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Bat it was all of no avail; the stern King of
Terrors was not to be cheated of his prey.
********
Again it was early morning, but the sun
looked down upon no stately castle in the
%vild woods of the new world. In a brown
frame-house, rendered almost dreary from its
deluded situation, there was transpiring one
-)[ the most interesting of earthly scenes: a
Christian was going home to God — home to
that bright and beautiful world, where “ the
redeemed walk.” Her cheek was as hueless
Hsthe pillow on which it rested; her breath
came short and thick; but her eyes had an
unearthly lustre, and in the weak tones of
her voice there was a melody sweet as the
swan’s dying note. Through the raised win
dows, a soft, cool breeze, stole from the bo
som of the placid ocean, and fanned the few
auburn curls which strayed out from beneath
her cap. 0! in that hour, she seemed too
beautiful for death—too beautiful to be laid
away in the cold dark grave, where the worm
revels on its prey!
The Pilgrims were all there—all had come
into witness the visitation of that dread ty
rant, who takes from the arms of affection its
cherished idol. “ That dread tyrant ,” did I
say I I meant not thus. To the Christian
death is an angel of mercy —it holds the key
which unlocksthe golden gates of Paradise —
it introduces him to the glorious company of
‘‘the angels, and the just men made perfect.”
The eyes of the sufferer closed for a mo
ment, and her pallid lips moved as if in pray
er. While thus engaged, an expression of
almost angelic beauty stole over her wasted
features; her blue eyes unclosed again, and
raising her arm, she wound it around her
husband’s neck, and drew his face close to
hers.
“ Thou art very sorrowful, my beloved !”
she said. “ Why do you mourn 1 We weep
not when an uncaged bird seeks the blue ol
its native skies—when a flower droops in our
path at noon-day, and withers. Why weep,
when a tired spirit seeks rest from the tumults
of this world in the bosom of its God I when,
like the bird, it tries its wing in an upward
(light, and restsat last only in its native skies'?
Why weep, that your much loved wife is now
to make a most happy exchange of worlds
The form of the strong, stern puritan,
seemed convulsed with internal agony, and
he did not make reply. The sweet voice of
his wife continued:
“ I have lived a happy life —I am dying a
happy death. Most blissful has been my
fate! I have never made one sacrifice too
many in the cause of Christ. A little while,
and you, my beloved, shall test the truthful
ness of the promise given to those who leave
’ father and mother —houses and land,’ for the
Redeemer’s sake. Be strong —be firm —be
deeply rooted in the faith! Adieu! We
will meet soon in a brighter world.”
And as she spoke, she pressed her lips for
the last time upon her husband’s brow. One
by one, the puritans came up to take her
hand, and listen to her parting words. When
‘his scene was over, she sunk back again
upon her pillow, and closed her eyes. “The
bitterness of death had passed.”
In the humble burying-ground of the Pil
grims they made her grave, and laid her down
w hh prayers and tears. One heart-broken
mourner lingered long above the marble brow,
and kissed and re-kissed the cold lips, before
they gave her to the dust. In the wild agony
°f his grief, he at first prayed to die. His
Pfayer, it seemed, was signally answered, for
he survived the wife of his bosom but a few
months. They made his mound beside her’s,
mid left them without sign or stone to mark
heir resting place.
ears afterwards, there swept out from one
10 1 the castles of the old world a funeral pa
geant. There was all the insignia of grief
that wealth could command. Long trains of
mourners, richly clad in black, passed through
he fretted vaults and long aisles of the ca-
©©ilfSHslSifl h j-j* js aA n H @ASIS If 1
thedral, and paused at last beside a tomb, al
most meet for the resting place of Kings.
The Duke of Devonshire was dead, and
royalty paid his dust due honors. The do
mestics, left at home to superintend affairs
during the absence of the mourners, swept
out from the bosom of the richly wrought
vestments the Duke last wore—a withered
blush rose. None knew its history —none
even noticed its fall. The heart near which
it had so long lain had ceased to beat for
ever.
Sketches of Cifc.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
MY UNCLE SIMON’S PLANTATION,
OR
SKETCHES OF SOUTHERN LIFE, &C.
BY ABRAHAM GOOSE QUILL, ESQ.
INTRODUCTION —COTTON.
“ I take the liberty to communicate to the public
a few loose thoughts.”— Goldsmith.
“ The South opulent in the mimic snow of the
cotton — Grimki.
It has been said, that we of the South are
so given to the culture of cotton, that we can
not find time to cultivate letters or anything
else. I have often thought, that if there was
any spot in the world which nature designed
for the culture of literature, it was the South
ern States, where we enjoy such a pure and
beautiful sky, and such a genial climate, with
so many beautiful mountains, and streams,
and singing birds. I have further thought
that if literature had a peculiar claim upon
any class of men in the wide world, it was
upon our Southern Planters. They enjoy all
the advantages of position mentioned above,
and, in addition to these, they have the lei
sure, to sound the depths of immortal mind,
and the wealth to give them the means of do
ing so. Lastly, I have thought that if any
people on earth ought to be happy, it is we
of the South, who are surrounded with so
many advantages promotive of happiness, be
sides those I have mentioned.
The Southern planter, in many respects,
bears a considerable resemblance to the an
cient English Baron, surrounded by his liege
subjects, all dependent upon him for whatev
er they have of happiness or unhappiness.
His slaves look to him as their protector, and
regard him as their benefactor. Many are
the near and dear ties which are formed be
tween master and servant, and especially be
tween the children of the planter, and old and
faithful slaves. I remember with what love
and veneration I used to regard some of my
father’s grey-headed negroes, as they dandled
“young master" 1 upon their knee, and utter
ed words of kindness which thrilled through
my heart as no other words ever did, save
those of my beloved parents. I remember too
that, in after years, when I had grown to be
a youth, and these old slaves came to lie down
upon the bed of death, I stood by them with
father, mother, brothers, and sisters, and gave
them all the assistance that could be given in
the solemn hour of dissolution. And, when
the breath had left their sable bosoms, I re
member that their difference from me, in color,
did not prevent my following them to the tomb,
there to mingle my tears with those of others
as a tribute of gratitude to the fidelity of my
departed friends. Yes, 1 call them friends, for
I felt at the time, and I still feel, that they
were such friends as are rarely to be found
this side of the grave.
1 have mentioned these things, merely to ;
give an idea of the relations growing up up-:
on plantations. There are many and various ;
others, which may suggest themselves to the j
reader. Those who are familiar with our i
Southern manners and customs, will know j
them, and those who are not, can form an |
idea, when I tell them that the government of
the plantation has some of the features of a
primitive patriarchy, I shall endeavor to give
in short sketches some glimpses of Southern
life.
There is one great fault to be charged up
on the Southern people, and that is, that we
are so engrossed with cotton that we can en
joy but few of the luxuries which nature has
so bounteously lavished upon us. The rea
son of this is obvious —it is the spirit ot ava
rice which so universally fills the bosoms of
mankind. Our principal, indeed almost our
only staple, which we turn into money is cot
ton. Therelore, every one is eager to make
as much of that article as possible, and con
sequently plants so much of it that everything
else is neglected for its sake. The conse
quence is, that our land, whose virgin fertility is
surpassed but by little in the world, is impov
erished on account of that neglect of rotation
in crops which is essential to its productive
ness, and on account of its imperfect culture.
Os course as all of our time is devoted to cot
ton, there is not that air of comfort and neat
ness about our houses, and fences, and plan
tations generally, that is to be found in other
parts of the world, and we do not have the
gardens, fruiteries, the parterres and other
things which please the senses, and give re
finement to the soul.
Our habit of cultivating cotton in a careless
way has brought habits of carelessness ir.
other things. A physical cause has produ
ced moral results. Most of our derelictions
in an educational, literary, religious and po
litical point of view are to be traced to cotton.
Do we refuse to send our children to school,
or to college, as much as we should do—our
excuse is that the worms have devoured a
good portion of our cotton, and the remain
der does not command such a price as would
warrant the expense attendant upon our sons
and daughters going to the academy or the
seminary. Does cotton bear such a price as
to induce us to send our young hopefuls where
they may study, they must go at it with all
their might and main, and cultivate the field
of intellect as we cultivate the field of cotton.
They must commence to study by day-light in
the morning, and keep it up until the sun re
fuses to give light, and then, forsooth, the ta
per must supply its place, and shed its light
upon the page on which the young student
has kept his eyes until his head and heart
have played Captain Cook, and circumnavi
gated the globe three times, if not more. Be
sides this, the genius whom we call our child,
is not to have his mental powers cramped by
confining his mind to one, or two, or three
studies. Not he! He must learn all things
at one time, from the alphabet to Gunter’s
scale; and really the transition from Noah
Webster’s wisdom comprised in his Orthogra
phy, to that of Plato exhibited in his Gorgias,
is so rapid as to induce the supposition in an
unsophisticated mind, that there is a kind of
invisible electro-magnetic telegraph at the
South for the transmission of knowledge from
pate to pate. Another reason, besides the
youth’s genius, for pursuing so many studies
at one time, is that cotton may soon fall again,
and he must learn every thing while the arti
cle is “ upP ’
Does one propose to establish a literary
journal at the South ? It is a tolerably good
thing, and only tolerably so, provided cotton
bears a good price—if not, nothing is worse !
And who among us can afford to write arti
cles for Gazette or Magazines'? It is beneath
our dignity—we the knights of the cotton bag.
Let us leave such low things as literature to
yankee pedagogues and itinerant book-sellers!
And, moreover, your magazines a*nd belles
lettres journal don’t say a word about the
Liverpool cotton market, or the prices current
in Savannah or Charleston. Give us a liter
ature built up upon cotton, and we will be
the most literary people in the world.
Do we hold a Camp-meeting ? It must be
when it will not interfere with the cultivation of
our great staple, and when we attend such a
meeting, we must “ get religion ” as we plough
and hoe cotton. We must get together a
crowd of men, women and children, and pufb
blow, grunt, groan, sing, shout and sweat—
and the more noise we make, and the bigger
hurry we are in the better. Why ? That we
may get through, and go home to attend to
our cotton!
Does a stump-speaker mount the rostrum ?
The burthen of his song is cotton. The Dem
ocrat says, Polk raised the price ; the Whig
says Polk lowered it! Happy is the party
that chances to be in power at the time of a
rise in the price of cotton, and wo! infinite
wo , to the party to whom fate has been so
cruel as to produce a depression at Liverpool,
in the cotton market, during its ascendancy!
Does a man give a feast and invite his
friends? It must be at a time when their
horses are not too busily engaged ploughing
the cotton fields, or they must stay at home
for the very good reason that the carriage
owns the supremacy of vis inertia , and can’t
carry them to their neighbor’s banquet hall,
being, in the absence of horses, destitute of
motive power. In short, I can’t express mv
views any further and better than by simply
writing cotton ! cotton !! cotton !! 1 COT
TON!!!!
But after all, there are a good many faifil
ers who live as men should do, and there is
nothing which strikes my mind with more
pleasure than a well regulated Southern farm.
There is the plantation of my good uncle Si
mon, for instance, on which I now live, which
is conducted just as it should be. My wor
thy relative, its proprietor, is a good-hearted,
whole-souled old fellow, just the man whom,
above all others, 1 love—he, and his plan”
tation and the inmates of his house.
But I must w r aive description here. Other
numbers will be full of it, and I must crave
your kind indulgence, dear reader, for break
ing off so suddenly, lest I have to ask your
pardon for writing an introduction of too great
length.
A hint in regard to my purpose. I intend
to give you some sketches of my uncle Simon
and his plantation. My design will more
fully develope itself as I proceed. Ido not
wish to make any rash promises for fear of
breaking them, and therefore I am, like the
politicians of the day, non-committal.
The honesty of heart which ought to in
fluence every author, compells me to say that
Mr. Geoffry Crayon’s Brace-bridge Hall, sug
gested to me the idea of “ sketching ” some
particulars in regard to my Uncle Simon’s plan
tation. I hope the good old gentleman will
’not be so lost to self-respect as to accuse me
of plagiarism. Hoping the same of my read
ers, I am respectfully their obedient servant.
ABRAHAM GOOSEQUILL.
Original IJoi’tni.
For tiie Southern Literary Gazette.
IF THOU HAST CEASED TO LOVE.
TO HER WHO WILL UNDERSTAND,
BY EPSILON .
If thou hast ceased to love, I pray
Give back my trusting heart,
Whose pulses throbb’d for thee alway,
And will till life depart.
Each tender thought bestowed on thee,
Back to my bosom bring;
And oh, I pray give back to me,
That costly diamond ring!
I loved thee more than words can tell,
And deemed thou wast sincere;
But thy own lips have broke the spell,
And wrung from me a tear:
give me back my peace of mind
That thy deceit has wrecked ;
And with it l should like to find
My pearls with which thou’rt decked.
I did not deem that one so fair
So false at heart would prove ;
Changing my hope to dark despair,
And scorning all my love:
But since thou wilt not have my heart,
Give back its feelings spent,
And pray consider, ere we part,
Those bracelets only lent!
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