I returned to the 〈◊〉 . A ſilence for ſome minutes prevailed, when William thus addreſſed me:

Mr. Cheeſeman, ſince the late ſcene you have witneſſed, there is no need for me to ſay I am devoted to your daughter, and not indifferent to her heart. I know not that you can have any objection to our union. My fortune is ample and my integrity unblemiſhed. I may have ſome youthful eccentricities—but theſe will vaniſh at the preſence of Serena, like a miſt before the ſun. Your amiable lady will I hope have no objection to me for a ſon-in-law, and as to your gallant Henry, we are brothers already.—So ſaying he once more approached Serena, and fondly taking her hand, reſumed his diſcourſe in the following words:—But it is not impoſſible that my dear Serena may feel her former paſſion revived at the appearance of Squire Hayſtack, who has ſo eloquently expreſſed his love, by ſwearing he would ſooner think of 〈◊〉 his 〈◊〉 pointer, than relinquiſhing her hand. Say, therefore, my angel, will you take Squire Hayſtack to your arms, or faithful Will Brandywine?

I will have only you, if Papa will conſent.

Then by this kiſs, a thouſand times more ſweet than the honey of Mount Hybla, I hail you my wife elect—and now we have only to ſend for the Parſon to ſplice us faſt together. Zounds! I could dance a hornpipe upon the head of a ſcupper-nail.

Hold, Sir, cried I. The conſent of my daughter can be of little conſequence, without the concurrence of her parents' approbation; and, Sir, you have a father yourſelf—

Ah! truly, Sir, I have, and an alliance with your charming family will be both a comfort and an honour to him. Of his acquieſcence I can have no doubt, and as that is the only thing wanting, I am the happieſt fellow on earth. But adieu for the preſent, I will go to my father and acquaint him with my happineſs.

CHAPTER VI.

WHEN William was gone, my wife haranged me from her chair. It would be ſurely folly, my dear, to interpoſe our authority, where our ſanction is demanded. I now perceive clearly that William loves Serena, and is beloved himſelf by her. Let us, therefore, promote a marriage, which promiſes ſo much happineſs to our child. Hayſtack has forfeited that claim to her hand, which was at firſt granted to him precipitately. Serena, dry up your tears, for nobody will be a reſtraint upon you.

I was going to reply, when I ſaw through the window, the Colonel approach with his ſon.

Well, here, ſaid William, is Dady, who gives his hearty conſent to the match. So, my dear Serena, let us ſend for the Parſon, and get ſpliced ſhipſhape. When I take you onboard my ſhip, there ſhall be an accommodation-ladder got over the ſide, and a carpet ſpread from the gangway to the door of the great cabin. Sea-Nymphys ſhall guide the veſſel, and wait upon their Goddeſs. But, holloa! brother Harry, let us now ſplice the main-brace; do bring out a little of that Nectar called Grog. Father Cheeſeman your good health—

Cheeſeman, cried the Colonel, this marriage between our children, will be the cement of our friendſhip. A ſly young dog! he never before told me of his paſſion. But I approve it moſt cordially, and ſo does my wife. Let us, therefore, ſmile on their propoſed union, that we may put Hymen in a good humour. I have known what it is to love myſelf—this heart, amidſt the tumult and carnage of war, was not inſenſible to the tender paſſion—

Ha! ha! laughed William—and this heart will be conſoled on the boſom of the ocean. when I think there is another, that beats not leſs for my return. Serena! when the waves run high around your Cottage, will you ever think of your William?

I will, William, indeed! Every time the wind blows, I ſhall ſigh for my abſent ſailor.

Come, don't talk ſentimental, ſaid the Colonel, but look to your marriage. On Valentine's day, you ſhall be paired, and when your nuptials, Bill, are conſummated, I will preſent you with a ſhip to make your fortune. Come, Cheeſeman, bring your family to dine with me, and let us beguile the hours in projecting ſchemes of future happineſs.

The Colonel was ſcarcely gone, when the beating of a horſe's hoofs was heard, and we ran to the window to ſee who was coming. It was Doctor Lovell, who diſmounting from his ſteed, came into the houſe. The uſual ſalutations over, he addreſſed William with ſaying, Upon my word, Brandywine, thou art a happy fellow, for I always find you in the midſt of lovelineſs and grace. But, young Ladies, the motive of my viſit is to invite you to a Batchelor's ball, and to ſolicit Miſs Eliza, to do me the honour to become my partner. I hope the Muſicians will be better than they were at our laſt aſſembly.

If your Ball, ſaid William, be a batchelor's Ball, I ſhall haul my wind away from you—I deſpiſe heartily the whole fraternity—

What are you going ſo ſoon, then, to be married?

I am, Doctor, you may depend—

But to whom, Sir, if I may take the liberty?

To no other, Doctor, than Miſs Cheeſeman▪ I am my deareſt fellow without a competitor in happineſs, I—

To Miſs Cheeſeman, cried the Doctor, with viſible emotion—Is it poſſible, that in ſo ſhort a time—that in only a few evenings—that—Yes, Sir, to Miſs Cheeſeman—the amiable and bewitching Serena Cheeſeman—the little queen of my heart—the rudder of my affections—the—

To Miſs Serena! exclaimed the Doctor, recovering from his conſternation. Sir, I congratulate you, and Madam, I make you my reſpects.

During this converſation, I could not but remark the emotion of the Doctor, and the bluſhes of my eldeſt daughter, at the confuſion he bad betrayed. I began to ſuſpect that Eliza had made an impreſſion on his affections, and would have kept her away from the Ball, had I not been over-ruled by my wife. The Doctor accompanied us to the Colonel, and was ſcarcely leſs attentive, though more refined towards Eliza, than William was to her ſiſter. My Son Henry, alſo, never quitted the ſide of Miſs Brandywine, ſo that the ſcene wore the ſemblance of innocent courtſhip. Time ſeemed to take another pair of wings, and the pipe of the Colonel did not once go out from ſunſet till midnight.

CHAPTER VII.

ON Valentine's day my daughter's nuptials were privately conſummated, and only our old party celebrated the wedding. But never was there a more perfect ſcene of ſublunary bliſs. William was almoſt giddy in the poſſeſſion of Serena, whoſe azure eyes never languiſhed with more unaffected expreſſion. She had ſcarcely reached her ſixteenth year, and might have ſat to a painter for the youngeſt ſiſter of the Graces.

As William intended to embark ſoon on another voyage, he did not take a houſe, but carried his bride home to his father, who preſented her on the wedding-day with notes for five thouſand dollars, and promiſed to William a veſſel of three hundred tons.

But five months elapſed, before the Colonel could find a ſhip to his liking, when the confirmed pregnancy of Serena made him defer his voyage till the next year. But with the coming ſpring, he began to make active preparations for a voyage, though I believe he would willingly have procraſtinated his departure. Serena had brought him a boy▪ and was in a fair way of producing another.

However at length the day arrived, when he was to proceed on his voyage, being bound up the ſtraits. The wind was favourable, and we all accompanied him to Paulus-Hook. The ſcene was too affecting for me to pretend to depict it. Serena hung round her husband's neck, which ſhe bathed with her tears, then gave him the child, while ſobs broke her utterance. William turned himſelf aſide, to conceal the falling tear, and the words of the Colonel faultered on his tongue, while he graſped his Son by the hand. At length he ſtepped into the boat, holding his hands up to his face, and it was in this attitude that we viewed him recede from the ſhore. My wife and Eliza, ſtrove to conſole the afflicted Serena, but ſhe only anſwered with the exclamation of My heart forebodes me evil—Oh! God! I ſhall never ſee him more!

In a dejected manner we proceeded homewards, and got to my dwelling; but the departure of William threw a gloom on every face. Once or twice, the Colonel attempted to relate a ſtory, but grief lopped his utterance, and he could not go on. Our party, therefore, ſoon broke up, for the cup of our life was filled with the bitterneſs of woe. It is to no purpoſe the face puts on gladneſs, when the heart is wrong with anguiſh.

CHAPTER VIII.

WILLIAM had been gone but a few months when Doctor Lovell ſuggeſted to me the paſſion he cheriſhed for Eliza, and begged my approbation of his ſuit.

As he was a man of fortune, talents, and inexceptionable character, I could have no objection to him for a Son-in-law, and I knew that he had long been acceptable to the heart of my daughter. Their marriage was celebrated with much feſtivity, except that grief, like a worm in the bud, preyed on the cheek of Serena, who would not mingle in the dance. The doctor hired a ſmall farm within a mile of our habitation, and, by his accommodating temper and conciliating manners, was a great acceſſion to our ſociety.

My happineſs would now have been complete, but for the dejection of Serena, whoſe cheerfulneſs forſook her from the moment ſhe parted with William. Her only conſolation was in her boy, who reflected the image of his father, and a little girl at her breaſt.

In this ſtate of affairs, the father of doctor Lovell, who was one of the greateſt planters in Georgia, died ſuddenly inteſtate, and every poſſeſſion deſcended to his ſon▪ The Doctor well knew the extent of his plantations, and conſcious that he ſhould never be enabled to ſuperintend the whole, offered to loan part at an eaſy price to the Colonel and myſelf. It would be a great pity, ſaid he, were our three families to ſeparate. Acquieſce, therefore, in my propoſal. In removing to Georgia, you will carry every connexion in yourſelves. My plantations are on the Atlantic. The ſummer is rendered agreeable by a refreſhing ſea-breeze, and the air of the winter is remarkably ſoft. Beſides, change of climate, and external objects, may relieve the mind of Serena.

The Colonel and myſelf agreed to wait three months longer for the arrival of William, and if he did not return at that period to undertake with our families the migration. In the meanwhile we found purchaſers for our farms, and the chief of our cattle.

Nearly four months rolled on without bringing any tidings of William. He had now been gone nearly a year, and we had reaſon to expect him in half that time. The dejection of Serena, affected us all; ſhe never told her grief, but her wan eye, and faded cheek, diſclosed it to every beholder.

We therefore prepared to go. Yet it was not without exceſs of ſorrow that I left the habitation in which I had lived ſo long, ſo innocently, and ſo peaceably! My feet clung to the threſhold, and I looked with wildneſs at the locuſt tree, under whoſe ſhade I had ſo often ſat with my wife and children. Oh! if theſe are prejudices, let me hug them to my breaſt, and far away be that philoſophy that would deprive me of my feelings! My wife hung down her head, and Serena bedewed with tears the child that ſlept on her boſom.

Nothing remarkable diſtinguiſhed our journey, unleſs it was the proceſſion our families made. As the Doctor had ſome buſineſs to tranſact at Philadelphia, we proceeded thither in three carriages, and at that city embarked for Savannah, where we arrived in ten days.

We did not ſtay long at Savannah, but went without delay to our plantations. The levelneſs of the country before us, where not the gentleſt acclivity bleſt the ſight, made us ſigh for our hills to the northward; and the gloomineſs of the road, through one continued tract of pine barren, operated to encreaſe the melancholy of Serena.

The axe of the negro felling trees was heard from the woods, and conſpired with the note of the whipper-will to throw a horror upon the ſcene.

The ſun went down upon our melancholy, and it was dark when we reached the plantation of my ſon-in-law.

CHAPTER IX.

WE found our ſerenity partly reſtored in the morning, when I accompanied the Colonel and Doctor Lovel to take a ſurvey of the plantation. To form an idea of our habitations, let the reader picture to himſelf three houſes within a quarter of a mile of each other, bounded by the Atlantic ocean on the eaſt, and lofty trees of pine and hickory on the weſt.

In the vicinity of our dwellings were extenſive grounds of cotton and of rice, on which at leaſt an hundred and ſeventy negroes were employed. My heart bled at the toils of the poor African before me, for I had laid it down as an axiom, that the property of a maſter in his ſlave was an uſurpation and not a right; but I quieted my conſcience with the determination to ſoften the rigours of his bondage.

The country in the neighbourhood exhibited a new and enchanting proſpect. The borders of the woods were covered with the branches of the dog-wood, whoſe white flowers intermixed with the purple and luxuriant bloſſoms of the red-bud tree, caught the eye from every part; while ſhrubs of jessamine, blended with the honey-ſuckle, lined the road on either ſide.—The feathered choir began to warble their ſtrains, and from every tree was heard the ſong of the red-bird, of which the pauſes were filled by the mocking-bird, who either imitated the note with the utmoſt preciſion, or poured forth a raviſhing melody of its own.

Our firſt care was to cultivate our reſpective fields of cotton, which, expoſed to 〈◊〉 -breeze, was not exceeded in its ſtaple by any of the ſtate. As we compoſed three families living in the boſom of the ſame extenſive wood, we ſought but little acquaintance with the other planters; nor did their oſtentatious manners ſuit the primoeval ſimplicity of our own.

But the abſence of William was an inſuperable obſtacle to our tranquility. The only conſtruction we could put on his not returning, was his being made priſoner by the Algerines. This was the ſuggeſtion of the heart of Serena, whoſe grief viſibly augmented to the ſorrow of her family. We did every thing in our power to conſole her, by obſerving that ſuch incidents were not rare; and the accidental peruſal of the Hiſtory of Donna Mencia in Le Sage, confirmed her in the probability of what we ſuggeſted. But her chief refuge was in the compoſition of elegiac ſtrains, and the following effuſion of her ſorrows, though irregular, I have ever conſidered tender.

Addreſs to the Mocking-Bird. SWEET bird! Whoſe imitative ſtrain, Of all thy tribe can perſonate the note, And with a burthen'd heart complain, Or to the ſong of joy attune thy throat. To thee I touch the ſtring! While at my caſement, from the neighb'ring tree, Thou hail'ſt the coming ſpring, And plaintive pour'ſt thy voice, or mock'ſt with merry glee! Thou bringeſt to my mind The characters we find, Amid the motley ſcenes of human life; How very few appear The garb of truth to wear, But with a borrow'd voice, conceal a heart of ſtrife. Sure, then, with wiſdom fraught, Thou art by nature taught, Diſſembled joy in others to deride; And when the mournful heart, Aſſumes a ſprightly part, To note the cheat, and with thy mocking chide. But when, with midnight ſong, Thou ſing'ſt the woods among, And ſofter feelings in the breaſt awake;Put for awak'ſt. Sure, then, thy rolling note Doth ſympathy denote, And ſhews thou can'ſt of others grief partake. Pour out they lengthen'd ſtrain, With woe and grief complain, And blend thy ſorrows in the mournful lay; Thy moving tale reveal, Make me ſoft pity feel, I love in ſilent woe to paſs the day!

But every condition of life has its proportion of good and evil, and if the ſorrow of Serena afflicted, the tranquility of her ſiſter gave me reaſon to rejoice. She was the mother of a blooming boy, and doated on by her husband.

Winter came on, but no tidings of William. It was, therefore, concluded on that he was taken by the Moors, and Doctor Lovel propoſed going to Philadelphia, that he might make every enquiry of his mercantile friends, and ſhould our conjectures be right, adopt means to effect his ranſom.

He departed with our pious wiſhes, and my ſon Henry undertook to manage his plantation while he was gone.

CHAPTER X.

IT was a cuſtom every Saturday-night, to aſſemble our three families at my houſe, where we amuſed ourſelves in telling ſtories, or playing at blind-man's buff. The grief of Serena was reſpected, and we never aſked her to join in our paſtimes, but the colonel was the life of our party, and at the age of three ſcore, taught us how to be young.

It was early in the winter, when we were one evening sitting round a cheerful fire of wood, that the colonel propoſed we ſhould reſpectively tell a ſtory of ſome diverting tendency. I will be ſorrowful, ſaid he, no longer. Hope bids me conſole myſelf that William will return, and his abſence is a diſpenſation from Heaven, at which to murmur is profane. Come, my life, Serena, cheer up your drooping courage. That little rogue, Bill, knows not the grief of his mother. He is ever putting coals into the bowl of my pipe, or unravelling his grandmother's ball of worſted. My life for it, Serena, but he will make a thorough bred Sailor.

I hope, Sir. Heaven will avert that ſuch will be his fate. His father—here her riſing ſobs ſtopped her voice.

My child, cried I, be comforted. Billy ſhall ſtay at home and find contentment with his mother. Aſſuage your ſorrows with the hope that William will ſoon embrace his boy, and that a proſperous gale is now wafting him home. We are not alone burthened with grief. How many thouſands are there, at the moment, without a ray of hope to illumine the horizon of life.—Think of the mother deprived, by death, of her late ſo ſmiling offspring, the widow weeping over the grave of the object of her affections. How many at this moment ſinking in the wretched hut of indigence, would envy us this fire-ſide, and the comforts yet within our power. The blaſt, that now rages round our dwelling, expires on the trees, and creates no other ſolicitude but for the ſailor on the ocean. Let us, therefore, no longer nurſe the canker grief. Lovell will ſoon return, and we may look for happy tidings.

I think, cried my ſon, that we were wise to come hither. Our ſituation is charming.—Three familes confederated in the boſom of a ſecluded wood, conſtitute a fine picture of domeſtic life. It is ſuch a patriarchal one as I have always ſighed for, and at laſt obtained.

But Harry, rejoined the colonel, you do not much reſemble a patriarch, who lead a ſingle life. Why, zounds! before I was twenty, I became a ſober, married man. That ſpare houſe of Lovell's reproaches you every time you paſs the door, for not bringing into it a wife. I believe Cheeſeman and I muſt put our heads together, and make up a match between you and my eldeſt daughter.

The girl bluſhed, and Henry's face was undergoing a ſuffuſion, when the gale, which had been riſing from the time the ſun ſunk below the horizon, now raged with a violence, that made the houſe ſhake from the foundation. It was on the verge of midnight, but no one thought of going to bed. On the contrary, we drew cloſer to the fire, as the impetuoſity of the 〈◊〉 increaſed, and the face of Serena became pale as a ghoſt.

In the midſt of an awful ſilence that prevailed throughout our party, Serena, with diſtraction in her looks, ſuddenly ſhrieked from her chair, Oh God! oh God! I hear the cries of diſtreſs! It is William! Oh God! it is William!

I ſnatched her in my arms. Serena be comforted.—My deareſt child, let not the illuſions of a diſturbed imagination raiſe ſuch terror in your breaſt. Be paciſied—

Oh God! cried Serena, let me go to the beach! 'Tis William! oh 'tis William! and ſhe ran towards the door, nor did we think of reſtraining, but followed her ſteps.

On coming to the beach, we ſaw the sea riſing into mountains, and rolling, with a dreadful roar, its waves towards the ſhore. But the ſtouteſt heart would have been appalled, to behold the ſea breaking into foam over a long roof of rocks, that extended in a line from where we ſtood.— The moon was veiled from our eyes by clouds of the deepeſt black, and what light ſhe afforded, ſerved only to increaſe the horror of the ſcene.

Serena, with her hair looſe and floating in the wind, was looking towards the rocks, and with her hands claſped together, exclaiming, O! God! It is he!

We looked in the ſame direction, and as the moon became for two or three moments diſengaged from clouds, could diſtinguiſh a ſhip 〈◊〉 upon the rock over which the billows were breaking.

Some voices were faintly heard, but it was only Serena who aſſimilated any particular one to that of William.

At length we could perceive a ſmall boat making towards the ſhore, which at intervals was loſt to our ſight between the hollow of the waves.

And now our minds were wound up to the higheſt pitch of hope, and Serena was kneeling on the ſand, with averted eyes and hands lifted towards heaven, when, on a ſudden, as the boat roſe to our ſight, a huge wave rolled over it, and ſunk the frail bark in the abyſs of the deep.

Serena uttered a ſhriek, and fell on the ground.

We ran to her aid, and had ſearcely raiſed her up, when the wave that had ſnatched the boat from her ſight rolled a body to the ſhore.

She ran to the place—It was the corſe of her husband!

She ſlung herſelf on the body, and claſped it to her breaſt. She preſſed her cheek to William's—ſhe put her lips to his mouth—but the vital functions had ceaſed—ſhe embraced a breathleſs corſe—and fell upon his breaſt.

For myſelf, I ſtood fixed to the ground in ſpeechleſs aſtoniſhment and woe; but, my Son more collected, advanced to tear Serena from an object that ſtirred up ſuch emotions in her ſoul—

He lifted her without reſiſtance in his arms from the body of William, for ſhe was become paſſive to his efforts; her pulſe had ceaſed to beat: Serena was no more!

My own heart was convulſed with anguiſh. To ſee the body of my child carried lifeleſs to the houſe. Oh! 'twas paſt a father's bearing. I wept aloud.

My wife and remaining daughter, with piercing lamentations, followed Henry to the houſe, who returned to perform the laſt office of friendſhip to William.

The Colonel was ſitting, with his wife and daughters, near the body of William. He read the kind intention of Henry in his eyes, and both made an effort to lift the corſe from the ground—but it was ineffectual—their feelings overcame them—they both burſt into tears.

I went into the houſe. The grief of my wife approached to frenzy. She was hanging over Serena, whoſe body, wet with the ſurge, was laid on a bed. Her eldeſt child ſat unconcernedly on one ſide; Mamma, ſaid the child, is faſt aſleep.

The paſſionate wailings of my wife, arouſed me from my torpor. I feared the conſequence of her exceſs of grief.

To ſuffer, ſaid I, is the lot of human nature, and though ſorrow cannot be repreſt, yet to temper it is our duty. The diſpenſations of the Almighty appear often cruel to weak mortals, but there is unerring wiſdom in his decrees, and to repine is to 〈◊〉 them. Let us, therefore, compoſe our minds in prayer, and bow before the throne of that God, who knows when to give, and when to take away.

CHAPTER XI.

THERE now only remained to be performed the melancholy interment of our children.—About a hundred yards from my houſe were two cypreſs trees, forming a kind of arch, under which we propoſed to bury their remains. It was on a gentle eminence that commanded a view of the ocean, and hither Serena would often repair with no other companions but her children, to indulge under their gloom in the luxury of ſorrow.

As there was no Clergyman in the neighbourhood, I undertook to read the burial ſervice over the grave myſelf, and, indeed, I thought my connexion of father made me a very proper perſon. The coffins were followed to the grave by our families and a few of our neighbours, whom, when I had read the ſervice, I addreſſed in nearly the following words:

"Though my heart and eyes are yet full from the mournful ſcene you have witneſſed, I ſubmit with pious reſignation to the event that deprives me of a beloved child; for in what terms could I addreſs that Omnipotent Being, whoſe decrees my complaints ſhould accuſe of injuſtice. The object of my diſcourſe is to remind you of the inſtability of worldly things, and to admoniſh you of the leſſon afforded us by the premature deceaſe of thoſe we have juſt interred. Not only every year, but every day, every hour, every moment may be our laſt. Meditate, therefore, over the tomb of your departed friends, and in the preſence of their aſhes, on the chance, vanity and vexation of life. What now, in theſe dark habitations of death, remains to them of all their pleaſures, endearments and projects of happineſs?

Cloſed are thoſe eyes, that once ſparkled with gaiety, and pallid the cheek that glowed with the bloom of health.

My ſufferings are great. With eyes turned to the fatal rock, my daughter complained, nor could her father conſole her. I ſtood all night on the ſhore.—The moon lent its beam to diſcover only ſights of woe, for the wave that rolled to the ſhore, overwhelmed her husband in its rage. She ran to the ſpot, and breathed her laſt upon the corſe. Gone is my child, but it was God who called her away.

"When the ſtorm lifts the waves, I ſhall ſit by the ſhore, and look on the fatal rock.—Often ſhall I think of my child, and often drop the tear; but it will be the tear of reſignation, and not of reproach, at the great Diſpenſer of all things."

When I had finiſhed my addreſs, our families returned in ſlow proceſſion to the houſe, more compoſed I thought in their minds from my admonition over the grave. For a conſiderable time they lamented the deceaſe of William and Serena, but at length the memory of them gave way to the ſucceſſion of new objects, to the growth of their children, and the marriage of my ſon with the eldeſt daughter of the colonel.

The loſs of my child was a ſevere blow to the feelings of my wife, but I ſoothed her with my counſel, and endeavoured, by my own example, to teach her patience under ſuffering.

FINIS