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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! 139