themselves, and the chief of the party had expressed it to be his opinion, that the Run would not go down before noon, when a chariot came up to the spot, followed by a horseman.

In the carriage were two elderly ladies, who, it was easy to discover, were Quakers. Of these one put her head out of the window, and calling to the horseman, said, "Obadiah, inquire, I "beseech thee, of these honest people, whether "the Run be passable, or whether we had "not better go back to our plantation, and tarry "there till to-morrow?"

The Quaker rode up to our fire, around which we were all sitting, "Waggoners, said the "Quaker, is the Run fordable yet for a horse? "Do you think, friends, it would be safe for "mother and aunt to venture across? Is the "water above the horses' knees ?"

There is no danger, master, at all, said the chief of the party. Two young women and a negur-boy, crossed over an hour ago. The water, then, did not come up to the horses' knees, and now it is much lower. Friend, said the Quaker, I thank thee. And he then rode to the window of the carriage, where he imparted the intelligence to his mother and aunt.

I verily, said the old lady, have an apprchension that some accident will befal us.

Why, mother, said the Quaker, thy fears overcome thy reason. Two damsels and a man-servant have crossed over this morning already.

The postilion now whipped his cattle, and plunged into the stream, accompanied by the man on horseback. In a few minutes the beasts were up to their necks in water, and the women within the carriage were overwhelmed with the torrent. The horse of the man, who had gone higher up, was evidently obliged to swim for it; and now the woods echoed with the cries of the women in distress, and the groans of Obadiah, who himself up gave for lost. I cannot but acknowledge that the cries of the women knocked against my heart; I ran to the bank, and vociferated to the postilion not to spare his horses, but flog them over to the other side. The fellow profited by my injunctions, and presently the carriage, together with Obadiah, got in safety to the opposite bank; the women not remitting their screams, Obadiah still pouring forth his ejaculations, and the cattle shaking their manes.

In this scene of consternation, I could not be wholly inattentive to the waggoners. These gentlemen had thrown themselves on their backs, and were keeping up a peal of the loudest laughter I ever remember to have heard.

About noon the water went down, and my companions, who had previously harnessed their cattle, crossed without any obstacle to the opposite bank. I followed on a led-horse, which they did not judge prudent to fasten to a waggon, and which took me over in safety. I then dismounted, and, having shaken cach of the

party by the hand, pursued my journey on foot. The sun, which in the early part of the morning had been obscured, now gladdened the plains; and, as I journeyed onward, I sent forth in concert with the creation a prayer to that Universal Lord, at whose altar of praise and thanksgiving, all religions, though by different paths assemble; and ultimately unite in one centre of adoration.

A walk of ten miles brought me within sight of George-Town, which exhibited an agreeable coup d'œil, as I approached the back of Sampit river. The opening of Waccamaw bay, at the confluence of Sampit, Black, and Pedee rivers, brought to my mind the happy description which my friend Mr. George had given the world of it; who is not less exact than felicitous in the combination of his images..

"Here as you enter from the winding wood,
"The wandr'ng eye beholds the confluent flood,
"Where the wide waves of Waccamaw o'erflow,
"And gloomy wilds an endless prospect shew:
"Where roll the placid streams from Sampit's source,
"And Winyaws waves with slow meanders course,
"Through many a tainted marsh and gloomy wood,
"The dark abodes of dreary solitude."

I felt no little exultation in reflecting that it was the Author of this description, whom I was about to visit; that he expected with solicitude my coming, and that I should be received by him with transports. I crossed the river Sampit

in the ferry-boat, and rejoiced to find myself in the company of my friend. But I did not find him at his studies. Mr. George was neither composing the Moonian Verse, the plaintive Elegy, nor soothing Sonnet. In profane prose he was at dinner, and such was the unclassical condition of my appetite from a walk of fourteen miles, that a welcome to a turkey and chine was greater music to my ear, than the softest verses my friend could have produced from his invocations of the morning.

It is only those whose breasts have been diştended with friendship, that can form a just estimate of the happiness I enjoyed in the company of Mr. George. In a public party he was somewhat reserved; but in the unrestrained interchange of his mind with a friend, no man could be more pleasant. That the conversation of Mr. George was not coveted by the inhabitants of George-town, is not the least extraordinary. Pride is the same in all; and there is none who would not rather be amused than instructed.

There is a vivacity in the Irish character, which an Englishman cannot but envy. It is not indeed of an uniform tenour in either; both have their moments of depression, and exclamations of sorrow. But the Irishman seldom flies to a rope, or a phial, for an oblivion of his woes, and, taking it in his hand, cries, This shall end them! His soul is sanguine; his grief evanescent; the clouds that darkened the horizon of

life, give way in succession to sun-shine and a clear sky; his mind recovers its elasticity, and finally it triumphs.

The old lady at the boarding-house, informed me that she hardly knew what to make of Mr. George; sometimes he would be sociable, and chat round the parlour fire with the rest of her boarders; but that oftener he shut himself up in his chamber, and pored over an outlandish book; or, wandering alone in the woods, was overheard talking to himself. Alas! for the simplicity of the woman! She little knew the enjoyments of a cultivated mind, or the delight a poet felt in courting the silence of solitude, and muttering his wayward fancies, as he roved through the fields.

It, however, appeared to me, that Mr. George was not so enamoured of the Muses, but that he had an eye for a fair creature, who lived within a few doors of his lodgings. He manifested, I thought, strong symptons of being in love. He delighted in the perusal of the Sorrows of Werter, perfumed his handkerchief with lavender, brushed his hat of a morning, and went every Sunday to church.

Mr. George had a supreme contempt for American genius and American literature. In a sportive mood, he would ask me whether I did not think that it was some physical cause in the air, which denied existence to a poet on American

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