ten repeating, you believed af last yourself? Where be your horse-laugh now, that would have out-done the ha! ha! of Job's steed of thunder? Now get you to the club, my friend, and tell each jolly dog, though he drains his draught of porter down, to this state must he come; make them laugh loud at that!

Who reposes in that grave?

The fat-landlady, who kept the porter-house in Pearl-street, and dealt out her draughts of malt to the Club of Jolly Dogs. A dropsy had distended her to the size of one of her own porterbuts.

And into this underground cellar she is thrust at last?

Yes! after a life passed in administering her porter to drunkards, and scoring down each tankard with a piece of chalk over the chimney. Disgrace to the memory of that man who ran in debt with her landladyship, and discharged not the reckoning. It was then she would unpack her heart with words. "A pretty Captain! Yes! "A pretty Captain! truly! He almost drank my "cellar dry, and I never saw the stamp or colour "of his coin. He was a Villian, he must have "been a Villian, or he would never impose upon

a defenceless widow-woman. But I never had "the courage to ax him for the money. He "swore so, that I shook like a leaf; I trembled

* Pearl-street is the longest street in New-York. It has the irregularity of the Strand without its animation,

"like a rush. And he talked so much about his

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ship, and how he took in his small kites to engage a privateer, that I never doubted of his honesty. He has paid me indeed. Yes, he "has paid me with his fore-top-sail, and a fair "wind-the wind a little upon the quarter. But "I may catch him yet; and, when I do catch “him, there's no snakes in Virginia, if I don't bring his nose to the gridiron."

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I did not fail to visit my old friends on Long Island. Parson Vandyke was afflicted with the jaundice, but his wife was still as notable and narrative as ever. Farmer Titus had lost none of his accustomed hospitality; nor was Farmer Moore less kind to the stranger within his gates. Mr. Remsen continued to regale his guests with Madeira, and his sons were increasing their ideas under the tuition of my literary friend. Nor were the daughters of these worthy people less lovely, or less amiable. Joy be to Newtown; Joy to its rosy damsels; and may Heaven pre-` serve their charms from decay!

I remained a week on Long Island, enjoying a renovation of intellectual felicity with Mr. George, when impatient of being without any determined pursuit, I again departed for the southward. It was September, 21, 1801; a day I shall ever remember in the annals of my life, as it was a day of separation from a more than fraternal friend, whom I have never since seen,

I embarked in the passage-boat for Amboy, from whence I travelled in the stage-coach to Burlington, with a sea-faring man, and an Indian trader. I had never met with such blasphemous wretches. Indeed, something might be advanced in extenuation of the sailor, whose mode of life was not favourable to external decorum; but the Indian trader was a man of at least three score years, who had mingled with reputable society.

Five miles from Burlington we crossed Ancocus Creek, and at a public-house on its border stopped to refresh our cattle. The old reprobate as usual staggered to the bar, and as usual vociferated for a glass of clear brandy. The sailor proposed drinking with him, and an interchange of oaths followed between them, to the manifest discomfiture of a family of way-faring Quakers, who were sitting before the fire, and who began to groan in concert. But the old sinner had no regard for the feelings of the devout; he heaped his imprecations on the whole house, because his mandate for a glass of brandy had been neglected by the landlord. Such characters are injurious to society from the contagion of example. I observed a boy in the house who laughed with gust at the oaths uttered from the old man's lungs, which were ulcerated with blasphemy.

Resuming our journey, a few miles brought us to Penhausen-creek, remarkable for its circular form, and transparent stream; and a little beyond it we stopped at a public-house, where a very

pretty lively young woman was rocking her babe to sleep.

Our journey was now soon terminated, for in another hour we reached the Jersey bank of the Delaware, and were conducted in a large boat across the river to Philadelphia, where I separated without regret from my ruffian companions.

The sun was going down, and I sought for lodgings without delay. I proposed myself a boarder to a Quaker woman, whom I saw standing at her door. The good matron told me she was cautious how she took strangers, and inquired my connexions. What, pray, said I, do you charge a week for boarding in your house? She replied, four dollars. I put the money into her hands, and she was no longer importunate on the subject of my connexions.

I did not continue long in my lodgings. The manners of the family petrified me. The melancholy ejaculations of the old woman, who was striving to work out her salvation by groaning, together with the woe-gone countenance of her husband, whose head would have furnished the model of a bust for one of the Sages of Greece, conspired to drive me in search of another lodging, and I was received into the house of Madame de Florian, in whose company I wanted no domestic entertainment.

The name of Madame de Florian announces her to be a French woman. She lived in North third-street, with her two daughters, of whom

one was between' seventeen and eighteen, the other three years younger, and a son of five. My introduction to this family was curious.

At Fouquet's gardens, rambling one afternoon in the shade, puffing vulcanoes of smoke from my segar, and indulging the most splendid reveries; I suddenly came upon Madame de Florian and her two daughters, who were drinking peaceably their coffee in one of the alcoves, while the little boy was fondling a lap-dog on the grass.

The spectacle of this interesting groupe suspended my steps, which being observed by the child, the little rogue danced towards me, and insisted upon having my segar.

The mother and sisters rebuked the child, but I instantly delivered my segar to him and, bowing, was about to pursue my ramble round the gardens, when Madame de Florian, with that grace of manner so peculiar to a French woman, accosted me with Peut etre, Monsieur nous fera l'boneur de prendre une tasse de caffe?

I bowed my acquiescence, and seated myself next the eldest daughter, who welcomed my approach with a smile of enchantment. And now all that I had read of a Mahometan Paradise rushed into my mind. The garden of Monsieur Fouquet was the blissful region, and Mademoiselle de Florian the houri.

It is to Mademoiselle de Florian and a few other of her countrywomen, that the young ladies of Phi