of the town and neighborhood, but gentlemen from every quarter of the State, were seen thronging to the metropolis, and speeding their eager way to the building in which the Convention held its meetings.

'Day after day, from morning till night, the galleries were filled with an anxious crowd, who forgot the inconvenience of their situation in the excess of their enjoyment; and far from giving any interruption to the course of the debate, increased its interest and solemnity by their silence and attention. No bustle, no motion, no sound was heard among them, save only a slight movement when some new speaker arose, whom they were all eager to see as well as to hear, or when some masterstroke of eloquence shot thrilling along their nerves, and extorted an involuntary and inarticulate murmur. Day after day was this banquet of the mind and of the heart spread before them, with a delicacy and variety which could never cloy. There every taste might find its peculiar gratification: the man of wit, the man of feeling, the critic, the philosopher, the historian, the metaphysician, the lover of logic, the admirer of rhetoric,—every man who had an eye for the beauty of action, or an ear for the harmony of sound, or a soul for the charms of poetic fancy-in short, every one who could see, or hear, or feel, or understand, might find, in the wanton profusion and prodigality of that Attic feast, some delicacy adapted to his peculiar taste. Every mode of attack and of defence, of which the human mind is capable, in decorous debate-every species of weapon and armor, offensive and defensive, that could be used with advantage, from the Roman javelin to the Parthian arrow, from the cloud of Eneas to the shield of Achilles-all that could be accomplished by human strength, and almost more than human activity, was seen exhibited on that floor."

The dramatis personæ of this grand performance embraced, among many others, James Madison,

John Marshall, James Monroe, Edmund Pendleton, George Wythe, George Nicholas, Edmund Randolph, George Mason, Grayson, Innis, Lee, and last, not least, Patrick Henry. It were useless to name more in such a brilliant constellation.

What a perilous descent have I now to make, from this theatre of glorious scenes and splendid actors, to the common-place subjects of my narrative!

I will here close the chapter, to break the fall and lessen the contrast.

CHAPTER XIX.

PLACES OF AMUSEMENT.

(Continued.)

Ar the corner of the Academic Square, where now stands the handsome mansion of Mr. Allen, was erected erected a Market House-the then New Market-but it did not thrive. It was occupied by live cattle and goats, instead of beef and mutton. Hens, chickens and ducks volunteered their presence, without the fear of spit or frying-pan, and even laid their eggs in remote and dark corners, not likely to be visited by any other cus

tomers than prying school-boys or vagrant children. A few vegetables also volunteered their verdure; such as dandelions-an excellent salad-buttercups, with roots more pungent than red pepper, chick-weed for bird fanciers, and thistles-but not a good substitute for artichokes.

I don't assert that the fox made his hole and the wren built its nest in the market-house, but it is true that Fox & Wren occupied it and built coaches there. The Wrens now nestle elsewhere, cherished and cherishing-of the Foxes only one remains in quiet retirement.

The Academic, Forensic, Dramatic Theatre maintained its latter character and was thought to maintain it well for several years, but it met the fate of almost all similar edifices-conflagration, but without other disaster. The Markethouse, guiltless of blood and slaughter, was demolished many years later.

Theatrical performances were afterwards held (in 1802,) in the upper part of the old Markethouse, on Main and Seventeenth streets, recently demolished and rebuilt; and after that, in Quarrier's Coach-shop on Cary and Seventh streets, where Thomas' large Tobacco-factory stood, and was burned in 1851.

Temporary theatres now again gave place to a regular one. A large brick edifice was erected in the rear of the Old Academy or Theatre Square.

That, alas! was the scene of the most horrid disaster that ever overwhelmed our city, where seventy-two persons perished in the flames on the fatal 26th of December, 1811, where the Monumental Church now stands, and its portico covers the tomb and the ashes of most of the victims.

The writer, with some friends, reached Richmond that evening from a Christmas jaunt in the country, and went with them to the Theatre-but it was so crowded that they could not obtain admission. A very few hours after, he was aroused by the cry of fire, and hastening to the spot, the first object he encountered on an open space, was a lady lying on the grass apparently in a swoon. He attempted to raise her, but she was dead. He afterwards learned that she had leaped from a window, but before she could be removed from beneath it, was crushed by those who sought to escape by following her. The next object that thrilled him was a gentleman so dreadfully excoriated, that death mercifully put an end to his tortures in a few hours-but it were cruel to rehearse the many individual instances of intense suffering by the victims, and of the scarcely less intense agony of their relatives and friends.

On the ensuing morning, the mangled, burnt and undistinguishable remains of many of the victims were taken from the ruins and interred on the spot, where their names are recorded on

the monument already mentioned, and the ground was consecrated to the erection of a church.

It is due to an humble but worthy man, to record the services rendered by him during the progress of this dreadful calamity. Gilbert Hunt, a negro blacksmith, possessed naturally a powerful frame, and by wielding the sledge-hammer, his muscles had become almost as strong and as tough as the iron he worked. Gilbert was aroused and besought by Mrs. George Mayo to go to the rescue of her daughter. He was soon at the theatre. Within its walls, then filled with smoke and flame, was Dr. James D. McCaw, a man who might have been chosen by a sculptor for a model of Hercules. The Doctor had reached a window and broken out the sash, when he and Gilbert recognized each other. He called to Gilbert to stand below and catch those he dropped out. He then seized on the woman nearest to him, and lowering her from the window as far as he could reach, he let her fall. She was caught in Gilbert's arms and conveyed by others to a place of safety. One after another the brave and indefatigable Doctor passed to his comrade below, and thus ten or twelve ladies were saved. The last one providentially was the Doctor's own sister, whose proportions were a feminine epitome of the Doctor himself. Gilbert caught her and broke her fall, but he says he fell with her, both unhurt.