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, [Page 6] 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 [Page] 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.

[Page 8] 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 [Page 9] 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 [Page 10] 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 [Page 11] 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.

[Page 12] 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 [Page 13] 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 [Page 14] 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 [Page 15] 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 [...] [Page 16] 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 [Page 17] 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 [Page 18] 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 [Page 19] 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 [Page 20] 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 [...] [Page 21] 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:

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 [Page 23] 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.

[Page 24] 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.

[Page 25] 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 [...] [Page 26] 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 [Page 27] 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 [Page 28] 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.

[Page 29] 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 [Page 30] 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?

[Page 31] 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 [Page 32] 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.

[Page 33] 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 [...] [Page 34] 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?

[Page 35] 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 [Page 36] 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.

[Page 37] 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—

[Page 38] 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 [Page 39] 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 [Page 40] 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 [Page 41] 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 [Page 43] 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?

[Page 44] 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 [Page 45] 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—

[Page 46] 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 [Page 48] 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 [Page 49] 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.

[Page 50] 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 [Page 51] 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 [Page 52] 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.

[Page 53] 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. [Page 54] 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 [Page 55] 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 [Page 56] 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.

[Page 58] 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 [Page 59] 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.

[Page 60] 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 [Page 61] 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 [...] [Page 62] 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.— [Page 63] 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.

[Page 64] 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 [Page 65] 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.

[Page 66] 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 [Page 68] 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 [Page 69] 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 [Page 70] 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.