We returned to my father's house. Hardly had we arrived, when we heard of the sudden death of Alice Clair. Worn out by fatigue and disappointment, she was attacked by fever, which was followed by delirium; and she went out of a cruel world, unconscious of her misery. My cup of bitterness was full. I neither hoped, nor excited expectation. I was considered a broken, ruined man. I remained some time a burthen upon my father's hands, leading a harmless but restless, good-for-nothing life, which only doubles the misery of existence. Time works wonders. I began to have hopes of myself, and determined to leave my native city; to give up all old acquaintances; to go afar from all who knew me. I made arrangements to receive annually a small sum, to enable me to carry my projects into execution, and bidding adieu to all those I truly loved, and who I knew still loved me, I embarked on board a packet bound for New-Orleans. HOPE. HOPE for Experience boldly steers, And gains that chilling shore, But only to be wrecked on ice, And sink to rise no more. This is that hope whose sordid views To earth alone are given; That hope which wreck nor ruin fears, Her anchor casts in heaven. For he that would outride the storm, Though whirlwinds waked the blast, Makes that his first and only hope, That all must make their last. A PRACTITIONER, HIS PILGRIMAGE. PART TWO. OH steam! most stupendous, astonishing steam! Transporting us faster than fleet-footed dream, What _could_ make a doctor, with serious face, Pronounce a prognosis of death in thy case? In thy system's full vigor, to venture to say, That 'steam-locomotion had seen its best day?' * * * * * THE flush that attended his words was cold, Like a thing that happen'd--a tale that is told; And his neighbor still vainly attempted to find Some loop-hole of vantage to peep at his mind. While his wonder was long, and his marvel was deep, The man who was wonder'd at fell fast asleep. Of every-day chances, there's nothing that seems So involv'd in a mist as the dreaming of dreams; When the fancies seem fitfully practising o'er The parts that their waking realities bore; Like the ghosts of departed returning again To the scenes where they acted and suffer'd as men. Thus the mind of our doctor most readily found Its way to his regular visiting-round; Now counting how long such a patient could live, Now giving a drastic purgative; It had tempted a frivolous man to a smile, The half-drawing down of his mouth all the while.[4]