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THE COUNTRYMAN.
TURN WOLD, GA., OCTOBER 27, 1862,
THE OLD PLANTATION : A POEM.
BY THE WANDERER.
DEDICATION.
To all those who, living on the old plantation,
love it, and to those who, having forsaken
it, still cherish its pleasant memories, 1 dedi
cate this volume. the author.
PREFACE.
A very poor thing may be made
so much like a very good one,
that the counterfeit will unmistakabty
point out the genuine. I could not, if I
would, conceal the fact that this poem is,
in its plan, modeled after Goldsmith's De
serted Village. And even the phraseolo
gy of my production may sometimes so
nearly approximate that of the sweet sing
er of home affections, that I shall be accus-
of downright theit, not only of plan and
sentiment, but even of words. If so—so be
it. I confess everything of this sort, in
advance, and without plea. I lay no claim
to originality in what is here offered to the
public.
The feelings and sentiments indulged in
by me, have so often been the theme of
the poet, that it would be very difficult for
even genius to invest them with a garb
whose tissues bad not before been used to
weave a garment for impulses to be found
in every heart. Not only have I read
Goldsmith, but 1 have read Gray, and oth
ers whose productions belong to the school
of these. And here I may remark, in
passing, that if the Deserted Village was
not actually tho creature of Gray’s Elegy,
it is plain that Goldsmith had read Gray.
And it does not require the keen nose of a
captious critic, eager upon the scent of a
plagiarism, to discover identity of thought
and expression in The Deserted Village
and the Elegy. Goldsmith doubtless wrote
with his mind fully imbued with Gray : and
I have written after having read and ad
mired both.
This much candor compels me to say.
But, at the same time, I must be allowed
to say also, that the sentiments met with in
the two poems mentioned, are not pculiar
to Goldsmith and Gray. They aie to bo
found in every human bosom. And hence
it is that these two authors are so popular.
People read their productions, find their
own hearts reflected, and then return to
them again, just as they do to a mirror,
where they have once beheld the images
of their own faces.
The local scenery, manners and customs
here described, I claim to be true to nature :
and I have only mingled with my descrip
tion, sentiments common to us all, and
which more favored writers have used,
with better effect, before me. But even
a poor writer—unless a very poor one in
deed—cannot divest the themes of which
I have attempted to sing, of all their in
terest.
The idea of home lias peculiar attrac-
i tions for all. And a home deserted, and in
ruins, with the idea of a wanderer pining
for old familiar scenes, possesses a melan
choly, hut pleasant interest to everyone.
Hence a poem, founded upon this basis,
either dropped from the glowing heart of
genius, or fashioned by the polished hand
of the artist, has a better.chance for suc
cess than most others.
Perhaps it might have been better for
me, had 1 named my production The Old
Home, or The Deserted Homestead, or
something of the sort, and made the more
general ideas of home, as they exist in ev
ery locality, the basis of this poem—if I
may be pardoned for calling it so. In that
event I might have had a wider audience
of interested listeners, and possibly of ad
mirers. The probability that this would
be so, appealed to my judgment with great
strength. But the peculiar type of home
enshrined in my heart is that which is to
he found in the old plantation. I love my
section—and my country little less I hope
— though I must confess some less, if by
possibility their interests he in collision.
But I dot believe they are.
The local manners, customs, and affec
tions of the sunny South—(Heaven’s choi
cest blessings upon her, for here I hold my
home, and everything dearest to me!)—
have never been as often made the subjects
of poesy and song, as they should be. Arid
when some fond son of hers has turned his
attention to the stamping of her impress
upon the world of letters, it lias been too
often the case—(I saj^ it with deep sor
row!)—that she has not seen to it that he
should not pine in neglect, and be pressed
down by critics and criticism inimical to her
hearth-stones and her homes. And yet, for
all this, I love, and must love my section.
And for this reason I have endeavored to
sing of the Southern liome^ instead of the
homes of the world. Perhaps it might
have been betler for me to pursue a differ
ent course. Something whispered me it
would. A desire for success (common to
all authors) and a love for the South strove
with each other: hut love prevailed : a/id,
in the language of him whose poetry I so
much admire, “ I must be indulged, at
present, in following my affections.”
When I had concluded to sing of South
ern homes, and to call my poem The. Old
Plai tation, then, probably, it would have
been to my interest to exclude the vexed
question of American politics—negro slav
ery. I advocate the system of slavery as
it exists among us. The umpires of literary
effort in this country and in Europe, are
opposed to it. The South has no orgaus
of literatme and criticism, whose dicta will
either damn or make a poem. Hence it
might have been best for me to avoid the
question of slavery altogether, since my
views upon the subject may serve to taint
my production in the eyes of moot of my lit
erary censors.
But how could I write a poem depicting
Southern manners, customs,and institutions,
and leave out of view this question ? The
French monarch said, L'etat, e'est mot!
1 say, negro slavery is the South, and the
South is negro slavery. The Alps arc no
more a part of Switzerland than this in
stitution is a part of the South. And yon
had as well attempt to depict Swiss scene
ry without mentioning the Alps, as to at
tempt to describe the South without refer
ring to negro slavery.
But 1 have not treated this question in
an offensive manner. Perhaps what I say,
and the spirit in which 1 say it, may do
some good. In this hope I have written.
If I can extinguish one spark of animosity
betweon the two sections—(unhappy word !)
—of my much loved country, I shall
have accomplished a great deal.
A word farther, as the name of my po
em.—I am aware that a prose work, bear
ing the first part of my title, has been pub
lished : but I have added the words, “A
Poem,” in older to distinguish between the
titles. I had partly written this poem, and
had adopted the name, before the prose
work was published. But as it is the only
one which will answer my entire purpose,
I retain it. The Author.
July 17th, 1859.
NOTE.
The foregoing preface (as well as the
poem) was written prior to the dissolution
of the American Union. 1 publish it and
the poem as 1 hey were originally written.
1 was ardently attached to the ‘ Union as it
was,’ prioi to its destruction by the aboli
tionists. They destroyed it before the se
cessionists fui'inally dissolved it—which
dissolution, in my heart of hearts, I’approve*
There are in my preface and poem one or
two affectionate allusious to what was my