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36 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