The next and last event we shall have leisure to notice is the result of accident. Though in its real limits contracted almost to a single point, yet from a concurrence of circumstances peculiarly affecting, it swells to an affair of national importance, and excites an interest as wide as the reign of Sensibility itself. Could it be adequately delineated, it would subdue, as by enchantment, the savage bosom, though schooled in the practice of hu man torture. Like the head of Medusa, it can scarcely be looked on without converting the spectator into marble. We beg pardon of our readers for resorting to fable. The dismal reality is alone sufficient-far beyond the powers of fiction.

The event which it now becomes our melancholy duty to relate, is in its aspect the most horrid-in its circumstances the most touching-in its issue the most tragical, and in its consequences the most afflicting, that ever wrung the souls of a people. To describe it is impossible, though the pen were held by the hand of an angel: to paint it, beyond the powers of the pencil, though capable of more than mortal expression, and equal to every shade and combination of colouring, from the brilliancy of the sun-beams to seven-fold darkness. In approaching it, Imagination starts appalled from its horrors, and Fancy sickens at the shocking panorama of woes. Even the powers of Utterance become for a time, suffocated by Sympathy, or paralised by Disr wy. The reader must be sensible that we allude to the conflagration of the Theatre at Richmond.

On the 26th of December, 1811, that devoted building was unusually thronged by youth and beauty, age and respectability, genius and wealth. The worth, the virtue, the flower of Richmond was gayly assembled on the fatal spot. The crowded boxes, where, from lightness of heart and brilliancy of attire, beauty shone with superior attractions, rendered the scene indescribably interesting. Each one having left the "load of life behind him," a more animated assemblage no eye has beheld. The evening passed away in cheerfulness and mirth. Friendly salutations, flashes of merriment, corruscations of wit, social converse, and scenic representation, winged the hours with unusual speed.

The play was out and the after-piece had commenced. Every eye beamed with satisfaction at the past, and with anticipated plea

.

sure from what was yet in reserve.

But, O God! what a reverse

is at hand! Nature shudders at the prospect, as at the approach of Fate. Flakes of fire are seen descending on the stage. A performer comes forward, points to the ceiling in unspeakable anguish, and calls out to the audience, "the house is on fire!" The voice of thunder had been music to such a sound. Terror and dismay pervade the building with electric velocity, and with little less than the lightning's force. The door of escape was narrow and difficult of access. To every mind the scene presents itself in all its horrors. The manliest bosom feels now the shock of consternation, and the sickening of despair. Hearts utterly incapable of fearing for themselves, shudder for the fate of some beloved object. One has his Anchises, another his Creusa, a third his Ascanius, and a fourth, perhaps, the three relations together, to rescue from the burning.

All rush for the door in tumultuary confusion. The husband clasps his wife, his son, his daughter; the brother his sister; the pious son his mother, and the lover the idol of his affections, in hopes to bear them in safety through the throng. A narrow, dark, and winding stair-case becomes suddenly choaked up by the crowd pressing ahead, precluding those in the rear from all possibility of escape in that direction. In the mean time the fiery, all-devouring element, comes rolling from behind with an unprecedented rapidity. Its fierce and flickering spires, darting through volumes of pitchy smoke, are more awfully terrific than the yawning of the grave. Spreading, thickening, strengthening as it advances, every thing reddens into cinders at its touch. Immense columns of flame mount impetuously to the top of the building, and thence reflected towards the audience below, pour among them a hot and suffocating vapour. Respiration becomes difficult and agonizing, the pabulum of life being consumed by the flame. Every light is suddenly extinguished, and impenetrable darkness prevails, except where it is broken by the gleams from behind.

The prospect of escape thus irrevocably snatched away, and the last whisperings of Hope forever put to silence, all turns to terror and frantic despair. A scene of ineffable horror ensues. Five hundred souls, most of them females, many in the spring

time and blossom of life, but a few feet in advance of an ocean of flame, fiercely and rapidly rushing to devour them!-Overcome by their fears and suffocated by the deadly vapour which they breathe, numbers sink down and expire without a struggle. Others are trodden under foot by the fury of the throng. The survivors are overtaken by the raging element; their clothes are in flame, and agony unutterable is their only sensation. Convulsive exertions, imploring attitudes, frantic contortions and contageous horror madden in the spectacle, and shrieks of anguish resound through the walls. Some, mounting by preternatural efforts on the heads of their fellow sufferers, rush towards the adjacent windows, and, with their clothes in a blaze, throw themselves into the street, gleaming like fiery meteors in their fall. Hundreds come tumbling down in this deplorable condition. Through these avenues some escape without injury; but wounds, contusions, dislocations, fractures, or death are the lot of most. Those still enclosed in the burning pile,anguish unspeakable, even to relate it!-prevented from falling by the compactness of the throng, stand writhing, screaming, literally roasting, till voice and motion and sense become extinct, and the stillness and silence of death cover all.

"Grim horror shook! a while the living hill

"Heav'd with convulsive throes, and all was still."

To put the finishing touches to this maddening picture, the raf ters give way, and in the presence of the spectators, the roof comes down in crashing, fiery ruin, on the already broiling carcases of their friends.

In such a scene, it is difficult to particularize. A dismal indistinctness, a gloomy obscurity pervades the whole; prevents the eye from discriminating, and keeps subordinate parts out of view. Every thing individual, every thing private, is swallowed up in the general and mighty mass of misery and wo.

In the calamity, however, at Richmond, one scene of a secondary character, demands our notice. Eight females of rank and respectability, all mothers of families, all known to each other, and connected by the ties of affection and friendship, are thrust into a corner by the violence of the throng. Thus associated in

danger, the flames overtake them, and they are instantly in a blaze. They embrace, they writhe in anguish, as if united in one body and actuated by one feeling; they shriek as if possessed of one power of utterance; they cling closer and closer in the agonies of death, and sink together into the lap of eternity. What a scene for a Raphael!-what a group for a Praxitiles! Could it be faithfully committed to canvass, or sculptured in marble, the fable of Laocoon and his sons would be neglected.

Were we to select from this dismal chaos of horrors, another feature worthy of distinct commemoration, it would be that which involves the fate of the much lamented Gibbon. This amiable, brave, and accomplished young man, was the son of an officer, who, during our revolutionary struggles, had valiantly fought the battles of his country. Enterprizing in his disposition, and inheriting an instinctive attachment to arms, he had early entered as a midshipman, and was now a lieutenant in the navy of the Upited States. Though young in years, and younger still in naval services, his life had been a tissue of affecting vicissitudes. Scarcely was he initiated in the rudiments of his honourable profession, when the chalice of misfortune was presented to his lips, and he was compelled to drink deeply of the bitter draught.

When the frigate Philadelphia sailed for the Mediterranean, young Gibbon was on board. The fate of that vessel is known to the world. By one of those unforeseen disasters, which could neither be prevented by prudence, nor remedied by valour and skill, she was forced to surrender to a squadron of Tripolitans. On this occasion, Gibbon, with his gallant associates, was thrown, by the fortune of war, into the power of a barbarous and mercenary foe. The tedious and hope-sickening moments of their captivity, have been already numbered by the sensibility of their country. The only American bosoms that did not swell with the sigh of despondency, the only American eyes that did not overflow with the tear of affliction, were those of the high-minded sufferers themselves. Superior to every reverse that could befall them, they submitted to their privations and hardships without a murmur. With souls of a truly heroic temperament, their spirits rose as fortune forsook them, and they smiled at all their oppressors could inflict. Their unbending fortitude under the

pressure of their chains, was more highly honourable, more permanently glorious, than the renown of victory. By none of his companions in misfortune, was young Gibbon surpassed in firmness and magnanimity.

After his release from captivity and his return to his native country, he contracted an attachment, which was feelingly reciprocated, for a young lady in Richmond, of ample expectations on the score of wealth, and possessed of every quality and accomplishment, requisite to render her an ornament to society, and to contribute to the happiness of domestic life. For some time, difficulties and crosses, which he had not the power to control, threw a cloud over his prospects, and embittered, not a little, the cup of his existence. At length, however, all obsta cles were removed, all preliminary arrangements completed, and beauty, wealth, and virtue, were inviting his footsteps to the bower of felicity.

On the fatal night, Gibbon and the young lady to whom he was affianced, were among the most engaging ornaments of the theatre. When the tumult arose, his own escape he could have effected with ease. But into the heart of the magnanimous and the brave, personal considerations are the last to enter. The idol of his affection was in danger, and her safety constituted his only care. Overpowered by her sensibility, and fainting from her fears, he raised her in his arms, and endeavoured to force his way through the crowd. A friend offered him assistance, which he generously declined, declaring himself to be competent to the task, and entreating the gentleman to fly to the rescue of some other females, who were without protectors. With great coolness and incredible exertions, he continued to make his way through the opposing multitude. But coolness and strength, and firmness and perseverance, were of no avail. The raging element was too rapid in its progress for so tardy a retreat. The flames overtook him, yet he retained his fortitude even to the last. While all were shrieking around him, his manly bosom uttered not a groan. While all were writhing in ten-fold agony, his graceful and nervous form, refused to shrink from the devouring element. Partly overcome by the flame, and partly by the suffocating vapour which he breathed, he sunk on the