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\ 76 ,TURN>VOLD, GA m DECEMBER 1, 1862. THE OLD PLANTATION : A POEM. The Wanderer describes his nearest Neighbor—The Country Doctor—The Blacksmith—The Mill—The Miller—The Miller’s Daughter—Invocation to Heaven. Where spreading oaks obscure yon quiet spot, Reposed, in shade, our nearest neighbor’s cot, Retreat for all who sought it£ bounteous fare, For liberal hearts and ready hands were there. His manly heart with glowing fervor fraught, Our honest neighbor spoke his honest thought, Despised all fiction, loved the naked truth, Was frank and kind, alike to age and youth. Outspoken.candor made his listeners smile, ’Mid talk abrupt, though humor reigned the , while, And all who knew him, knew him but to love, Such power have honest hearts and thoughts to move. Oft have I smiled, when having aught to tell By way of secret, on my hearing fell His thundering whisper, while the laughing crowd Heard better than if he had spoken loud. Yet ’twas.no secret, for his honest heart Ne’er borrowed aught from secrecy or art. When age its silver sprinkled o’er his head, He left yon spot, by love paternal led, To seek and find his children’s pleasant homes, Built where the turbid Chattahoochee roams Through tangled vines,, and matted roots of cane, Its rushing waters hastening toward the main. And there he died. Yet as he fevered lay, And parting life was ebbing fast away, His dying words the fond request enjoined That here his hones their resting place should find; And back his children brought our neighbor here, And here he sleeps, yon ruined cottage near, In death reposing where in life he moved ’Mid cherished scenes, and talked, and wept, and loved. "Where yonder poplars fringe thatskirtof wood, The country doctor’s rural cottage stood, Embowered in rose-vines, clambering o’er the trees, Exhaling sweets, and wantoning in the breeze. His solemn face do I remember well, His pacing steed that ambled down the dell; That, newly shod, went thundering o’er the rock, Producing fire by each repeated shock; That flitted like a meteor o’er the hill, Dire messenger of potion and of pill. But, truth to say, with wisdom in his art, The doctor would but potions few impart; Those few he gave with cautious, skillful hand, Responsive to plain symptoms’ plain demand, Then kindled hope in the desponding breast, And left to nature doing all the rest. But all are gone do yonder charnel lured By artful death—the curerand the cured. Hard by yon trees with blooming jasmine hung, The sturdy blacksmith’s merry anvil rung, And shook the air for many a rood around, THE COUNTRYMAN. The listening hills rejoicing in the sound. His sinewy arm, and brawny bosom turned To giant mould, the useless linen spurned, And while his forge in mimic tempest roared, The tarnished drops in trickling streamlets poured Adown his cheek, his sable breast adown, And every quivering muscle seemed to frown. His hair erect, his grizzly head was bare, And many a cinder found a lodgement there, While ’mid his beard, the anvil dust at home, Spurned from its lintel each intruding, comb. Around his head the hissing cinders flew, And as he wrought, he strained each tightened thew, ’Till every nerve, and every muscle strung, His ponderous blows upon the anvil swung, And wrenched the air in circling eddies round, And rent the sky, and shook the trembling ground. Beside the stream, those flowering shrubs among, The noisy mill its constant clatter flung Adown the stream, and back upon the hill, Whenceflowed the waters of the murmuringrill. "Oft did the mill-boy, waiting for his meal, Upon the bank with cautious motion steal, Tossing his hook where airy minfiows swam, Amid the rooky ledges by the dam. The while his patient horse beside the stream, Stood still, and, idlydrowzing, seemed to dream : Roused by some fly, he stamped the trembling ground, And browzed the savory herbage growing round. The miller often, with stentorian lung, A wordy volley to his listeners flung, Who stood around, amazed at what he said, The meal like snow upon his burly head. And, sooth to "say, with much of scattering lore, His active brain was ever running o’er, Filled with much thought while grinding thro’ the day, Enlarged with reading by the taper’s ray. He’d learned mechanics, history well had read, And knew the names of planets overhead ; Could tell how magna charta was obtained, And when the kings and queens of England reigned; Knew all the battles which our fathers fought, And where the wild ourang outangis caught; Had read the constitution many times, And in contempt held poetry and rhymes; Full many a text of scripture he could quote, And many a scrap of reading knew by rote. Here, lovely Lucy, where the waters foamed, Beside the mill-dam wandering often roamed, And many a mill-boy gazed, with longing eye, To press the charms that wandered flitting by. With laughing glee, she flew the virtuous art, Which many a rustic used to win her heart. At last his toil the wary fowler spread, And many a lure the heartless villain shed Along the boughs the little songster trode, And skillful art with cunning manner showed. Lured by the wile she fluttered near the snare, Then darted back with free and simple air, Returned to view the glossy net-work o’er, And little dreamed that she could fly no more. And so she fell—and desolation all, Around the miller’s cottage, spread its pall. Where yon tall pine its ceaseless vigil keeps, Hard by the mill, the luckless Lucy sleeps ; Where yon grey stones expose their moss to view Heart-broken parents rest beside her too, And ‘ Lucy,’ carved upon the simple stone, Shows where there sleeps the sturdy miller’s own. Oh ! God of heaven, why do thy thunders sleep, When blasted hope and ruined virtue weep ? Why should the villain high upon the tide Of wealth and power in cruel triumph ride, Gone all the bliss his victims once enjoyed, Crushed all the hope the cruel fiend destroyed ? Thy sleeping vengeance will not ever sleep, The weeping mourner will not ever weep : Till then, tried heart, repose thy faith in God, And meekly bow thy head to kiss the jod. Teaching Negroes to Read. I expected to notice, last week, some what in detail, the letter of my friend, Dr. Talmage, with leference to a repeal of the law which forbids the teaching of negroes to read, but for want of space was compell ed to omit any allusion to the subject. This week, I advert to the topic again. My esteemed friend lias one error of fact running through bis whole article. In the beginning of that article, he speaks of a “ repeal of the law prohibiting the right to teach our negroes to read the holy scrip tures.” He seems to think that the specific wording ot the law is to pievent negroes from reading the bible. That this is his conception of the law, is evident from the whole tenor of his article, and es pecially from that part of it in which he says, “ The very prohibition leads tho ignorant to a suspicion that the inspired word is against us, and that there is some thing there which we would fain conceal from them.” This goes to show that Dr. Talmage thinks there is a law on our stat ute book specifically prohibiting the teach ing of negr oes to read the bible. If this is liis conception of the law, lie is in error. There is a general law against teaching ne groes to read, but not against reading the bible. The practical effect of the law is of course to exclude the reading of the bible by slaves—(that is, were it enforced, and it never lias been)—but it presents the matter in a less favorable light to suppose that the specific subject matter of the statute is a prohibition of reading the bible by negroes. As I have said before, the law is obsolete, and never has prevented a negro who de sired it, from learning to read. I have nev er known a case of punishment for its vio lation.