Bravo, cried I. And now, Doctor, for a few words of introduction to the philippic.

That, sir, you shall have; I never could endure a play without a prologue. prologue. Why, say (but write the first word in capitals), "PHYSICIANS, however they may be es"tablished and in vogue, are yet liable to be "mistaken in their prognostics and diagnos"tics. Humanum est errare!"

The Doctor was here interrupted by a negro boy, who called him to attend his master in the last stage of the yellow fever. The Doctor immediately slipped on a black coat, put his enormous spectacles on his nose, and snatching up his gold-headed cane, followed the negro down stairs.

The Doctor being gone, it was not possible to do justice to the Treatise on the Croup; but finding myself disposed to write something, I addressed my friend in an Ode. The Doctor was about to embark for the Havannah as Surgeon of a ship; and his approaching voyage furnished me with a hint.

ODE TO WILLIAM DE BOW, M.D.

SINCE on the ocean's boundless deep,
Once more impelled by fate you go,
The Muse the trembling wire would sweep,
And soft invoke each gale to blow.

Long has it been our doom to roam,

With hearts by friendship's cement bound,

(The world at large our only home)
O'er many a wide expanse of ground.

At PHILADELPHIA'S sad confine,

Where death stalk'd round with aspect wild,

We saw the widow vainly pine,

And heard the mother mourn her child:

While desolation mark'd the scene,

And groans of dying fill'd each gale,
Where dance no more rejoic'd the green,
Nor song re-echo'd from the dale.

May no such griefs again demand
The sigh of pity from thy breast,
But jocund pleasure's mirthful band,
Sooth ev'ry baleful care to rest.

Then festive let thy moments flow,
While round thee roars the briny flood;

May ev'ry breeze auspicious blow,

And nought provoke the wat'ry god.

Having leisure for some literary undertaking, I issued a prospectus for the publication of two Voyages to the East Indies. The work was to be comprised in an octavo volume, and delivered to subscribers for two dollars. Mr. Drayton, without hesitation, subscribed for ten copies; and in a few weeks I could boast a long list of subscribers from the circles of fashion.

Shortly after, the Farmers' Museum, published in New Hampshire, was found to contain a curious notice on the subject; "The

"Translator of Buonaparte's Campaign, "whose poetry we have praised in a former Museum, has issued a subscription-paper, "for the publication of Two Voyages to the "East Indies. From the genius of this Gentleman, we have the strongest reason to con

clude, that his work will be a pleasing pro"duction. But these are coster-monger times "for his book, and ere the date of fresh liter

ary disappointment begin, he should remem"ber that if in any of the peddling streets of "Charleston, Philadelphia, Boston, or New"York, he were to expose for sale a single "bale of Gurrahs, or Hummum, it would advance his fortune and reputation more than by writing volumes of instructive or amusing narrative. We wish this writer success; (( to ensure it, let him direct his bookseller to "make a shipment to England of the whole impression."

It is difficult to say, whether this encomium of Mr. Dennie promoted or retarded the subscription to the volume; but it was of little consequence, for notwithstanding my friend George wrote a poetical epistle for the work, I contented myself with abridging it for my

own amusement.

[* Warrant for the Edinburgh Reviewer's celebrated questions, posed twenty years later: 'Who reads an American book? who drinks out of American glasses? or eats from American plates? or wears American coats or gowns? or sleeps in American blankets?' Edinburgh Review, No. 65.]

To avoid the fever which every summer commits its ravages at Charleston, Mr. Drayton removed with his family in July to a convenient house on Sullivan's Island. The front windows commanded a view of the Atlantic, whose waves broke with fury not a hundred yards from the door. It is almost superfluous to observe, that Sullivan's Island lies opposite to Charleston, at the distance of eight miles.

In the garden on our premises, I took possession of a neat little box, which served me for a seminary, and house of repose. Here I was gratified with the company of Mr. George, who came to visit me from Georgetown. Not more joyous was the meeting of Flaccus and Maro at the Appian Way:

O! qui complexus, et gaudia quanta fuerunt!*

He was received with every elegance of urbanity by Mr. and Mrs. Drayton; but he compared our situation to Eneas among the Greeks; vadimus immixti Danais haud numine nostro. So natural is it for a wit to ridicule his host.

Passage-boats are always to be procured from Sullivan's Island to Charleston, and I was introduced by my friend to an Irish Clergyman, of the name of Best, who was attached to Mr. George, partly from his being [* Hor. Sat., I, 5, 43.]

an Irishman, and partly from esteem for his attainments.

Mr. Best communicated to me a few anecdotes relative to Goldsmith, which I minuted down in his presence.

"The Deserted Village, said he, relates to (( scenes in which Goldsmith was an actor. "Auburn is a poetical name for the village "of Lissoy, in the county of Westmeath "Barony, Kilkenny West. The name of the "schoolmaster was Paddy Burns. I remem"ber him well. He was indeed a man severe to view. A woman called Walsey Cruse, kept the ale house."

"Imagination fondly stoops to trace

The parlour-splendors of the festive place."

"I have often been in the house.

"The hawthorn bush was remarkably large, "and stood opposite the alehouse. I was once riding with Brady, titular Bishop of Ardagh, when he observed to me, Ma foy, "Best, this huge, overgrown bush, is mightily "in the way; I will order it to be cut down. What, Sir, said I, cut down Goldsmith's "Hawthorn-Bush, that supplies so beautiful an image in the Deserted Village! Ma foy! exclaimed the Bishop, is that the hawthorn"bush! Then ever let it be sacred to the edge "of the axe, and evil to him that would cut "from it a branch."