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thors of her own and fathers distresses!—
The picture of innocence and filial affection
is complete. When Ferdinand, through the
agency of the “spiriting Ariel,” is allured in
to the presence of Miranda, then the poor, lit
tle, fluttering heart of the innocent maiden, is
first made to feel that inward touch of sym
pathy which is akin to love.
“ Why speaks my father so ungently 1 This
Is the third man that e’er I saw ; the first
That e’er I sighed for: pity move my father
To be inclin’d iny way !”
What artlessness! What an exhibition of
conscious innocence! The conventionalities
of modern society would construe such an eb
ullition of feeling into boldness, immodesty
and such like. Not so with the island girl:
she was untaught in the arts of deception—
her nature was purely an unselfish one; her
intentions disinterested and spontaneous; and
to o-ive utterance to the warm emotions which
crowded around her heart, seemed to her to
be the most natural of actions.
In the creation of this character, Shakspeare
has imitated no model of art or education:
out of his own inexhaustible fund of origi
nality, he has furnished a beautiful instance
of what a woman might be supposed to be
who had been reared in the school-house of
nature. We have no conception of her per
sonal appearance, neither do we trouble our
selves searching after brilliant powers of in
tellect. From our first introduction to her,
we love her, almost as instinctively, as she
did the noble Ferdinand.
What a charm, w'hat a divine excellence,
I may say, has Shakspeare thrown around
the passion of love! Here is a young girl
growing up from infancy beside an affection
ate father whose will has always been her
law ; but when the soft current of love hov
ers over the heart-strings of the passive child,
how soon the implicit obedience is denied!
When her entreaties in behalf of Ferdinand
become so urgent, her father bids her be si
lent, or else she will cause him to chide and
to hate her, and further adds that Ferdinand
is a Caliban in comparison with those of his
sex whom she had never seen; alter such lan
guage from one who had never addressed her
a harsh word before, does she not fall at his
feet and humbly ask his forgiveness'? No,
no; she boldly replies in the language of true
love,
“ My affections
Are then most humble ; I have no ambition
To see a goodlier man.”
Poor worm! she was infected. “Herspir
its as in a dream, were all bound upa new
sunlight had burst in upon her soul: she was
anew creature. The first scene in Act the
third of the “Tempest,” contains the most
simple, affectionate, and beautiful courtship,
that was ever presented to the gaze of an ad
mil ing world. From the first moment Miran
da cast her eyes upon Ferdinand, she seemed
to think he was intended for her. She would
fain assist him at his task, because her heart
was for it, and his was against it. And when
her lover declares his passion, so eloquently
and feelingly, what a sweet answer she gives
him!
“ And do you love me V*
One feels as it were almost a profanation
to kiss the lips from whence flow such fervent
words. Who can fathom the affection of that
sentence ? It sealed the union of the happy
pair. In the perfection of this character,
bhakspeare’s object was not to create a mere
physical beauty, but a simple child of nature ;
“-not to dazzle the eye with extrinsic orna
ment, but to impress the heart with a sense
°f its own transcendent goodness —not to por
tly the gradual development of a refined and
fashionable sentiment, but to reveal the “ spon
taneous combustion” of a natural affection ;
and now, gentle reader, does not your own
heart bear ample testimony to the success of
the author’s effort ‘l The luxurious and ex
quisitely beautiful productions ci a Phidias,
an Apelles, a Michael Angelo, will all crum
ble to ashes and mingle with their original
©©©lf 21 SIS S3 Da m3aA IB ¥
elements, but the likenesses of Shakspeare’s
immortal productions are daguerreotyped on
the mind, and destined to an eternal existence.
Time can write no wrinkle on the smooth and
placid brow of Miranda; and age can never
quench the sacred flame that burns upon the
altar of her heart. The beholder of to-mor
row like the beholder of to-day will find no
diminution of the “brightparticular” charms
of this unstudied, extemporaneous child of na
ture. And now, we will leave Miranda in
the arms of her lover, adopting, as our senti
ments, the language of Prospero:
“ So glad of this as they, I cannot be,
Who are surpris’d with all; but my rejoicing
At nothing can be more. I’ll to my book ;
For yet, ere supper time, must I perform
Much business appertaining.”
Sketd)e3 of £ife.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
MY UNCLE SIMON’S PLANTATION,
—OR
SKETCHES OF SOUTHERN LIFE, &C.
BY ABRAHAM GOOSEQUILL, ESQ.
MY UNCLE SIMON.
“You are old, Father William, the young man ciied,
The few locks which are left you are grey ;
You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man.”
— Southey.
I will devote this number to a description
of my Uncle Simon, who, as I intimated in
my last, is an excellent old man. It is usual
for an author to give an exaggerated account
of his hero, and so make him appear larger
on paper than any where else. Now, Ido
not flatter myself that J can make my worthy
uncle appear half so well in the description I
shall give of hirn, as he would, could you see
him with your own eyes; and, should you
ever have the pleasure of his acquaintance,
you will be constrained to say, as Mrs. She
ba did to Mr. Solomon, “ the half has not been
told me.”
He is a “hale old man,” and “ the few locks
which are left him are grey.” His age is al
most seventy, and, although Time has bound
such a heavy bundle of years upon his back,
he pertinaciously refuses to bend under the
load, but walks as erectly, and with as elas
tic a step as he did nearly forty years ago,
when he marched to the sound of the drum
and fife to do battle against his country’s foes.
He was then about thirty years of age, hav
ing married my aunt Parmela in his twenty
fifth year, by whom he had three children
at the breaking out of the war. After its close,
he settled down quietly upon his present plan
tation ; and although he has been several
times called from his rural retreat to serve his
State in her legislative councils, yet most of
his time has been devoted to improving his
farm, so that, from small beginings, he has
by prudent economy, added to his possession,
until he is quite a wealthy rnan.
Economical at first, from necessity, he con
tinues so, from choice ; and he is always giv
ing wholesome advice upon the subject to those
around him. I assure you, too, he is quite
an adept in the science he professes to teach,
and Adam Smith himself, would have listen
ed with pleasure to my uncle’s conversation
upon his practical notions of economy ; and,
as to Prof. Wayland, my uncle’s elbow’ chair
in the chimney corner, can give out more wis
dom in a single hour about making and sav
ing money, than would emanate from the a
foresaid professor’s seat in a week—even
though that seat be illuminated with the wis
dom of every political economist from Smith
downwards.
Numberless old horse-shoes hung upon trees
and pegs and old rubty nails and buckles,
with various such other things too tedious to
mention, stowed away in boxes and gourds,
show that Uncle Simon learned hisnotionsof
economy in the school of “ Poor Richard,” a
copy of whose almanac, he inherited from his
father, and whose dog-eared, greasy leaves,
show’ that it has been in use at least a cen
tury. “I prefer,” says uncle Simon, 11 the
way to wealth ,” to any treatise I have ever 1
seen upon the subject of economy.”
Let it not be supposed that because the old
gentleman is economical, he is parsimonious.
“ Parsimony and economy,” says he, “ are two
very different things. Niggardliness is on one
extreme and prodigality on the other. Econ
omy is the golden mean. The miser, is just
as far from economy as the spendthrift is. He
refuses to lay out a penny which will bring
him in a pound, because there is one chance
to a thousand that he may lose the penny.
The parsimonious man, gets all he can and
shuts it up in an iron grasp ; while the econ
omical man gets all he can, but holds it in a
liberal hand to let it go either to his own ad
vantage, or that of others.”
Speaking of a ‘liberal hand,’ reminds me
of my relative’s liberality, and real benevo
lence. I never have seen a man more humane;
one whose heart w'as more alive to the suffer
ings of others. This good will extends, not
only to creatures of the human kind, but al
so to brute animals, and even to reptiles and
insects. His neighbors upon whom fortune
has not lavished so much as upon him, can
testify to his deeds of charity. But do not
imagine that he bestow's his charity uponun
w'orthy objects. The idle and profligate find
no favor at his hands, and he only helps those
w T ho help themselves. It was but the other
day a hale, hearty, stout young man came to
his domicil asking alms. After eyeing him
for some time from head to foot, and scanning
with much interest his sturdy limbs, he assur
ed him that his potato patch needed work just
then, and, if he would hoe it over, he would
give him fifty-cents per day, besides boarding
him. The beggar vanished speedily; and
this gave Uncle Simon an opportunity to in
dulge in a tirade against gentleman beggars
in general, who, he says, very much abound
in this day, and have reduced beggary to a
science.
His negroes are all well clothed and fed,
and you cannot offer him a greater insult than
by treating one of them amiss. He regards
certain of their rights as inviolate as his own
liberty. I think I never saw a man more vex
ed than he was last summer, when a party of
school-boys violated the right of property in
herent in his man Sampson, by breaking into
his melon patch and bearing off a number of
prizes. He w r ent to the school-house, and
made complaint to the teacher with all that
testiness which is w T ont to influence a whole
souled man, when the w’eak have suffered a
wrong. The teacher would have flogged the
offenders, but my benevolent uncle, seeing
this, softened down, and being speedily met
amorphosed from the prosecutor into the ad
vocate, obtained the boy’s acquittal, upon the
promise that the offence should not be repeat
ed. Thus it is, that his benevolence some
times prevails over justice, and the vicious of
ten intrude upon his good nature.
This goodness of heart makes him very fond
of seeing others enjoy themselves. It is a
favorite custom of his, to have all his little
negroes brought before his door under the
shade cf a venerable oak tree, with a large
tray of food from his kitchen placed before
them, so that he may see them enjoy them
selves eating. I have already said, that his
benevolence extends to brute animals, reptiles
and insects; therefore all the horses, cattle
&c. on his plantation, must be kept fat and
sleek. Their feeding is carried on under his
own immediate supervision, and he must see
every thing eat or he will be quite incrdulous
as to whether it has been fed. Three times
a day, morning, evening and at noon, he
inakr 8 his man Sampson take a basket and
go with him to the crib, and fill it with nice
large ears of corn to put in the horses’ troughs.
Then, when the cows, sheep, hogs, &c. are
to be fed, he must be present to devise ways
and means to prevent the stronger from im
posing upon the weaker. He says that he is J
a Democrat in the true acceptation of the term,
and does not believe in an aristocracy of
strength, any more than an aristocracy of
wealth.
He can’t bear to see any object on his plan
tation lean. Everything must be fat. To
such an extent does he carry this notion, that
even his rats must be kept in proper plight.
These animals once became so troublesome,
that he adopted the plan of building his cribs
with the sills placed upon blocks formed in
the shape of inverted cones, so that when the
rats crawled up these blocks, they could not
get off into the cribs. This plan operated fine
ly, and he rejoiced to have gotten rid of these
soricine vermin, until one day, happening in
one of his empty cribs built upon the old plan,
he saw a score of ghost-like rats, so lean that
they more resembled shadows than substances,
chasing each other up and down the rafters.
They were so weak from a want of food, that
they were often compelled to stop and prop
each other up, in order to keep themselves
from falling. When they saw my uncle, they
all stopped and gazed at him so steadfastly,
that the kind-hearted old man imagined that
he read in their eyes a prayer to save them
selves and helpless young fiom the horrors of
famine. The appeal was not to be resisted,
for he remembered the golden rule, “ do unto
others as you would have others do unto you,”
and, accordingly, he had the corn removed
from one of his rat-proof cribs, into the one
where he had seen the famished vermin run
ning up and down the rafters. Old David, an
ancient family slave, ventured to expostulate
with him at the suggestion of cousin Aris
tides, who disliked very much to see so much
corn devoured by the pestiferous gentry; but
the old gentleman placed David in the situa
tion of the rats, and asked him how he would
like to be famished to death. This appeal to
the old negro’s heart, silenced, if it did not
convince him. Since that time, all of my un
cle’s cribs have been built after the old order
of architecture, so as to afford as much aid
and comfort as possible to the rats. The on
ly means he now uses to destroy these ani
mals, is to keep a larger number of cats than
he did formerly—which he keeps so fat, how
ever, as to counteract much of their native
hostility to their prey.
Uncle Simon will not suffer the swallows
in the chimney to be disturbed, and they build
there without any molestation, and keep up
a continual chatter, much to the inconvenience
and annoyance of my aunt Parmela, who,
with all the help the screen and broom can
afford her, can hardly keep the parlor floor
clear of soot. The spiders build about in the
corners of the room, and the house-maid has
to pick an opportunity when my uncle is ab
sent, to destroy these poisonous insects and
their webs. There was one large old fellow,
who had spread his net in a conspicuous cor
ner of the parlor, whom my relative regarded
with a great deal of interest, and w'ould not
allow to be disturbed. He remained there for
nearly a week, my uncle’s affection increas
ing for him nearly all the time, until, one
morning, he saw a poor fly entangled in hie
web, and devoured by the monster. From
this time, there was a very perceptible change
in his feelings towards his former friend the
spider, and one day at dinner, he discussed
with aunt Parmela the propriety of a writ cf
ejectment against his spider-ship. After the
meal was over, cousin Dorothy got up from
table and w'ent into the parlor to see after
Harlequin. A shriek was heard, and uncle
Simon sprang from the table to see what could
be the matter, and, on reaching the spot, he
found his favor.te golden-wirged butterfly,
in the fangs of the spider. With utter indig
nation, he seized the broom which the house
maid had snatched up as she followed him,
and, brushing the spider down, crushed him
with his foot, much to the discomfiture cf
aunt Parmela’B floor, which was somewhat
soiled by the reptile's entrails. For the baU
lance of the day, all was gloom—aunt Par-
147