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HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
TUT. L03KI.T OUTL
lute-like strain, sometimes a vesper hymn, sometimes like s harp-string breaking. When the winds and surges sleep, in the still hoars of night, I have often heard this plaintive anthem; and tradition says it is the death-chant of the Pasca-goulas that wails along the sea.
The Indian village stood on a picturesque bluff, the gentle river, flowing through prairies of verdure, margined by aged oaks that lift their heads among the clouds and batho their mossy beards in the silver sjiray beneath. Tho country spreads out into a continuous meadow of boundless extent, on every side dotted with little islets of palin-like trees. At intervals a serpentine line of ravine comes sweeping along, fringed with dwarf laurel, myrtle, jasmine, and other parasites, and the whole plain around is embroidered with flowers of every hue. Ah! it is pleasant to bivouac in these solitary plains, the quiet stars smiling u]>on you, and the fragrant winds tinging in the trees around. There is a charm in these grand old woods—in these langhing wa-
ters—in these remote retreats, where only an echo of the storms of life is heard. No wonder the imaginative ancients peopled them with divinities: forhere,ateveiy step, one can but feel the presence of a God; and the feeling chastens and refines the heart. It is not in yonr gorgeous temples, with coquettish eyes and Shylock countenances around, and vanity peeping out even from the pulpit, that one truly feels the sentiment of religion in its humanising and exalting influence*.
By the road-side, near the ruins of a rude country meeting-house, long since deserted, may be seen a solitary grave. Years ago a wanderer, once favored by fortune, high in the profession of the law, died near this spot, the wretched victim of a debasing vice. His body, his bottle, and the last lines he ever penned were found near where be now sleeps:
Pilgrim, wheresoe'er thon *tr*y. Pause here upon tby weary way. Take this relic If thou may,
And for fta thirsty ovner pray. Fatal gift, when overflowing! Oh, that mao fhould ever knowing,
Servant be to liquor's spell, Sorcery bom tbe caves of lull 1
Touch do<—*tls poisonous to ther; Taste not—ala*, It rulnod me! The undcan thing forever shun. Or thou, O pilgrim, art undone! In this silent house of grace Seek thy Maker, face to face:
Ask thy conscience. If thou will.
Dost tliou good, or dost thou 111!
Lonely now my way I go.
Lingering through my life of woe;
Stranger, for the lost one pray,
And God will bless thee every day.
On thy liearth-stooe he will fling Countless blessings following,
In thy spring time, In thy age.
Every day of life’s bripf page;
In thy health, and In thy storr,
Grace and goodness evermore!
Crossing the Chickasawha River I took refuge from the noonday sun in the hospitable dwelling of Mr. R-----------. It is perched on an elevated
bluff. Far down in a field below, on the riverside, his servants had been at work, and might now be seen winding np a zigzag path toward the house, to get the mid-day meal. A group of tiny darkeys were sitting nnder the trees in the yard awaiting their mothers. Suddenly a
ROUGH RIDING DOWN SOUTH.
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little cloud gathered on the horizon—there was a single burst of thunder—a single flash that blinded me for a moment—and then, oh what a shriek of agony from the wretched mothers! Three of the children had been killed by the fatal bolt. Never, ah never shall I forget that sight of sorrow, and the wailing* of those broken hearts! I liavo seen the strong man crushcd; the fond mother swooning over the loss of her first-born; the young and beautiful, just stepping into life on a pathway of flowers, stung by the serpent, and snatched away, leaving for the survivors, in the dim future, only a long despair; but never had I witnessed the intense grief of these simple slaves. All that they had to live for was wrapped up in the stricken infants that now, all lifeless, they pressed to their distracted bosoms.
Leaving the scene of sorrow, I entered the great pine forest that leads to the town of Augusta. The woods were on fire. The road lies on a high ridge or backbone, and at short intervals on each side there are lateral ridges running down into deep reed-brakes below. Along one of these vertebrae, on my left, a mighty volume of smoke and flume and eddying leaves came rolling rapidly toward me. Tho road itself, but rarely traveled at this season of tlie year, was covered several inches deep with pine straw, which was soon in a blaze.
There was literally “ a fire in my rear." Dashing forward, I meant to drive down a ridge on my right until the road should be cleared, but the flames, swept by the whirling winds, had by this time burst out there, and came snrging into the sea of fire just behind me. I had no choico but to run for it.
Though noonday, it was as black as midnight. The smoke of one hundred thousand acres of combustibles was around mo. The roar of the devouring element, like the boom of a tremendous surf, was above me. The flames were protruding, like the tongues of boa constrictors, on each side of me, melting the varnish of my buggy and crisping my whiskers; and, ever and anon, the crash of a falling pine, uprooted by the fire, seemed to be discharging minute-gnns in tokonof
my distress. On rushed the fiery torrent—flank and rear—up hill and down—and on I drove, at a killing gait, only ten puccs in advancc; my carpet-bag smoking, my hat and coat singed, my face and hands churred, when suddenly the wind shifted, and the flaming dragon plunged awuy to the left, hissing through the crackling reed-brakes, and shaking his terrible crest among the lofty trees.
Exhausted by this frightful contention, I was glad to find shelter at the wayside inn of my worthy frieud, Mr. Hiram Breeland, of Greent County, lie is famous for pcach and honey: for river trout, venison steaks, and fried chicken, and indeed for every thing that a weary traveler covets. His wife is a model in her way. They have had eighteen children, and arc yet a young and handsome couple. Fur and near this is known as “the musical family.” Six daughters in the bloom of life, richly dowered with thoso perfections that men sigh for and never forget, possess rare musical gifts; and
TIIK IlKKKAVKD -NhUkOhii.