the richness of the adjacent country, and the healthfulness of the climate, induced the Proprietor to project the plan of a city, and invite strangers to build on it; but his visions were never realized, and Occoquan consists only of a house built on a rock, three others on the riverside, and half a dozen log-huts scattered at some distance.

Yet no place can be more romantic than the view of Occoquan to a stranger, after, crossing the rustic bridge, which has been constructed by the inhabitants across its stream. He contemplates a river urging its course along mountains that lose themselves among the clouds; he beholds vessels taking on board flour under the foam of the mills, and others deeply laden expanding their sails to the breeze; while every face wears contentment, every gale wafts health, and echo from the rocks multiplies the voices of the waggoners calling to their teams.

It is pleasant, says Juvenal, to be master of a house, though it stand not on more ground than a lizard would occupy. The School-house at Occoquan was entirely my own. It was a little brick structure, situated about three hundred yards from the house on the rock. The frontcasements looked upon the Occoquan river, and commanded the variegated prospect of hill and dale.

It is so seldom an author gets a house, that it should excite no wonder if he loves to describe it.

Pliny has described his house so minutely in one of his elaborate epistles, that he appears to be putting it up for sale; and Pope luxuriates in the strain that treats of his thickets being pierced, his grotto entered, his chariot stopped, and his barge boarded; that posterity may not be ignorant of the extent of his possessions.

I mingled seldom with the people of Occoquan, but, shut up in my profound habitation, sought an oblivion of care in writing, reading, and tobacco. Often when the moon-light slept upon the mountain near my dwelling, have I walked before my door, and gazed in silent rapture on the orb of night, whose beams trembled on the stream that gave motion to the mill; while the tall bark was seen dancing on the waves at a distance, and the mocking-bird in a saddened strain was heard from the woods. It was during one of these nights, that recalling the images of the evening, I combined them in an Ode:

EVENING AT OCCOQUAN.

AN ODE.

SLOW the solemn sun descends,
Ev'ning's eye comes rolling on;
Glad the weary stranger bends
To the Banks of Occoquon!

Now the cricket on the hearth,
Chirping, tells his merry tale ;
Now the owlet ventures forth
Moping to the sighing gale.

Still the busy mill goes round,
While the miller plies his care;
And the rocks send back the sound,
Wafted by the midnight air.

Lo! the moon with lustre bright,
In the stream beholds her face
Shedding glory o'er the night,
As she runs her lofty race.

See! the bark along the shore,
Larger to the prospect grow;
While the sea-boy bending o'er,
Chides the talking waves below.

Now the mocking-songster's strain
Fills the pauses of her brood;
And her plaints the ear detain,
Echoing from the distant wood.

Hanging o'er the mountain's brow,
Lo! the cattle herbage find;
While in slumber sweet below,
Peaceful rests the village hind.

Now the student seeks his cell,
Nor regrets the day is gone;
But with silence loves to dwell,
On the Banks of Occoquon!

I was never one of those who sleep well at night. All hours are of equal value, and the tranquillity of the night invites to study. Hence, I have been frequently compelled to change my lodgings where the good woman of the house was in fear that her curtains might catch fire, and set the dwelling in a blaze.

But the houses in Virginia are not very superb. The people were never under any solicitude for the habitation I occupied; and had it been burnt to the ground, a few boards and a proportionate number of shingles would soon have constructed another. I never yet occupied a house that was not exempt from taxes; it was always valued by the tax-gatherers below a hundred dollars (about 201. sterling), and, by an act of Assembly, for a house not worth a hundred dollars there is no tax

to pay.

From the platform of my house at Occoquan, there was a subterraneous passage which led to a kind of kitchen. In this underground apartment dwelt Rachel, a negro-woman, who was left a widow with eleven children; but her numerous offspring were all provided for. Mr. Carter, to whom the whole family belonged, had taken upon him this benevolent office; for he had sold one to Mr. A, another to Mr. B, a third to Mr. C, a fourth to Mr. D, and so on, nearly half round the alphabet.

The student who values his health will practise study and exercise alternately. After reading a scene in Hamlet, I took a few strides across the room, and amused myself by repeating a part of his soliloquies. Such, for example, as

"How weary, flat, stale and unprofitable

"Seem to me all the uses of this world!”

Rachel, who dwelt underneath, marvelled greatly

at the noise. Her penetration made her immediately conclude that I was busied in praying; and in the morning my character was established for religion. "Ah!" said the old woman to her gaping auditors; "they may talk of this parson, 66 or that parson, or the other parson, but our new "coolmossa beats them all by a heap. Why, " 'tis as true as the mill is now going round that "he walks up and down, and prays the whole "night long!"

Rachel, without carrying about her the mockery of woe, mourned very sensibly her husband. Let my page record the words of her affliction.

"I was reared at Port Tobacco. A heap of "likely young fellows courted me, but I refused "them all for the head coachman of Counsellor "Carter. He was a good husband; he made "me the mother of eleven children. Woe to "Rachel when he died. Oh! how I clap my "hands and cry! but he's gone to the great "Jehovah. I shall never forget it; 'twas at the

pulling of corn time. The poor creature was "a little out of his head. He asked me if the corn was in tassel. In tassel, says I! God help you, you had some yesterday for dinner. But "he changed the discourse, and he talked of the

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hymn-book, and Parson Wems, and Poheek "church. It was as good as any sarment! Dear sweet honey! He was a friend to the gospel; " he loved the Church of England, and nobody