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The one a sage disciple of the gown,
The other much renown'd throughout the town,
For bolus, nostrum, Esculapian skill,

The rich to fleece, the lingering to kill.

These in a galley, with their sable train.

Press'd to the shore that bounds the distant main;
There in the Sylvan shades the youths around,
With laughter-loving nymphs in silk were found;
The bridal beauty in the midst appear'd,

And next the bridegroom, but without a beard;
For not as yet for wisdom was he famed,
Nor had his chin his manhood yet proclaim'd.

Soon as the Priest had joined them hand in hand,
At signal giv'n arose the tuneful band;
Musicians skill'd the tambourine to ring,
And fiddlers numberless to swell the string.
Then shine the train, in two collected rows,
The left a range of belles, the right of beaux;
Of these the forms in figur'd muslin veil'd,
Of those the legs in silken hose conceal'd.
Now all at once two swift for sight they rise,
With nimble footsteps, and with glowing eyes;
So the round wheels in giddy circles roll,
And bear along the fix'd spectator's soul.

Seiz'd with the scene, the solemn Priest lays down
His band, his bible, and his sable gown;
For when Divinity to mirth's inclin'd,

No text intrusive enters in the mind.
The Doctor too, forgetful that his heels,
As lead were heavy, through the circle wheels;
This way and that he stumbles as he goes,
And oft results upon his neighbor's toes.

And now the merry violin resounds,

And now the DOCTOR, now the PARSON bounds.

All gravity was lost; the solemn air,
The frowning eye-brow, the adjusted hair,
No more so venerably met the view,

To damp the ardour of the dancing crew.

The PARSON now, revolving from his place,
As down the ring he ran his godly race,
His partner leaving in the midst to chance,
Casts off behind and leads alone the dance.

His Nymph with eager eye displays her hand,

To call his Reverence to his proper stand;

But not for hands or nods he car'd at all, This way and that he whirls around the hall; One calls aloud, one stops his rapid flight, Both nymphs and youths contend to set him right; "This way! this way! you turn; lead out of sides, "That lady's hand you take! and next the bride's"; But while the merry violins resound,

The ready Parson ceases not to bound.

And now through right and left, across they go,

And now the Priest, as in a solemn show,

Stands in the midst and knows not what to do.

As when some brisly boar the swains surround,

To drive him through some gate, or sylvan ground,
In vain-the stubborn savage glaring stands,
Immoveable, and braves the rustic bands.

The PARSON thus, oft push'd, repulsive stood,
With leaden legs, and with a head of wood;
Till shame and wrath compell'd him to retire,
His visage glowing, and his eyes on fire.

The DOCTOR too no better fate obtain'd,
Soon as in dance his giant limbs he strained,
His step, subverted by an almond shell,
Upheav'd his central poise, and down he fell.

Like some huge whale when dash'd against a rock,
So groan'd the Doctor! and so loud the shock,

Then bursts of universal laughter rise,

Shake the high dome, and fill the starry skies.

The nymph assists her partner from the ground,

Again the laughter and the jest resound.

Scarce could the Chief, when rais'd amidst the throng,
Drag his slow length of ponderous limbs along;
Groaning he moves; supported by a staff,

Like Polypheme-what Stoic would not laugh?
A crowd of slaves with solemn mien, draw near,
And slowly through the dome the body bear.
Then on a bed they softly lay the sage,
And strive the dorsal torrent to assuage;
Loud from his room, the man of mighty bone,
All dancing curs'd, and heav'd a piteous groan;
And now, lest any say, this noble throng,
Have danc'd too heavily, or danc'd too long;
Here shall the Muse her mournful story close,
And let the DOCTOR and the PRIEST repose.

Mr. Spierin will forgive my insertion of this poem. No person respects him more than I; and nothing but real esteem for a man, would induce me to make serious mention of him in this volume. That Traveller has little acquaintance with the policy of literature, and estimates but lightly the power of his page, who speaks indiscriminately of every individual with whom he has eaten a meal, or caroused over a bowl. I have been feasted and caressed by many of my friends, both at New-York, and Philadelphia, and Baltimore, and Washington; who, knowing that I

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contemplated to publish a narrative, did me the honour to desire a niche in my work. But of such characters what could I record? It surely could give the reader no satisfaction to be told, that, Mr. ——, having imported a turtle from Jamaica, guttled down for nearly three hours the callipash and callipee; or that the constant practice of Mr.

was to

smoke his pipe every day after dinner. The epitaph-maker will do all that can be done for such characters; for it can only be recorded of them that they were born, and that they died.

During my visit at George-town, the melancholy tidings were brought of the death of General Washington. The inhabitants of the town were crouding to the ball-room, at the moment the courier arrived with the dispatch. But the death of so great a man converted their hilarity into sorrow; the eye of many a female, which, but a moment before had sparkled with pleasure, was now brimful of tears; and they all cast off their garments of gladness, and clothed themselves with sackcloth.

The following Sunday, the men, women, and children, testified their veneration for the Father of their Country, by walking in procession to the church, where Mr. Spierin delivered a funeral oration. discourse more moving.

Never was there a Tears flowed from

every eye; and lamentations burst from every lip.

Nor were the orators of America silent at the death of their hero. They called all their tropes and metaphors together; collected all the soldiers and statesmen of history, and made them cast their garlands at the feet of his

statue.

I look back both with pleasure and satisfaction on the time I passed with my friend, at the confluence of the rivers Waccamaw and Winyaw. Our conversation was commonly on the writers of the Augustan Age, and I corrected many errors I had imbibed by solitary study. The taste of Mr. George had been formed on the polished models of antiquity; to these he always recurred as to the standards of elegant composition. It is recorded, I believe, of Euler, that he could repeat the whole of the Æneid by heart; but the memory of Mr. George had not only digested the Eneid, but also the Georgics and Eclogues.

But the moment was approaching that called me to another climate. I found a schooner lying at the wharfs of George-Town, that was bound to New-York, and thither I had formed the resolution of going. To this resolution I was particularly determined by the projects of Mr. George; who, disgusted with the society at George-town,-the eternal discourse of the inhabitants about their

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