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SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE:
IVM. C. RICHARDS, EDITOR.
©riginal ijpoctrg.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
STANZAS.
“Ehen ! quam minus est cum reliquis versari,
Cluam tui meminisse.”
I remember well when Love was young —
When sunny hopes were ours—
When the joyous harp was ne’er unstrung
Within thy fairy bowers :
Or if its chords would sometimes glide
Into strains of gloom and sadness —
Oh! then how sweetly thou would'st chide,
And bid me not my sorrows hide,
But to thy faithful breast confide —
Till the Harp again, in lightsome strain,
Poured forth its streams of gladness.
Thou could’st not deem that this fond heart,
Enshrined in Hope and Love,
Was cankered with that poisoned dart,
Which Time might ne'er remove:
Thou didst not dream, oh! angel one !
That lie whom thou hadst cherished,
Was doomed to see thy peace o’erthrown —
To walk this wilderness alone —
To mourn bftide thy funoral stone —
To drag, with’pain, life’s heavy chain,
When all his hopes had perished !
E'en then, my soul, with restless gloom,
With dark forebodings fraught,
Was rushing, reckless, to its doom,
Urged by tormenting thought:
And when the harrowing tale was told —
The fearful mystery spoken—
How, for the cursed demon, Gold,
He—thy heart’s chosen —his troth had sold —
Thy warm Life’s current was checked and cold,
While the long drawn sigh, and the wild, glazed
eye,
Told that thy heart was broken.
With the murderer’s mark upon my brow,
I’m doomed through Earth to roam—
No kindly smile to greet me now,
For me no peaceful Home !
But in my darkest, dreariest mood,
My brain with anguish riven—
My clouded soul shall cease to brood.
And batten on its bitter food—
All fiercer feelings be subdued —
When I think that thou art an angel now,
Pleading for me in Heaven.
EREMUS.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
A SONNET FOR DECEMBER.
BY WILLIAM C . RICHARDS.
Lo! now the dying year, all pale and wan,
With feeble step, and tottering, moveth on,
To join the train of thousands long gone by,
And swell the pomp of Time’s sad pageantry !
December, clad in hoary mail, stands by
His death-couch, and with stern yet tear-filled eye,
Looks on his monarch gasping iu the strife —
Which knows no slighter conquest than his life !
On the chill air a mournful music steals,
Now low and faint, and now in sounding peals;
’Tis Nature's sorrow gashing from her heart,
That thus her children, one by one, depart!
Farewell, old Friend ! I too will give thee tears —
Whieh haply may my spirit fit for coming years !
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE MARINER’S EVENING PRAYER.
BY LEILA CAMERON.
Slowly the night falleth over the sea—
Faintly the curfew is heard from the lea —
Humbly our spirits are rising to thee:
Hear us, oh, Father!
Thou art our refuge in storm and in calm —
•Safely we rest on thy sheltering arm ;
Guard us, we pray thee, from danger's alarm—
Hear us, oh, Father !
On the dark water the night-breeze is sighing—
f aintly the hues of the twilight are dying—
Swiftly our thoughts to our loved ones are flying’
Ilearus, oh! Father!
Humbly we trust to thy guardian care,
Home, and the dear ones now gathering there :
Listen, oh ! God ! to the mariner’s prayer —
Hear us, oh! Father!
A WEEKLY JOURNAL OF LITERATURE, SCIENCE AND ART.
Now, dear reader, let us leave the scenes
of our late rambles in the Catskills for a peep
at the sunny South. Fancy that we have
spent a.pleasant day in the trip down the no
ble Hudson—that we have sojourned awhile
in the great capital of the Empire State—
have booked ourselves on board the Charles
ton steamer —have been reasonably sea-sick
for sixty hours, and are at this particular mo
ment gaily approaching the metropolis of the
Palmetto State.
Here we are! The noble bay up which
we are sailing is the fine harbor of Charles
ton. Sullivan’s Island, a pleasant summering
place, lies on our right; the battlements which
frown upon its shores are those of Fort Moul ■
trie; Fort Johnston is near us; midway be
tween the two shores, and further on, is Cas
tle Pinckney, the nearest defence to the city,
which lies immediately before us. About its
centre rises the lofty and admirably-propor
tioned spire of St. Michael’s Church, by far
the finest specimen of its kind South of the
Potomac, and claimed by some to be equal to
any in the country. The city presents a
somewhat motley appearance ; the buildings
exhibiting almost every shade from white to
black, according as they are new or newly
painted, or belong to the antique school.
The dingy hue of all the old edifices is pro
duced by the influence of the sea-air. There,
on the left wing of the city, stretches the
celebrated promenade called par courtesie —
the Battery. It is lined with elegant man
sions, bespeaking the opulence of their own
ers. This is a great resort of the citizens,
and in the afternoons it is thronged with
gay pedestrians, and with dashing equipages,
hearing the aristocracy of the place to inhale
the glorious sea-breezes which so effectually
stir the blood, made languid by the hot breath
of the pent-up streets.
Having disembarked, and taken up our
quarters at the “ Charleston,” or the “ Plan
ters,” we take a peep at the city, with itsevi
dences of wealth; and, pushing our research
es to its boundaries, on either side we encoun
ter a river—on the right, the Cooper, and on
the left, the Ashley, both of them flowing
in the midst of luxuriance. Pursuing either
of them awhile, glance around you. Yonder
stretches a rice plantation, and in that ghost
ly-looking jungle of rank vegetation is a
cane-brake. When you are wearied, step in
to one of the picturesque chateaux , so thickly,
spread around you. They are the mansions
of the planters, and the numerous small hous
es which surround them are the cosy quar
ters of the negroes. These poor people, the
only really contented class of men on earth,
will make you welcome, and their masters
will give you good cheer, physically and in-
ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, DECEMBER 16, 1848.
ALL ABOUT: WITH PEN AND PENCIL.
BY T. ADDISON RICHARDS.
NUMBER FOUR.
TURTLE COVE.
SOUTH CAROLINA. PART L
tellectually. It must be confessed that the
reputed hospitality of the South is rather a
poetic fiction; but here you may find much
of the open-heartedness and the gentle man
ners of the olden time, as in other portions of
South Carolina, in Virginia, Georgiaand Lou
isiana. Other parts of tlmse States—Florida,
Alabama, Mississippi, and the whole West—
have been too recently settled, and by too
needy a host of adventurers, • yet to possess
much of this chivalric spirit.
But we must hasten on. The South Caro
lina Rail Road, which bisects the State, east
and west, will, in a few hours, convey us
from the Atlantic to the Savannah. The
rich gardens through which we pass, on leav
ing the city—green even in winter—abun
dantly stock the kitchens of the inhabitants-
The pine forests upon which, we enter, after
the passage of some score of miles, might al
most justify the rhyming sneer, bestowed by
a traveler upon the scenery of this portion of
the Si ale.
“ Where to the North, pine trees in prospect rise;
Where to the East, pine trees assail the skies ;
Where to the West, pine trees obstruct the view;
Where to the South, pine trees forever grew !”
But a second glimpse will reveal, amidst all
these “ pine trees,” the towering cypress,
with its foliage of fringe and its garlands of
moss —the waxen bay-leaf, the rank laurel
and the clustering ivy; and, if you are watch
ful, you may catch, in the rapid transit of the
cars through the swamps, glimpses of almost
interminable cathedral aisles of cypress and
vine, sweeping through the deeper parts of
the boundless lagoons. But a rail-road
glimpse, and especially at the speed with
which you travel here, is quite insufficient
for reasonable observation. At “Wood
lands,” a mile, only, south of Midway, the
centre of the Road, lives Mr. Roach and his
distinguished son-in-law, the poet and novel
ist, Simms; and, as they are always upon
hospitable thoughts intent, we will pay them
a flying visit, not doubting of our welcome.
Yonder, in that wide and spreading lawn,
stands our friends’ mansion—that old-fash
ioned brick structure, with the massive and
strange portico. The ranks of. orange-trees,
and live oak, which sentinel their Castle, are
the objects of their tenderest care —true and
ardent lovers of nature as they are. Mr.
Simms has a particular fondness for the espe
cial grape-vine depending in such fantastic
and numberless festoons from the limbs of
yon venerable tree. He has immortalized it
in his song; and, as it is a good specimen of
its class—a class numerous in the South—we
will pay it a humbler tribute in our prose.
It is strong-limbed as a giant—and, hut for
the grace with which it clings to the old for
est-king, would seem to be rather struggling
VOLUME I.—NUMBER 32.
with him for his sceptre, than loyally and
lovingly sueing for his protection. The vine
drops its festoons, one beneath the other, in
such a manner, that half a dozen persons
may find a cosy seat, each over his fellow,
for a merry swing. On a dreamy summer
eve, you may vacillate, in these rustic couch
es, to your heart's content; one arm thrown
round the vine, will secure you in your seat,
while the hand may hold the favorite book,
and the other pluck the delicious clusters of
grape, which, as you swing, encircle your
head like the wreath upon the brow of Bac
chus. If the rays of the setting sun be hot,
then the rich and impenetrable canopy of fo
liage above you will not prove ungrateful.
A stroll over Mr. Simms’ plantation will
give you a pleasant inkling of almost every
feature of the Southern low-lands, in natural
scenery, social life, and the character and po
sition of the slave population. You may
sleep sweetly and soundly within his hospi
table walls, secure of a happy day on the
morrow, whether the rain holds you prisoner
within doors, or the glad sunshine drags you
abroad. He will give you a true Southern
breakfast, at a very comfortable h.our, and
then furnish you abundant sources of amuse
ment in bis well-stocked library, or suffer
you to seek it elsewhere, as your fancy list
eth. If you are not an adept at back-gam
mon, he will certainly teach you a thing or
two therein, when the labors of the day are
ended. At dinner, you shall not lack good
cheer for either the physical or the intellectu
al man, and then you may take a pleasant
stroll to the quiet banks of the Edisto—watch
the raft-men floating lazily down the stream,
and interpret, as you will, the windings and
echoes of their boat-horns—or you may muse
in the shaded bowers of Turtle-cove, or either
of the many other inlets and bayous of the
stream. Go where you may, you must not
fail to peep into the dark and solemn swamps.
You may traverse their waters on wild bridg
es of decayed and fallen trees; you may dream
of knight and troubadour, as your eye wan
ders through the gothic passages of cypress,
interlacing their branches, and bearing the
ever dependant moss, which hangs mournful
ly as if weeping over the desolation and death
which brood within the fatal precincts. If
you fear not to startle the wild fowl, to dis
turb the serpent, or to encounter the alligator,
you may enter your skiff, and, sailing through
the openings in the base of the cypress, you
may penetrate at pleasuie, amidst bush and
brake, into the mystic chambers of these poi
sonous halls. Mr. Simms has beautifully de
scribed these solemn scenes in his “ Southern
Passages and Pictures.”
“ ’Tis a wild spot, and hath a gloomy look;
The bird sings never merrily in the trees,
And the young leaves seem blighted. A rank
growth
Spreads poisonously round, with power to taint,
With blistering dews, the thoughtless hand that
dares
To penetrate the covert. Cypresses
Crowd on the dark, wet earth; and stretched at
length, __
The cayman—a fit dweller in such home
Slumbers, half buried in the sedgy grass,
Deside the green ooze where he shelters him.
A whooping crane erects his skeleton form,
And shrieks in flights. Two summer-ducks aroused
To apprehension, as they hear his cry,
Dash up from the lagoon, with marvellous haste,
Following his guidance. Meetly taught by these,
And startled by our rapid, near approach,
The steel-jawed monster, from his grassy bed,
Crawls slowly to bis slimy, green abode,
Which straight leecives him. You behold him
now,
His ridgy back uprising as he speeds,
In silence, to the centre of the stream,
Whence his head peers alone.”
* * * * * * * *•
Rambling, once upon a time, through the
negro quarters of Mr. Simms’ plantation, I
amused myself in studying the varied char
acters of the slaves, as shown in the style of
their cabins, the order ii> which they kept