Introductory material (continued 2)

"Have you never seen Jones since?" said the mild voice of the courteous gentleman I have mentioned.

"No; I never have; and it's well for him; though, bless the Lord! I hope I could find in my heart now to forgive him. But if I had ever come across him, before I met with you, brother B——;" (addressing a grave senior of the party who received the compliment with impenetrable gravity;) "I guess it would not have been so well for him."

"Do you think you would know him again, if you were to see him?" said my companion.

"It's a long time ago," said he, "but I think I should. He was a mighty fierce little fellow, and had a monstrous blustering way of talking."

"Was he any thing like me?" said the stranger, in a low but hissing tone.

The man started, and so did we all, and gazed on the querist. In my life, I never saw such a change in any human face. The pale cheek was flushed, the calm eye glowed with intolerable fierceness, and every feature worked with loathing. But he commanded his voice, though the curl of his lip disclosed the full length of one eye tooth, and he again said, "look at me. Am not I the man?"

"I do not know that you are," replied the other doggedly, and trying in vain to lift his eye to that which glared upon him. "I do not know that you are?" muttered he.

"Where is he? where is he," screamed a female voice; "let me see him. I'll know him, bless his heart! I'll know him any where in the world."

Saying this, our landlady rushed into the circle, and stood among us, while we all rose to our feet. She looked eagerly around. Her eye rested a moment on the stranger's face; and in the next instant her arms were about his neck, and her head on his bosom, where she shed a torrent of tears.

I need not add, that the subject of the Landlord's tale, was the very incident which my companion had related on the road. He soon made his escape, cowed and chop-fallen; and the poor woman bustled about, to give us the best the house afforded, occasionally wiping her eyes, or stopping for a moment to gaze mutely and sadly on the generous stranger, who had protected her when deserted by him who lay in her bosom.

The grave brethren looked, as became them, quite scandalized, at this strange scene. It was therefore promptly explained to them; but the explanation dissipated nothing of the gloom of their countenances. Their manner to the poor woman was still cold and displeased, and they seemed to forget her husband's fault, in their horror at having seen her throw herself into the arms of a stranger. For my part, I thought the case of the good Samaritan in point, and could not help believing, that he who had decided that, would pronounce that her grateful affection had been bestowed where it was due.

We are permitted by RICHARD RANDOLPH, ESQ. to publish the following extract, from a Journal kept by his father, the late David Meade Randolph, when a Student at William & Mary College in 1779 under the patronage of PROFESSOR ANDREWS. It is a curious anecdote and will be read with interest.

WASHINGTON'S BIRTH NIGHT.

On the 22d February, 1779, the students of William & Mary College, and most of the respectable inhabitants of Williamsburg, prepared a subscription paper for celebrating Washington's birth night; and the pleasure of presenting it, was confided to certain students immediately under the patronage of Professor Andrews.

Governor Henry was first waited on, and offered the paper: he refused his signature! "He could not think of any kind of rejoicing at a time when our country was engaged in war, with such gloomy prospects." Dudley Digges, and Bolling Starke, members of the Council, were both waited on by the same persons, and received less courteous denials, and similar excuses.

The ball, nevertheless, was given at the Raleigh. Colonel Innis, more prominent than any other member of the association, directed its proceedings. It was thought proper to enliven the occasion by discharges of cannon. There were two pieces at the shop of Mr. Moody that had lately been mounted. There was a Captain commanding a company of soldiers, under the orders of Governor Henry; but the cannon were under no other care or authority at the time, than that of Mr. Moody the mechanic. Colonel Innis, with a party seconded by Colonel Finnie, brought the two pieces before the door of the Raleigh. On the way from the shop to the Raleigh, not two hundred yards, Colonel Innis saw Captain Digges passing up the street. Whilst the party concerned were collecting powder, and preparing for firing. Lieutenant Vaughan appeared before the Raleigh with a platoon, demanding possession of the cannon. He was carried in; took some punch; and said that he was ordered by Captain Digges to take away the pieces, by force, if they were not surrendered peaceably. This was refused. Vaughan repeated his orders: He was prevailed upon to return to his quarters, and report to Capt. Digges. Captain Digges waited on the Governor, and reported the state of things; and soliciting instructions how to proceed. The Governor referred Captain Digges to his own judgment. Captain Digges went immediately to the Arena, where, in the pride of his power, with sixty men, he drew up in form; and demanded the cannon at the point of his bayonets! Innis stept up to Captain Digges, and shaking his cane at him, swore that he would cane him, if he did not depart instantly with his men! This enraging Digges,—he said that if the pieces were not surrendered, he would fire upon the party. Innis repeating his threat,—ordered Finnie to charge the cannon with brick bats: the mob in the street, and the gentlemen of the ball, re-echoing the order. The pieces were soon charged with brick bats: Innis all the while firmly standing by the Captain at the head of his men, daring him to fire! After some delay, the Captain retreated with his men; and the evening closed with great joy.

Next day, Innis was arraigned before the Hustings Court, for Riot! confronted by the valiant Captain Digges. During the proceedings, when Innis replied to the charge, Digges in the body of the Court, and Innis in the Bar—among other particulars characteristic of the Colonel's temper and genius, he swore "it made no odds whether Captain Digges wore a red coat, or a black coat, he would cane him!" The case was attended with no farther particulars. Innis facing the Court, and repeating his threats; till at length he was dismissed, and triumphantly walked out of Court, attended by most of his friends, who had shared the honors of the preceding night.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

FROM THE DIARY OF A REVOLUTIONARY OFFICER.

MR. WHITE,—I embrace the opportunity afforded, by the transmission of my subscription for the "Messenger," to furnish you with a small contribution to the pages of that excellent periodical. Neither leisure nor ability, at present, allows me to present any original composition; but I feel confident that nothing I have to offer, could be more interesting and acceptable to your readers, than the following extract from the "Manuscript Diary of a Revolutionary Officer" which has recently been placed in my hands. It is expected that the whole will be transcribed in a fac simile as to style, and so on, and presented to the Historical Society at an early period.

The writer was, I believe, a lieutenant in the Southern army. He was a native and resident of Powhatan county, Virginia, where his descendants still reside. He was a captain at the taking of Charleston, South Carolina, and composed the Diary referred to, while confined by the British as a prisoner of war. The Diary commences with a statement of the events which led to the surrender of the American army, and exhibits at length the official correspondence of General Lincoln and Sir Henry Clinton on the occasion.

We may admire the devotion and bravery of our forefathers, recount in terms of poetical exaggeration their heroic achievements, and dwell with fond recollection on their memories, but we can never form an accurate idea of their feelings, any correct conception of their sufferings, or properly estimate our debt of gratitude, until we can enter more fully into the minutiæ of those events which general history relates. So long therefore, as it is praiseworthy (and long may it be so,) to set before our eyes the examples and characters of revolutionary patriots, will it be interesting to examine such records as the following.

Yours, truly. *** ***

Union Seminary, Pr. Ed. Va. 1835.

SURRENDER OF CHARLESTON.

[The correspondence and articles of capitulation are omitted.]

MAY 12th, 1780. One company of British and one company of Hessian grenadiers marched in and took possession of the town work. At one o'clock our garrison were paraded, and at two were marched out with their drums beating, but we were not allowed to beat a British march.... after which two regiments of British grenadiers and light infantry marched in town. The commissary of prisoners, Major Stewart of the sixty-third regiment, came and got a list of the officers' and soldiers' names. He then asked for our second line. We told him that every soldier of our garrison fit for duty, he then saw paraded in that line. He said "that it was impossible for such a small army to defend the town and themselves, from ten thousand British troops: you certainly have more than these." Our answer was, we have not.—Thus an army of not more than three thousand troops, composed of regular soldiers, militia, sailors and marines, defended our post thirty-one days, closely besieged by ten thousand British soldiers. The want of provisions and proper rest, at last obliged us to fall into the hands of our enemies. Our soldiers were marched into the barrack's yard, where was a British guard waiting to receive them. The men were permitted to go out, as many as would ask leave. The officers had leave to go to their old quarters that evening; accordingly I went to my bomb proof, and pulled off my clothes. This was the first night for the space of fifty-five days past, I pulled off my clothes to go in bed. I went to bed, but could not rest for reflecting on my present condition of life.¹

¹ As we do not value our forefathers of the revolution for their literature end refinement, I transcribe the Diary as I find it, making only those corrections as to punctuation, which are necessary to perspicuity.

13th. We removed to a house in town, and are allowed to walk the streets. We are much in want of provisions; almost in a starving condition.

15th. We are yet continued in our quarters without one morsel of provision allowed us since we capitulated. This afternoon we were in some measure relieved from hunger, by means of a poor sheep a Hessian was driving by our quarters, that ran round the house and went in our cellar, and was immediately concealed by some of our waiters. The Hessian hunted some time for his poor sheep but could not find it, and we soon made some good hot soup [from the poor sheep].

16th. I was invited to breakfast with Mr. Elliot in town.

17th. [Parole to Haddrel's Point.] "I do hereby acknowledge myself to be a prisoner of war upon my parole to his Excellency Sir Henry Clinton, and that I am hereby engaged, until I shall be exchanged or otherwise released therefrom, to remain at the barracks at Haddrel's Point, or within six miles thereof, without crossing any river, creek, or arm of the sea. And that in the mean time, I shall not do, or cause any thing to be done prejudicial to the success of his Majesty's arms, or have intercourse with his enemies; and that upon a summons from His Excellency, or other person having authority, I shall surrender myself to them, at such time and place as I shall hereafter be required. Witness my hand."

18th. We have continued here four days without receiving any supply of provision, except what we caught from the water.

JUNE 22d. A flag arrived from North Carolina, for permission to send supplies to their troops in captivity, which was granted.

CELEBRATION OF JULY 4, 1780.

[With all their discouragements, these unfortunate men were not too much depressed to celebrate this day. I do not recollect to have seen any notice of its celebration at a period earlier than this. It is interesting to see how it was regarded by those who suffered in the cause it commemorates.]

JULY 4th. This day was appointed for a general meeting of the officers at Haddrel's Point, to celebrate the Independency of the Thirteen United States of America. The following TOASTS were drank on the occasion:

1st. The Free and Sovereign Independent States of America.

2d. The Honorable the Continental Congress.

3d. His Most Christian Majesty the King of France.

4th. His Most Catholic Majesty the King of Spain.

5th. May impartial justice guide the other powers of Europe.

6th. Stability and firmness to the Alliance between France and America.

7th. Gen. Washington and the American Army.

8th. The American Navy.

9th. The American Ministry at Foreign Courts.

10th. May the States of America be always found a sure refuge and an asylum against despotism and oppression.

11th. May the sword never be drawn but in the cause of justice.

12th. The immortal memory of those patriots and warriors who have fallen in the present war, in defence of the rights of mankind.

13th. Our brethren in captivity, suffering in the glorious cause of liberty.

From each toast there followed a discharge of thirteen pistols and three cheers. That night the barracks were illuminated.

July 5th. The enemy was much exasperated from our yesterday's transactions. Capt. Roberts of the sixty-third regiment, who commanded at Fort Arbuthnot, wrote to General Patterson, who commanded in Charleston, informing him "the rebel officers on Haddrel's Point could not be satisfied with celebrating their supposed day of independency by illuminating the barracks, but must fire small arms," which he thought too great "an indulgence for rebel prisoners," and that we had been guilty of a breach of our paroles.

6th. General Patterson wrote to General Moultrie and enclosed Captain Roberts' letter, ordering a return of the names of the officers who were at the head of the affair on the 4th instant. Likewise ordering every pistol in our possession to be sent to Fort Arbuthnot. [After considerable difficulty, it appears the pistols were given up, but no names accompanied them. The prisoners were threatened with close confinement for such behaviour in future. How differently are we situated!]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

Copy of a Manuscript written but not published at the period of the Missouri Question, 1821.

JONATHAN BULL AND MARY BULL.

Jonathan Bull and Mary Bull who were descendants of Old John Bull, the head of the family, had inherited contiguous estates in large tracts of land. As they grew up and became well acquainted, a partiality was mutually felt, and advances on several occasions made towards a matrimonial connection. This was particularly recommended by the advantage of putting their two estates under a common superintendance. Old Bull however as guardian of both, and having been allowed certain valuable privileges within the estates, with which he was not long content, had always found the means of breaking off the match, which he regarded as a fatal obstacle to his secret design of getting the whole property into his own hands.

At a moment favorable as he thought for the attempt, he brought suit against both, but with a view of carrying it on in a way that would make the process bear on the parties in such different modes, times and degrees, as might create a jealousy and discord between them. Jonathan and Mary had too much sagacity to be duped. They understood well Old Bull's character and situation. They knew that he was deeply versed in all the subtleties of the law, that he was of a stubborn and persevering temper, and that he had moreover a very long purse. They were sensible therefore that the more he endeavored to divide their interests, and their defence of the suit, the more they ought to make a common cause, and proceed in a concert of measures. As this could best be done by giving effect to the feelings long entertained for each other, an intermarriage was determined on and solemnized, with a deed of settlement as usual in such opulent matches, duly executed; and no event certainly of the sort was ever celebrated by a greater fervor or variety of rejoicings among the respective tenants of the parties. They had a great horror of falling into the hands of Old Bull; and regarded the marriage of their proprietors under whom they held their freeholds, as the surest mode of warding off the danger. They were not disappointed. United purses, and good advocates compelled Old Bull, after a hard struggle, to withdraw the suit, and relinquish forever, not only the new pretensions he had set up, but the old privileges he had been allowed.

The marriage of Jonathan and Mary was not a barren one. On the contrary every year or two added a new member to the family; and on such occasions the practice was to set off a portion of land sufficient for a good farm to be put under the authority of the child on its attaining the age of manhood; and these lands were settled very rapidly by tenants going as the case might be from the estates, sometimes of Jonathan, sometimes of Mary, and sometimes partly from one and partly from the other.

It happened that at the expiration of the nonage of the 10th or 11th fruit of the marriage, some difficulties were started concerning the rules and conditions, of declaring the young party of age, and of giving him as a member of the family, the management of his patrimony. Jonathan became possessed with a notion that an arrangement ought to be made that would prevent the new farm from being settled and cultivated, as in all the latter instances, indiscriminately by persons removing from his and Mary's estate, and confine this privilege to those going from his own; and in the perverse humor which had seized him, he listened moreover to suggestions that Mary had some undue advantage from the selections of the head stewards which happened to have been made much oftener out of her tenants than his.

Now the prejudice suddenly taken up by Jonathan against the equal right of Mary's tenants to remove with their property to new farms, was connected with a peculiarity in Mary's person not as yet noticed. Strange as it may appear, the circumstance is not the less true, that Mary when a child, had unfortunately received from a certain African dye, a stain on her left arm which had made it perfectly black, and withal somewhat weaker than the other arm. The misfortune arose from her being prevailed on to let a ship from Africa, loaded with the article, enter a river running through her estate, and dispose of a part of the noxious cargo. The fact was well known to Jonathan at the time of their marriage; and if felt as an objection, it was in a manner reduced to nothing by the comely form and pleasing features of Mary in every other respect; by her good sense and amiable manners; and in part perhaps by the large and valuable estate she brought with her.

In the unlucky fit however which was upon him, he looked at the black arm, and forgot all the rest. To such a pitch of feeling was he wrought up, that he broke out into the grossest taunts on Mary for her misfortune; not omitting at the same time to remind her of his long forbearance, to exert his superior voice in the appointment of the head steward. He had now, he said, got his eyes fully opened, he saw every thing in a new light, and was resolved to act accordingly. As to the head steward, he would let her see that the appointment was virtually in his power; and she might take her leave of all chance of ever having another of her tenants advance to that station. And as to the black arm, she should, if the color could not be taken out, either tear off the skin from the flesh, or cut off the limb: For it was his fixed determination, that one or the other should be done, or he would sue out a divorce, and there should be an end of all connection between them and their estates. I have, he said, examined well the marriage settlement, and flaws have been pointed out to me, that never occurred before, by which I shall be able to set the whole aside. White as I am all over, I can no longer consort with one marked with such a deformity as the blot on your person.

Mary was so stunned with the language she heard that it was sometime before she could speak at all; and as the surprise abated, she was almost choked with the anger and indignation swelling in her bosom. Generous and placable as her temper was, she had a proud sensibility to what she thought an unjust and degrading treatment, which did not permit her to suppress the violence of her first emotions. Her language accordingly for a moment was such as these emotions prompted. But her good sense, and her regard for Jonathan, whose qualities as a good husband she had long experienced, soon gained an ascendancy, and changed her tone to that of sober reasoning and affectionate expostulation. Well, my dear husband, you see what a passion you had put me into. But it is over now, and I will endeavor to express my thoughts with the calmness and good feelings which become the relation of wife and husband.

As to the case of providing for our child just coming of age, I shall say but little. We both have such a tender regard for him and such a desire to see him on a level with his brethren as to the chance of making his fortune in the world, that I am sure the difficulties which have occurred will in some way or other be got over.

But I cannot pass so lightly over the reproaches you cast on the color of my left arm; and on the more frequent appointment of my tenants than of yours, to the head stewardship of our joint estates.

Now as to the first point; you seem to have forgotten, my worthy partner, that this infirmity was fully known to you before our marriage, and is proved to be so by the deed of settlement itself. At that time you made no objection whatever to our union; and indeed how could you urge such an objection, when you were conscious that you yourself was not entirely free from a like stain on your person. The fatal African dye, as you well know, had found its way into your abode as well as mine; and at the time of our marriage, had spots and specks scattered over your body as black as the skin on my arm. And although you have by certain abrasions and other applications, taken them in some measure out, there are visible remains which ought to soften at least your language when reflecting on my situation. You ought surely, when you have so slowly and imperfectly relieved yourself from the mortifying stain, although the task was comparatively so easy, to have some forbearance and sympathy with me who have a task so much more difficult to perform. Instead of that you abuse me as if I had brought the misfortune on myself, and could remove it at will; or as if you had pointed out a ready way to do it, and I had slighted your advice. Yet so far is this from being the case, that you know as well as I do, that I am not to be blamed for the origin of the sad mishap; that I am as anxious as you can be to get rid of it; that you are as unable as I am to find out a safe and feasible plan for the purpose; and moreover, that I have done every thing I could in the mean time, to mitigate an evil that cannot as yet be removed. When you talk of tearing off the skin or cutting off the unfortunate limb, must I remind you of what you cannot be ignorant, that the most skilful surgeons have given their opinions that if so cruel an operation were to be tried, it could hardly fail to be followed by a mortification or a bleeding to death. Let me ask too, whether, should neither of the fatal effects ensue, you would like me better in my mangled or mutilated condition, than you do now? And when you threaten a divorce and an annulment of the marriage settlement, may I not ask whether your estate would not suffer as much as mine by dissolving the partnership between them? I am far from denying that I feel the advantage of having the pledge of your arm, your stronger arm if you please, for the protection of me and mine; and that my interests in general have been, and must continue to be the better for your aid and counsel in the management of them. But on the other hand you must be equally sensible that the aid of my purse will have its value, in case Old Bull or any other rich litigious fellow should put us to the expense of another tedious law suit. And now that we are on the subject of loss and gain, you will not be offended if I take notice of a report that you sometimes insinuate, that my estate, according to the rates of assessment, does not pay its due share into the common purse. I think, my dear Jonathan, that if you ever entertained this opinion you must have been led into it, by a very wrong view of the subject. As to the direct income from rents, there can be no deficiency on my part; the rule of apportionment being clear and founded on a calculation by numbers. And as to what is raised from the articles bought and used by my tenants, it is difficult to conceive that my tenants buy or use less than yours, considering that they carry a greater amount of crops to market, the whole of which, it is well known, they lay out in articles from the use of which the bailiff regularly collects the sum due. It would seem then that my tenants selling more, buy more; buying more, use more; and using more, pay more. Meaning, however, not to put you in the wrong, but myself in the right, I do not push the argument to that length, because I readily agree that in paying for articles bought and used, you have beyond the fruits of the soil on which I depend, ways and means which I have not. You draw chiefly the interest we jointly pay for the funds we were obliged to borrow for the fees and costs the suit Old Bull put us to. Your tenants also turn their hands so ingeniously to a variety of handicraft and other mechanical productions, that they make not a little money from that source. Besides all this, you gain much by the fish you catch and carry to market; by the use of your teams and boats in transporting and trading on the crops of my tenants; and indeed in doing that sort of business for strangers also. This is a fair statement on your side of the account, with the drawback however, that as your tenants are supplied with a greater proportion of articles, made by themselves, than is the case with mine, the use of which articles does not contribute to the common purse, they avoid in the same proportion, the payments collected from my tenants. If I were to look still further into this matter and refer you to every advantage you draw from the union of our persons and property, I might remark, that the profits you make from your teams and boats, and which enable you to pay your quota, are in great part drawn from the preference they have in conveying and disposing of the products of my soil; a business that might fall into other hands, in the event of our separation. I mention this, as I have already said, not by way of complaint, for I am well satisfied that your gain is not altogether my loss in this more than in many other instances; and that what profits you immediately may profit me also in the long run. But I will not dwell on these calculations and comparisons of interest, which you ought to weigh as well as myself, as reasons against the measure to which you threaten a resort. For when I consult my own heart, and call to mind all the endearing proofs you have given of yours being in sympathy with it, I must needs hope that there are other ties than mere interest, to prevent us from ever suffering a transient resentment on either side, with or without cause, to bring on both, all the consequences of a divorce; consequences too which would be a sad inheritance indeed for our numerous and beloved offspring.

As to the other point relative to the head stewards, I must own, my worthy husband, that I am altogether at a loss for any cause of dissatisfaction on your part or blame on mine. It is true, as you say, that they have been oftener taken from among my tenants than yours; but under other circumstances the reverse might as well have happened. If the individuals appointed, had made their way to the important trust, by corrupt or fallacious means; if they had been preferred merely because they dwelt on my estate, or had succeeded by any interposition of mine contrary to your inclination; or finally, if they had administered the trust unfaithfully, sacrificing your interests to mine, or the interests of both to selfish or unworthy purposes, in either of these cases, you would have ground for your complaints. But I know Jonathan that you are too just and too candid not to admit that no such ground exists. The head stewards in question could not have been appointed without your own participation as well as mine. They were recommended to our joint choice by the reputed fairness of their characters, by their tried fidelity and competency in previous trusts, and by their exemption from all charges of impure and grasping designs; and so far were they from being partial to my interest at the expense of yours, that they were rather considered by my tenants as leaning to a management more favorable to yours than to mine. I need not say that I allude to the bounties direct and indirect to your teams and boats, to the hands employed in your fisheries, and to the looms and other machineries, which without such encouragements would not be able to meet the threatened rivalships of interfering neighbors; I say only, that these ideas were in the heads of some of my tenants. For myself I should not have mentioned them but as a defence against what I must regard as so unfounded a charge, that it ought not to be permitted to make a lasting impression.

But laying aside all these considerations, I repeat, my dear Jonathan, that the appointment of the head steward lies as much, if not more, with you than with me. Let the choice fall where it may you will find me faithfully abiding by it, whether it be thought the best possible one or not, and sincerely wishing that he may equally improve better opportunities of serving us both, than was the lot of any of those who have gone before him.

Jonathan who had a good heart, as well as a sound head and steady temper, was touched with this tender and conciliatory language of Mary; and the bickering which had sprung up ended as the quarrels of lovers always, and of married folks sometimes do, in an increased affection and confidence between the parties.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MARRYING WELL.

PHILADELPHIA, 1835.

My Dear Miss H——,—

I fully agree with you in the high character you have given of the "Southern Literary Messenger,"—some numbers of which I have had the pleasure of reading, and join most heartily with you in the wish that it may meet with the success it so eminently deserves. But what shall I say in reply to your request to write something for its columns? You are aware that nothing "mediocre" can find its way there; and you are as well aware that I have seldom or never been charged with the sin of authorship. Your requests however are commands; and although I may fail to give to the subject I have selected, sufficient interest to induce the editors to yield it a place in their paper, yet will I indulge the hope that as it is a true story, it may prove useful to yourself, for the truths it reveals,—though lacking the ornament to make them acceptable to the general reader.

It is not necessary to give a "local habitation" to those whose brief story I am about to record. For all the purposes for which I have called them up, you may suppose them to have lived in either Albany or Richmond; for in many respects these cities are very much alike. Each is situated on a noble river, and is the capital of a state. Each has in its vicinity, hills and valleys, and landscapes of picturesque beauty and grandeur, amid whose romantic and love inspiring scenes many a sigh has been breathed and many a vow offered in vain. Notwithstanding these places thus resemble each other, I would here observe that you are not at liberty to be particular in your choice, because you may have known or heard of persons and events in either of them similar to those here described. What happens in one place may happen in another, and he who travels far and wide will find the human family every where agitated by the same feelings and the same passions, and that all the elements that enter into the history of the world, may be found in any one town or village, directing and controlling the destinies of its inhabitants.

Leaving however, to the historian and the philosopher, the task of writing the history of the world, and developing the secret springs of human action, and to sager heads to read them, than that of my fair correspondent,—I will only ask your attention to what will be more congenial to your wishes, and a more easily understood subject, a tale of "Ladye Love," in which some of my younger friends and feelings were deeply interested.

During our schoolboy days, I became acquainted with George Marley; but we will pass over his earlier years, until he had arrived at the age of twenty. As it is not my intention to enter upon a particular analysis of form and features, mind or manners, I will leave your imagination to make George whatever you please, not incompatible with a "marvellously proper" young man, tall and straight, with raven locks and eagle eye—with all those high intellectual qualities, and that deep moral rectitude, which wins admiration and commands esteem. Two years before I have here introduced him to you, George's father was considered one of the most wealthy merchants in the city, and George's education and hopes were in accordance with his high expectations. But a series of disasters to which commercial property is so very liable, swept away from Mr. Marley every thing he possessed but the honorable and virtuous character of himself and his family. At the time of his father's misfortune George was taken from school, and placed in a merchant's counting house, to qualify him for the active career of life thus early forced upon him—a career in which he must depend upon his own exertions for success, and in which he must win for himself, and by himself, whatever he might obtain of fortune or of fame.

In the particular circumstances of his situation at this time, I am aware there is nothing to excite your sympathy. Many thousands of young men enter upon the active scenes of life under more disadvantages than these—without friends, without a good education, without early habits of propriety and rectitude, and yet reach to the highest eminence and renown; and why might not George Marley? The answer is simply, he loved! and would not love inspire him with stronger and more powerful motives for exertion and success?

Isabella Barclay was, if ever there was, a perfectly lovely girl. She was one of those fair creatures that occasionally are seen among us, but which seem to belong to a higher order of beings than those inhabiting this lower world. It is not wonderful therefore that George Marley should love her, or that she should love him. They did love, truly—devotedly. They were too young to conceal it; there was no cause for concealment. Every body knew it; their parents knew it, and sanctioned it—and why should they not? Previously to the failure of Mr. Marley, they were equal in fortune, in education, and in all that could give promise of a certain and happy union. Although Mr. Marley had fallen from affluence to comparative poverty, yet himself and his family continued to enjoy the respect of all their acquaintance; and the particular friendship that had existed between Mr. Marley and Mr. Barclay, and their respective families, to all appearance suffered no interruption.

The misfortunes of Mr. Marley, although it had blighted the hopes of George, had no effect on Isabella but to excite her pity and strengthen her love. She was too young to calculate chances or consequences—she had not loved George for his father's wealth, but for himself; and while he remained the same, her affections were immutable. Thus reasoned this pure and amiable girl; and for the two years that elapsed from the time of the unfortunate failure of Mr. Marley, up to that at which we commenced our tale, George was happy in the expectation of ere long being enabled to raise his own fallen fortune, and happier in the tried sincerity of his Isabella's love.

I need not stop to tell you of the thousand hopes and fears, pleasures and pains, our lovers suffered or enjoyed: I suppose they were such as are common to all the votaries of the fickle God. Their attachment had commenced at school, and we have continued it until he had arrived at the age of twenty, and she seventeen, and at no time had any interruption to its progress taken place. If you have paid any attention to these love affairs, you will have observed the great difference there is between those where the attachment commences early in life, and the parties grow up together, forming and moulding their feelings, their wishes, their amusements, their tastes, their whole heart and soul, by the same model; and those "whom accident or blind chance" bring together, and from some peculiarity of form or mind, for a while deem themselves in love with each other. With the former, it is the web of their existence, which, once broken, can never be woven again; with the latter, it is "like a lady's glove," put off as easily as it is put on, and with whose last sigh passes away all its pleasures and its pains, leaving no "wreck behind." As that of George and Isabella was of the former kind, and as no objection had been made on the inequality of their fortunes, and as he was about to enter into business for himself under the fairest prospects, their marriage when they should arrive at a proper age, was looked for by themselves and all others as beyond the reach of doubt or contingency. What contingency could happen? Their known engagement, his constant attention, and her acknowledged affection for him, formed an impassable barrier to the advances that otherwise would have been made by many who admired her. Indeed, you and I would suppose that no one would attempt to mar their promised happiness, or wish to win hearts that had so long beat for each other, and each other only. Yet did the spoiler come! and where will he not come? Since he first found his way into the Garden of Eden, and blasted the happiness of our common parents, where is the paradise some spoiler has not entered? where the scene of love and harmony he has not attempted to break up and destroy?

In the particular city to which we have alluded, there lived a bachelor of upwards of double the age of George Marley, although his appearance was younger than his age would have indicated; with few personal attractions, he had but little education; and no more of common sense, or any other kind of sense, than fitted him for the accumulation of wealth. As he sustained a respectable character, was called rich, and lived in a style of comparative splendor, he was of course one of the good society of the city, and a desirable match for any daughter a mother wished to sell to the highest bidder. If Mr. Simson, for such was this gentleman's name, ever had had any feelings of the heart—if he ever was susceptible of a pure and holy love; the associations, habits, and pursuits of his whole life, had long since deadened them all, or made them subservient to his will, an article of trade or commerce, of marketable value, to bestow them on the wife of his bosom, as a Pacha bestows his on the last fairest slave his wealth has purchased. But you may ask what Mr. Simson has to do with the loves of George and Isabella? Ah! my dear girl, old, ignorant and cold hearted as he may be, he is the arbiter of their fate. It is in his power to give them years of happiness, or it is in his power to blight their buds of promise, and send them prematurely to their graves! and why? because he is rich! I know your young heart rejects the supposition that such a man would, or could, break their bonds of mutual love, that thus seemed to have been formed and strengthened under the auspices of heaven,—that he by any means could "pluck from the brows of their innocent love, the rose, and place a blister there." I know you anticipate that he will appropriate a part of his wealth to establish George in business, or will die and leave it all to him; that thus he will be enabled to wed his Isabella, and their lives thenceforth "go merry as a marriage bell." Alas! how little do we know of ourselves or our destiny! how unseen or mistaken may be the path that leads to high and happy places, or that which leads to misery and despair!

Nothing is more painful to my mind, than to witness a beautiful girl thrown into the alluring and deceptive scenes of life without a mother's guardianship. No other heart can sympathise with her, no other hand direct her course. She does not feel for them, and they cannot feel with her! Others may warn and advise her, but none but a mother's watchful eye can perceive, and a mother's tender care guard or direct her young affections. Isabella had a mother. But Mrs. Barclay was a woman of the world. In early life she may have loved, and that love may have been successful and happy; or she may have married for convenience, to gratify some darling passion, and never have known the deep feelings of a long cherished affection. No matter what was the history of her younger days, they had passed away, and with them all their sympathies and all their influence. She was now a woman of the world—a fashionable lady. She loved her daughter, and to make that daughter happy was the chief object of her care. The notions of happiness entertained by this worthy matron, was such as thousands and thousands believe, yet never find true. The show, the glare of wealth and its attendants, the unsatisfying yet exciting routine of fashionable life, were to her every thing; and that calm, pure and virtuous happiness which springs in the heart, and is cherished by its high and heavenly attributes, were to her unknown, or as nothing. With such views, it was not to be expected that she would look upon the attachment of George and Isabella in the most favorable light, or promote its continuance, when it interfered with any other more splendid prospect that might offer. Such a prospect did offer; and that being who of all others should have directed her young and unsuspecting offspring in the path of truth and rectitude; by a course of deceptions, endeavored to induce Isabella to forsake her first and only love, and unite herself to one who was incapable of loving her, and who she could never love—to Mr. Simson! George was early apprised of her purpose, and did all a true and noble mind could do, to avert the blow she was preparing for him. His fears were always lulled by the unwavering love of Isabella, and her vows of constancy. He believed her true, and she believed herself true. But the continual and insidious efforts of her mother and her fashionable friends, poisoned her mind; and, tired of their importunities, she at length yielded to their persuasions. George was too proud to let the world triumph in the prostration of his hopes; as soon therefore as he was assured of her infidelity, he set sail for South America.

Isabella's abandonment of George, and her affiance to Mr. Simson, were events soon known, and as soon attracted the attention of their acquaintance. It was perceptible to every one, that her character had passed away with him who had so long given it its tone and direction. Freed from him who had from her infancy been the source and the companion of all her pleasures, she visited every public and private amusement or assembly, and was every where remarkable for her vivid and reckless gaiety. Those who judged by appearances deemed her happy in her new situation; but those who looked beneath the surface, saw only in these wild demonstrations of joy, the vain efforts to banish from her heart "the worm that dyeth not."

Some months after the departure of George, Mr. Simson and Isabella were married. From the time the latter had broken her vows to George, all intimacy between her and myself had ceased. I was not therefore at her wedding, but it was said to be numerous and brilliant—the bride splendidly decorated, lovely, and the gayest of the gay.

For a few short years after her marriage, although I lived in a distant part of the country, I could hear of Isabella, now Mrs. Simson. For sometime she apparently luxuriated in the golden vision, for which had been sacrificed her earliest and fondest anticipations. She gave the largest parties, and the most splendid fetes, and the fashionable world pronounced her marriage fortunate. But soon this illusory existence vanished, and I learned, what nothing can conceal, that the decay which halteth not had settled itself upon her beautiful form. A few months and she was confined to her house, and then to her room, and then to her bed—and then came from her a brief but thrilling letter, ardently desiring me to come to her before she died. I did go; and did hear from her dying lips, how a mother's mistaken love had made her faithless, and of the years of hopeless and bitter anguish that followed and dragged her down to the grave. I have stood by the dying bed of friends and relations—I have seen the last struggle of a father, of brothers and sisters, and for all of these I have had deep sorrow. But it was in the presence of that broken hearted sufferer, and from the revealings and monitions of her departing spirit, I learned that enduring lesson of life, which time nor circumstance can ever obliterate. Yes! my dear girl; it was there I received that lesson which I have so often endeavored to impress upon your mind,—to guard you against the snares that are every where spread by those who have wrecked their own happiness, to draw the young and thoughtless into the vortex of their own dazzling but heartless pleasures. Could you have been in that chamber, and have seen and known how one so lovely, and whose morning of life was so fair, had been snatched from the world of her bright dreams,—prostrating in her fall all the years of earthly bliss that might have been hers, and all the proud aspirations, the promised felicity of him, the betrothed of her heart,—you would never again breathe one sigh, or one wish,—or weaken one chord of pure affection, for all that wealth and fashion can promise or bestow.

A few days after this interview, she left this world of trouble,—and the papers of the day, announced in the usual manner,—Died, on the —— instant, of a "pulmonary complaint," Mrs. Simson, wife of Mr. —— Simson; and who thought otherwise? who of all that surrounded her, could deem she had a heart to break? Thus she passed away; and the world, busied with its own little and great schemes, soon ceased to remember that she had ever lived, or loved, or died.

With Isabella ends our tale. And it is only necessary in conclusion to say, that George never knew how fully and fearfully she had atoned for her fatal error. Before I had an opportunity of communicating to him my last painful interview with her,—and her prayers for his happiness and forgiveness, he had fallen in the struggle of South America for liberty and independence. Mrs. Barclay is still alive, and so is Mr. Simson, though now some ten years older than when he led Isabella a victim to the altar. I presume he is still in the market; he is ten years older, he is ten years richer, and thus doubly desirable to those mothers who love their daughters, and wish to have them well married.

I have endeavored to be as brief as possible, but my letter has extended itself too long, and yet I fear it is too short to make that impression I could wish. I cannot but hope, however, that Isabella's fate will awaken in your breast, as it did in mine, those reflections that will lead you justly to appreciate how false and empty are the world's opinions, when compared with the conscientious dictates of our own calm and unbiassed judgment,—and determine you to choose that life whence rises and flows the streams of all our earthly happiness. If I have failed, and that flower which now blooms so fair and fragrant by the banks of Powhatan, should be plucked by a hand insensible to its sweets, to ornament some princely hall, and wither amid all its splendor, then you may recollect the warning voice, and think of one, though humble, who would have sacrificed every other hope of happiness to cherish that flower—you may then remember——

B——.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SKETCH OF VIRGINIA SCENERY.

The following Sketch of Virginia Scenery is sent with the hope the author will excuse the liberty taken, as it was written without the slightest idea of its being ever published, by a traveller through some of the scenes of Western Virginia:—

"It was a charming evening—the sky was almost cloudless, and the sultry air of summer seemed to be gradually giving way to the cool and refreshing breezes of autumn. Accompanied by a few companions and some persons acquainted with the surrounding country, I ascended the large and romantic rock near the village of Rockymount, known by the name of the 'Bald Knob.' This rock is about 200 feet above the level of the water, and the ascent exceedingly steep and difficult. Its name is indeed descriptive of its general character and appearance, which are calculated to strike more by its novelty of height and rugged aspect, than its beauty of herbage or richness of attire.—We wound up among ledges of rock, and now and then found our progress retarded by the intervention of some stunted cedars and oaks, which had clung to a soil which would seem hardly able to afford any sustenance, except to the moss, long celebrated for its fondness for the flinty rock. This moss, consisting of several rich and beautiful species, has wove a seeming carpet of the most vivid green, and surpasses in softness the finest fabrics of the Turkish looms. Delighted and amused, we strolled from cliff to cliff, gazing on the works of Omnipotence, which arose around, above, beneath us, and feasting our delighted senses on the rich magnificence of the scenes presented from its summit. The lofty mountains dimly seen from afar; the 'rural cottages' in the vales below; the smoke richly curling from the unseen hamlets among the lofty trees; the startling sound of the huntsman's gun re-echoed from the rocky heights—were an assemblage of pleasures rarely enjoyed by so short an excursion. The 'Peaks of Otter,' appeared with much distinctness and beauty, while a rich and variegated cloud seemed to rest on their summit, as though it had stooped to gaze with us on their magnificent heights. A branch of the Alleghany is also visible between two lofty hills, and the blue tints that rested on its brow, contrasted with the glowing greens of the adjacent forests, presented to the eye a grateful and pleasing variety of shade.—The picturesque village of Rockymount appears to much advantage from this rock, and the country around is one of much wild and romantic beauty. Long did we gaze on the works of nature's God,—displayed in majestic, rural, and beautiful scenes; and then turning from these glorious manifestations of wisdom and power, traced the names of many a youthful swain and maid, who had chiselled out their initials on the flinty rock, urged no doubt by the puerile ambition of being remembered long after they had ceased to roam among its rocky alcoves. There could the poet's soul catch sparks of inspiration from nature's open volume, and the painter's pencil vainly strive to touch with living lines his there faithless canvass. 'Who can paint like nature?' would echo from each lovely object; and man, in all his pride of nature and of art, shrink from the task of copying her rich and gorgeous dyes. There would the Christian pour out his soul in adoration and praise; and, lost in contemplation of the Hand that raised the mountains and spread out the plain, stoop not to draw his sources of delight from the poorer, yet still rich pleasures afforded to the carnal mind. The fanciful may, aided by this sketch, catch a glimpse of the beauties of the scenes,—but let them, like me, view them as they are, and they will own how far the reality exceeds the most vivid colorings of even a wild and enthusiastic admirer of the works of nature's God."

J. W. C.

September, 1832.

From the Scottish Literary Gazette.

COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE.

There lived in a country not a thousand miles from Edinburgh, a decent farmer, who, by patient industry and frugality, and without being avaricious, had made himself easy in circumstances. He enjoyed life without being profuse; for he tempered his enjoyments with moderation. At the age of sixty, he still retained the bloom of health on his cheek. He lived till that age a bachelor; but his household affairs were regulated by a young woman, whose attentive zeal for her master's interest made it easy for him to enjoy his home without a wife. She was only in the character of his humble servant, but she was virtuous and prudent. Betty allotted the tasks to the servants in the house, performed the labor within doors, during harvest, when all the others were engaged. She saw every thing kept in order, and regulated all with strict regard to economy and cleanliness. She had the singular good fortune to be at once beloved by her fellow-servants, as well as respected and trusted by her master. Her master even consulted her in matters where he knew she could give advice, and found it often his interest to do so. But her modesty was such, that she never tendered her advices gratuitously. Prudence regulated all her actions, and she kept the most respectful distance from her master. She paid all attention to his wants and wishes; nor could a wife or daughter have been more attentive. When he happened to be from home, it was her province to wait upon him when he returned, provide his refreshment, and administer to all his wants. Then she reported to him the occurrences of the day, and the work which had been done. It did not escape her master's observation, however, that, though she was anxious to relate the truth, she still strove to extenuate and hide the faults of those who had committed misdemeanors. Her whole conduct was such, that, for the period of fifteen years, the breath of slander dared not to hazard a whisper against her.

It happened, however, that a certain maiden lady in the neighborhood had cast an eye upon the farmer. She was the niece of a bachelor minister, and lived at the manse in the character of housekeeper. But, with all opportunity to become a competitor with Betty, she could never gain her character. Those people who want personal attractions take strange means of paying court, and endeavoring to open the way for themselves. What they cannot effect by treaty, they endeavor to do by sapping. Scandal is their magazine, by which they attempt to clear their way from all obstructions. This maiden lady made some sinister remarks, in such a way, and in such a place, as were sure to reach the farmer's ear. The farmer was nearly as much interested for the character of his servant as he was for his own, and so soon as he discovered the authoress, made her a suitable return. But he made ample amends to Betty for the injury she had suffered, and, at the same time, rewarded her for her services, by taking her for his wife. By this event, the lady, whose intentions had been well understood, and who had thought of aggrandizing herself at the expense and ruin of poor Betty, found that she had contributed the very means to advance her to the realization of a fortune she had never hoped for. May all intermeddlers of the same cast have the same punishment: they are pests to society.

Betty's success had created some speculation in the country. Though every one agreed that Betty deserved her fortune, it was often wondered how such a modest, unassuming girl had softened the heart of the bachelor, who, it was thought, was rather flinty in regard to the fair sex. Betty had an acquaintance, who was situated in nearly the same circumstances as herself, in being at the head of a bachelor farmer's house; but it would appear that she had formed a design of conquering her master. If Betty used artifice, however, it was without design. But her neighbor could not, it would appear, believe that she had brought the matter to a bearing without some stratagem; and she wished Betty to tell her how she had gone about "courting the old man." There was, withal, so much native simplicity about Betty, and the manner of relating her own courtship and marriage is so like herself, that it would lose its naïveté unless told in her own homely Scotch way. Betty, into all, had a lisp in her speech, that is, a defect in speech, by which the s is always pronounced as th, which added a still deeper shade of simplicity to her manner; but it would be trifling to suit the orthography to that common defect. The reader can easily suppose that he hears Betty lisping, while she is relating her story to her attentive friend.

"Weel, Betty," says her acquaintance, "come, gi'e me a sketch, an' tell me a' about it; for I may ha'e a chance mysel'. We dinna ken what's afore us. We're no the waur o' ha'ein' some body to tell us the road, whan we dinna ken a' the cruiks and thraws in't." "Deed," says Betty, "there was little about it ava. Our maister was awa at the fair ae day selling the lambs, and it was gey late afore he cam' hame. Our maister verra seldom steys late, for he's a douce man as can be. Weel, ye see, he was mair herty than I had seen him for a lang time; but I opine he had a gude merket for his lambs, and ther's room for excuse whan ane drives a gude bergen. Indeed, to tell even on truth, he had rather better than a wee drap in his e'e. It was my usual to sit up till he cam' hame, when he was awa. When he cam' in and gaed up stairs, he fand his sipper ready for him. 'Betty,' says he, very saft-like. 'Sir,' says I. 'Betty,' says he, 'what has been gaun on the day—a's right, I houp?' 'Ouy, sir,' says I. 'Very weel, very weel,' says he, in his ain canny way. He ga'e me a clap on the shouther, and said I was a gude lassie. When I had telt him a' that had been dune throu' the day, just as I aye did, he ga'e me another clap on the shouther, and said he was a fortunate man to ha'e sic a carefu' person about the house. I never had heard him say as muckle to my face before, tho' he aften said mair ahint my back. I really thocht he was fey. Our maister, when he had gotten his sipper finished, began to be verra joky ways, and said that I was baith a gude and bonny lassie. I kent that folks arna' themsels whan in drink, and they say rather mair than they wad do if they were sober. Sae I cam' awa' doon into the kitchen.

"Twa or three days after that, our maister cam' into the kitchen—'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'Betty,' says he, 'come up stairs; I want to speak t'ye,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I. Sae I went up stairs after him, thinking a' the road that he was gaun to tell me something about the feeding o' the swine, or killing the heefer, or something like that. But whan he telt me to sit doun, I saw there was something serious, for he never bad me sit doun afore but ance, and that was whan he was gaun to Glasgow fair. 'Betty,' says he, 'ye ha'e been lang a servant to me,' says he, 'and a gude and honest servant. Since ye're sae gude a servant, I aften think ye'll make a better wife. Ha'e ye ony objection to be a wife, Betty?' says he. 'I dinna ken, sir,' says I. 'A body canna just say hou they like a bargain till they see the article.' 'Weel, Betty,' says he, 'ye're very right there again. I ha'e had ye for a servant these fifteen years, and I never knew that I could find fau't wi' ye for onything. Ye're carefu', honest, an' attentif, an'—.' 'O, sir,' says I, 'ye always paid me for't, and it was only my duty,' 'Weel, weel,' says he, 'Betty, that's true; but then I mean to mak' amens t'ye for the evil speculation that Tibby Langtongue raised about you and me, and forby, the warld are taking the same liberty: sae, to stop a' their mouths, you and I sall be married.' 'Verra weel, sir,' says I; for what cou'd I say?

"Our maister looks into the kitchen another day, an' says, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'Betty,' says he, 'I am gaun to gi'e in our names to be cried in the kirk, this and next Sabbath.' 'Verra weel, sir,' says I.

"About eight days after this, our maister says to me, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'I think,' says he, 'we will ha'e the marriage put owre neist Friday, if ye ha'e nae objection.' 'Verra weel, sir,' says I. 'And ye'll tak' the grey yad, and gang to the toun on Monday, an' get your bits o' wedding braws. I ha'e spoken to Mr. Cheap, the draper, and ye can tak' aff onything ye want, an' please yoursell, for I canna get awa that day.' 'Verra weel, sir,' says I.

"Sae I gaed awa to the toun on Monday, an' bought some wee bits o' things; but I had plenty o' claes, and I cou'dna think o' being 'stravagant. I took them to the manty-maker, to get made, and they were sent hame on Thursday.

"On Thursday night, our maister says to me, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'To-morrow is our wedding-day,' says he, 'an' ye maun see that a' things are prepared for the denner,' says he, 'an' see every thing dune yoursel,' says he, 'for I expect some company, an' I wad like to see every thing feat and tiddy in your ain way,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I.

"I had never ta'en a serious thought about the matter till now; and I began to consider that I must exert mysel to please my maister and the company. Sae I got every thing in readiness, and got every thing clean—I cou'dna think ought was dune right except my ain hand was in't.

"On Friday morning, our maister says to me, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'Go away and get yoursel dressed,' says he, 'for the company will soon be here, and ye maun be decent. An' ye maun stay in the room up stairs,' says he, 'till ye're sent for,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I. But there was sic a great deal to do, and sae many grand dishes to prepare for the dinner to the company, that I could not get awa', and the hail folk were come afore I got mysel dressed.

"Our maister cam' doun stairs, and telt me to go up that instant and dress mysel, for the minister was just comin doun the loan. Sae I was obliged to leave every thing to the rest of the servants, an' gang up stain, an' pit on my claes.

"When I was wanted, Mr. Brown o' the Haaslybrae cam' and took me into the room among a' the gran' fouk, an' the minister. I was maist like to fent; for I never saw sae mony gran' folk together a' my born days afore, an' I didna ken whar to look. At last, our maister took me by the han', an' I was greatly relieved. The minister said a great deal to us—but I canna mind it a'—and then he said a prayer. After this, I thought I should ha'e been worried wi' folk kissing me,—mony a yin shook hands wi' me I had never seen afore, and wished me much joy.

"After the ceremony was o'er, I slipped awa' doun into the kitchen again amang the rest o' the servants to see if the dinner was a' right. But in a wee time our maister cam' into the kitchen, an' says, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I. 'Betty,' says he, 'ye must consider that ye're no longer my servant, but my wife,' says he; 'and therefore ye must come up stairs and sit amongst the rest of the company,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I. Sae what could I do, but gang up stairs to the rest of the company, an' sit doun among them? I sat there in a corner, as weel out o' sight as I could, for they were a' speaking to me or looking at me, an' I didna ken how to behave amang sic braw company, or how to answer them. I sat there till it was gey late, and our maister made me drink the company's healths, and they gaed a' away.

"When the company were a' gaen awa', I went doun to the kitchen, and saw that every thing was right; and after I put a candle into my maister's bed-room, I took another, and gaed away up to my ain wee room, in the garret. Just whan I was casting aff my shune, I hears our maister first gang into his ain room, and then come straight awa' up towards mine. I think I can hear him yet, for it was siccan extraord'nar thing, and I never saw him there afore; and every stamp o' his feet gaed thunt, thunt to my very hert. He stood at the cheek o' the door, and said, very saftly, 'Betty,' says he. 'Sir,' says I—'But what brought ye here, sir,' says I. 'Naething,' says he. 'Verra weel, naething be it, sir,' says I. 'But,' says he, 'remember that ye're no longer my servant, but my wife,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I; 'I will remember that.' 'And ye must come down stairs,' says he. 'Verra weel, sir,' says I; for what could I do? I had always obeyed my maister before, and it was nae time to disobey him now.

"Sae, Jean, that was a' that was about my courtship or marriage."

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

REMINISCENCE:

OR, STORY OF A SHIPWRECK.

In the year 1797, I left the United States, having under my control a new clipper built schooner of about eighty tons, bound to Cape Francais, in the island of St. Domingo, with a cargo, chiefly munitions of war, for the colonial government of that island. The harbor of Cape Francais is one of the best in the world,—capacious, safe, and of easy access; the entrance under a high point of land,—on the side of which is a strong fortification called Fort Picolet, which completely commands the pass. Above the fort, on very elevated ground, was placed the observatory, in view of the town, although two or three miles distant.

England being then at war with France, and having the command of the West India seas, the direct intercourse of the island with France was rare and uncertain—European news generally reaching them by the way of the United States. My business at the Cape being nearly finished, it became necessary, for a particular mercantile speculation, that I should return to the United States by the way of St. Thomas. Three or four days before I was prepared to sail, early one forenoon, I observed all at once a singular excitement in the streets,—drums beating, alarm guns firing, &c. Upon making inquiry into the occasion, I was informed that the signals at the observatory indicated a fleet to windward standing for the port. The leading frigate was soon seen from the town, making signals to the fort, and without molestation stood directly in, and proved to be a squadron from France, under the command of Commodore Barney, with a number of prizes in company, which altogether made a very imposing appearance. The day before I had intended to leave the Cape, I was accosted in the street by a stout sailor looking man, who civilly inquired if I had not a vessel in port bound to St Thomas, and could he get a passage in her—adding, that he was an Englishman, had been captain of one of the brigs then in port, captured by Commodore Barney, on his passage out from Liverpool to Barbadoes; and as he had not been armed he was not held as a prisoner, but turned ashore pennyless, to shift for himself as he best might—that could he get to St. Thomas, he could raise funds by bills on his consignees at Barbadoes, and would pay whatever the charge might be for his passage up. I told him I believed that it was the custom for unfortunate seamen to receive assistance from their fellows, without thinking of recompense—that he was entirely welcome to a passage; and as the schooner would leave the port early the next morning, I would give him a note to the captain, and advise him to take his baggage and go immediately on board. He observed that his baggage was easily removed—that although he had considerable property on board of the brig when captured, belonging to himself, the captors had left him nothing but a sailor's bag to take care of. Next morning we left Cape Francais, with a view of beating up to St Thomas. This is a voyage of some difficulty, being a distance of some six or seven hundred miles, with the trade wind dead ahead. Navigators of those seas know that in this passage there is a dangerous reef of sunken rocks, whose sharp points rarely reach the surface, called the Silver Keys, lying about midway between the northeast part of the island of St. Domingo, and the cluster of islands, keys and shoals, east of Turk's Island; and although the passage is probably a hundred miles wide, and the reef covers but a small space, yet many a fine vessel has been wrecked thereon. Knowing perfectly well the existence and location of this dangerous reef, and making my own observations on the run of the vessel, I had calculated on the third night that we were out—that if we neither saw nor heard any thing of it by midnight, we should have passed it; I therefore kept the deck until that hour, when concluding all was safe, went below. I had got to sleep, when I was awoke by the vessel's bottom and sides rubbing violently against the rocks. I immediately got upon deck, and looking round found we were in a most perilous situation; on all sides surrounded by rocks, which were plainly known by the waves gently breaking upon them. The moon was near her full, occasionally obscured by passing clouds—the wind moderate. The schooner was instantly put about, under the expectation of finding the way out by which we entered; she had only got cleverly under way when she went bows on, upon a sunken sharp pointed rock, and remained stationary. An immediate examination was made, when it was discovered that the rock had penetrated her bottom, and the water was pouring in. Our situation was in the highest degree alarming—the schooner evidently lost, and no chance for our safety but the boat, which for a vessel of eighty tons could not be large. There was nine of us, the captain, mate, English captain, myself and five colored seamen. Fortunately the weather was mild; the vessel quietly hanging to the rock, and not filling very fast, gave us time to make our arrangements. The boat was launched, a mast and sail prepared, short stanchions nailed to her gunwale, and a strip of sail cloth attached thereto, for the purpose of raising her sides, to prevent the spray of the sea washing in. We took also on board, the ship's compass, a bag of biscuit, a keg of water, and some bottles of brandy. No baggage was permitted. My own dress was shirt, pantaloons, shoes, hat, and an old surtout coat. I had taken the precaution to secure the papers relative to the voyage, my watch, and about sixty Spanish dollars tied up in a shot bag; the bag of dollars I made fast to the ringbolt in the boat's stern. We were probably a couple of hours in making those preparations. At length the schooner being nearly full of water, we settled ourselves in the boat and left her,—the captain, who steered, and myself in the stern sheets, the mate and English captain next, two of the seamen midships, with tin cans to bail the water out as it should splash in, the others forward. I had little expectation that the boat could possibly live as deeply loaded as she was, and such I believe was the opinion of all on board,—for the first two or three hours there was not a dozen words spoken. It was our object to make the island of St. Domingo, from which we were fifty or sixty miles distant, as soon as possible. To effect this all our exertions were used; but so miserably rigged as we were, and so deep withal, that we could do little more than run before the wind. Our oars were some how or other of little use. On the first day we made, that is we had a very distant view of land, on our larboard bow, which we supposed to be Point Isabella, the most northern part of the island of St. Domingo; the wind would not permit us to reach it. In the evening we had a severe squall; the wind blew, the waves increased; we lowered our sail, just sufficient to keep before the wind. Soon it commenced raining hard, the waves were stilled, we rode out the storm, and began to breathe more freely—entered into conversation, and entertained hopes of our ultimate safety, by getting to land somewhere, or being picked up; but neither land nor vessel appeared during the whole of the second day, we still running before the wind, making as much southing as the nature of our equipment would permit. On the morning of the third day we found ourselves off Monti Christi, and might probably have reached the land; but by this time we had become confident in our power to sustain ourselves, and determined to run for Cape Francais, which then lay direct to leeward, and which we reached in perfect safety about three o'clock that afternoon. Thus terminated a voyage of about two hundred and fifty miles, in about sixty hours, in the open sea, and in a small boat so deeply loaded, that her gunwale, on an even keel, could not be above four inches above the water—leaving us in a complete state of destitution; not a man but myself had saved any thing but the clothes around him.

Our return created a considerable sensation. I was quickly surrounded by my acquaintances, anxious to hear the details of our misfortune, and to offer their services in the most liberal manner. This was naturally to be expected from my countrymen. There was however one occurrence in a French gentleman, which I can never forget, and must relate; he held some subordinate office under government. I had been introduced to his family by a German who I had known in the United States. This gentleman called upon me, and taking me aside from the crowd by which I was surrounded, told me that he had just heard of my misfortune, and had come to offer me any money I might want, to be returned in my own way, and at my own convenience. Altogether his manner was so kind and friendly, that I am sorry his name has entirely escaped my memory. After very sincerely thanking him for his friendship and generosity, I told him I had sufficient funds for my immediate wants. Early next day I was called upon by two American gentlemen, the one a Mr. Dodge, who from his long residence and good character, was usually called "consul." They informed me that the Americans at the Cape, resident and transient, hearing of the misfortunes of myself and crew, had raised a subscription for our relief, and that they had called upon me to know the numbers and relative situation of those on board at the time of the disaster, to enable them to make the distribution of the money raised, in the fairest and most efficient manner. I informed these gentlemen that we were not exactly objects of charity—that my funds were sufficient for my purposes—that the captain had sold the boat which preserved us, for thirty or forty dollars—that the mate could get employment if he wished it, or could get a gratuitous passage home—that the colored seamen could ship aboard American vessels in port, who were in want of hands—but that there was one person shipwrecked with us, who was particularly unfortunate: he was, or rather had been, the captain of an English brig then in the harbor, a prize to Commodore Barney, turned ashore with nothing but his clothes, and those lost in the wreck; I was giving him a passage to St. Thomas, with a view of placing him as near as I could to the place he was bound to; he was now in an enemy's country, and entirely destitute. Mr. Dodge observed that he would not consent to give the Englishman a dollar; that the English cruisers were plundering and confiscating American property wherever they could find it, and that they had almost ruined him. I observed that I had correctly informed them of the situation of all the persons in the vessel when wrecked, and that they, as the distributors of the public contribution, would in course use their own discretion. They left me. A few hours afterwards, the gentleman who had accompanied Mr. Dodge returned alone. He told me that Mr. Dodge had consented to let the Englishman in for a portion of the money collected, and that he would share equally with the schooner's mate, and that if I would bring him to Mr. Dodge's counting house, his quota was ready for him. This I promised to do; and in the course of the day fell in with our companion in misfortune, told him what had been done, took him to the place designated, and introduced him to the gentlemen. They counted out, as well as I remember, about sixty hard dollars, and presented them to him. He gathered them up in a dirty handkerchief, and thanked them for their kindness and liberality—in doing which he was so much affected, that be burst into tears. We left the place together; I parted from him in the street, and have never heard of him since. In a few days I took passage on board an American schooner bound for Philadelphia, and after a short passage, was peaceably under quarantine in the river Delaware.

R.

Alexandria, January 1835.

SELECTIONS

From the Papers of the Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society.

We have been permitted to transfer to our pages the subjoined papers in possession of the Historical Society, which will doubtless afford much gratification to our readers. The first is an extract from a manuscript which was the property of the late venerable and learned Chancellor Wythe, and seems to have been copied by him, or for his use, from the "Breviate Book" of Sir John Randolph, who was attorney general of the Colony in 1734. This extract contains biographical sketches of John Holloway and William Hopkins, two prominent members of the bar at that early period. The orthography of the original has been preserved.

The second is an interesting record of the proceedings of a patriotic band in Norfolk Borough and County in the early part of the Revolutionary war, associated under the brief and imposing title of "Sons of Liberty." This document breathes a noble spirit of resistance to tyranny in our ancestors, which we may fondly hope their descendants will never cease to cherish and emulate. It was presented at the last meeting of the Society by Dr. Barraud, whose letter we also take pleasure in publishing.

The third paper, is an authentic narrative of an Indian attack upon Wheeling Fort in 1777, furnished by one of the survivors, who is now living in the county of Brooke. This document was communicated by William McCluney, Esq. of Wellsburg, and has once appeared in the "Brooke Republican." Mr. McCluney states, that Captain Samuel Mason, the commander of the fort, was afterwards the famous Mississippi robber.

Taken from Sir John Randolph's Breviate Book.

On the 14th of December, 1734, died suddenly of a fit, John Holloway, Esq., after having languished about ten months with a sort of epilepsie at certain times of the moon, which had much impaired his memory and understanding. He had practised in this court upwards of thirty years, with great reputation for diligence and learning; and was so much in the good opinion of the court, that I have, upon many occasions, known him prevail for his clients against reasons and arguments much stronger and better than his. His opinions were by most people looked upon as decisive, and were very frequently acquiesced in by both parties, those against whom he pronounced being discouraged from disputing against so great authority. He practised with much artifice and cunning, being thoroughly skilled in attorneyship; but when his causes came to a hearing, he reasoned little, was tedious in reading long reports of some cases, and little abridgments of others, out of which he would collect short aphorisms, and obiter sayings of judges, and rely upon them, without regarding the main point in question, and arbitrarily affirm or deny a matter of law, which had often too much weight, against the reason and difference of things. By this method, he gained many causes which always gave him great joy; but was as impatient if he lost one, as if it tended to a diminution of his credit. He was blameable for one singular practice, in drawing notes for special verdicts. He would state naked circumstances of facts only, and leave it to the court to collect the matter of fact out of them; so that, upon such verdicts, we have had many tedious debates about what the fact was: whereas, if that had been found positively as it should be, there would have been no need of a special verdict. But against this I could never prevail. His greatest excellence was his diligence and industry; but for learning I never thought he had any, nor could it be expected he should. He had served a clerkship; went a youth afterwards into the army in Ireland, in the beginning of King William's reign; after that betook himself to business, having got to be one of the attorneys of the Marshalsea court; but not being contented with his income from that, turned projector and ruined himself, which brought him first into Maryland, and afterwards hither. I remember one particular instance, which satisfied me his knowledge in the law was not very profound. An ejectment was brought, (whether I was at first concerned in it I forget,) and upon a special verdict the case was thus. A seized in fee by deed, gave the land in question to B his daughter, for life, and after her death, to her heirs forever. She sold it to the defendant, and after her death, the plaintiff, B's heir, claiming as a purchaser in remainder, brought this action to recover. When I saw this, I told the plaintiff, who was my client, I could not say one word for him, not knowing a more certain rule of law than this:—that where by will or conveyance, any estate of freehold is given to the ancestor, and by the same writing an estate is limited to his heirs, that makes a fee, [heirs] being there a word of limitation, and not of purchase. Yet the defendant, by this eminent lawyer's advice, gave up the land without argument, upon the plaintiff's allowing him to remain in possession some short time longer; when if the matter had been brought to a hearing I would not have said one word. However, his reputation was such, that he was universally courted, and most people thought themselves obliged to him, if he would engage their side upon any terms; and he really thought so himself. This gave him great opportunities of exacting excessive fees; which I have heard he always did, where the value of the thing in question would allow it: and covered great blemishes in one part of his private life, besides many imperfections of his mind, which any body might observe who knew any thing of him. He was of a haughty, insolent nature; passionate and peevish to the last degree. He had a stiffness in his carriage which was ridiculous, and often offensive; and was an utter stranger to hospitality. He was sincere in his friendship, where he professed any,—but not constant; apt to change upon small provocations, and to contract new friendship upon very slight grounds, in which he would be very warm and ready to do all good offices. One of his greatest defects was that he would always bring his opinion and friendship to agree. But what he wanted in virtue and learning to recommend him, was abundantly supplied by fortunate accidents. He was fourteen years speaker of the House of Burgesses, and eleven years public Treasurer. But in those he acted with little applause, and less abilities; though he was three times chosen, and once unanimously. His management of the treasury contributed to his ruin, and brought him to the grave with much disgrace. I was always his friend, and had a great deal of reason to believe him mine. Yet it was impossible to be blind to so many imperfections. He died, little lamented, in the sixty-ninth year of his age.

In a few daies afterwards, in London, died William Hopkins, Esq. who had practised in this court about eighteen years, and in that time, by hard study and observation, he made a surprising progress; became a very ingenious lawyer and a good pleader, though at his first coming he was raw and much despised. But he had a carelesness in his nature, which preserved him from being discouraged, and carried him on till he came to be admired. He had a good foundation in school learning; understood Latin and French well; had a strong memory, a good judgment, a quickness that was very visible, and a handsome person;—all mighty advantages. But his manner was awkward; his temper sour, if it was to be judged by the action of his muscles; and was given, too much given, to laugh at his own discourses.

When he had brought himself into good business, he almost totally neglected it; which I believe was owing to a desire of dipping into all kinds of knowledge, wherein he had a great deal of vanity, and prevented his digesting what he had so well as he would have done otherwise. He had many good qualities in his practice; was moderate in his fees; ingenious and honest; never disputed plain points, but was a candid, fair arguer. Yet he had a failing, which brought him to a quarrel with me. It was an odd sort of pride, that would not suffer him to keep an equilibrium in his own conceits. He could not see himself admired, without thinking it an injury to him to stand upon a level with any other; and therefore, though I was always his friend, had done him many kindnesses, and he himself thought himself obliged to me, he came into so ill a temper, as not to allow me either learning or honesty; which broke our acquaintance—and after that I thought I discovered some seeds of malice in him. He died in the flower of his age, and may be justly reckoned a loss to this poor country, which is not like to abound (at present at least) in great genius's.

Norfolk, January 16th, 1835.

SIR: I herewith transmit you (with a request that if you shall deem it proper, it may be presented to the next meeting of the Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society,) a copy of an ancient Record of the Actings and Doings of certain inhabitants of the Borough and County of Norfolk, associated under the name of "Sons of Liberty." This record has lain (tradition relates) in the office of the clerk of this Borough from its date; unknown to the world at large, and unnoticed even by many of the inhabitants themselves. The moment my attention was called to it, it appeared to me entitled by its antiquity and the generous spirit of patriotism and self-devotion which it so strongly breathes, to a place in the records of a society whose laudable purpose is to rescue from oblivion (into which already too many of the works of talent and deeds of patriotism of the state have fallen,) the remaining monuments of the colonial and revolutionary history of Virginia.

The letter of Richard Bland, (attached to the original, and which is obviously autographic,) seemed to me particularly interesting, and to deserve a place among the transactions of your society. That letter characterizes the resolutions as "noble," and declares that "they will remain lasting monuments of the public spirit of the Sons of Liberty, and of their love to their country." To this end I very respectfully tender them to your society, whose institution, allow me to say, I hail as the dawn of a new era in the literature and science of the commonwealth.

Be pleased to accept for your society, and yourself individually, assurances of my high respect,

OTWAY B. BARRAUD.

To the President of the Historical and Philosophical Society of Virginia.

PROCEEDINGS Of the Sons of Liberty at Norfolk, 1766.

Preserved as a monument of their public spirit and love to their country.

At a meeting of a considerable number of inhabitants of the town and county of Norfolk, and others, Sons of Liberty, at the court-house of said county, in the Colony of Virginia, on Monday, the 31st of March, 1766—

Having taken into consideration the evil tendency of that oppressive and unconstitutional act of Parliament, called the stamp act, and being desirous that our sentiments should be known to posterity, and recollecting that we are a part of that colony who first, in general assembly, openly expressed their detestation to the said act, (which is pregnant with ruin, and productive of the most pernicious consequences,) and unwilling to rivet the shackles of slavery and oppression on ourselves and millions yet unborn, have unanimously come to the following resolutions—

1. Resolved, That we acknowledge our sovereign lord King George the Third to be our rightful and lawful king; and that we will at all times, to the utmost of our power and ability, support and defend his most sacred person, crown and dignity, and shall be always ready, when constitutionally called upon, to assist his said majesty with our lives and fortunes, and to defend all his just rights and prerogatives.

2. Resolved, That we will, by all lawful ways and means which Divine Providence has put into our hands, defend ourselves in the full enjoyment of, and preserve inviolate to posterity, those inestimable privileges of all free-born British subjects, of being taxed only by representatives of their own choosing, and of being tryed by none but a jury of their peers: and that if we quietly submit to the execution of the said stamp act, all our claims to civil liberty will be lost, and we and our posterity become absolute slaves; for by that act, British subjects in America are deprived of the invaluable privileges aforementioned.