Abbot.—There comes the sun! He is just
struggling above the waters. How like a struggle
it appears! The effect, at this moment, conducts
irresistibly to this impression. The waves seem
to rise about him, laboring to keep him down.—
They have lashed themselves into foam in the endeavor,
and though they fail in their object, yet it
would seem that his victory has not been won
without loss. His wounds seem to have dyed the
torrents with his blood. The crimson and the
white foam mingle together; and we fancy that
were we near enough to hear, we should be stunned
by the howls of disappointment on the one
hand, and the shouts of victory on the other. We
hear the murmur of billows even here; and it seems
to be allied to the conflict, and to have been occasioned
by it. The coulds have shared somewhat
in the affair. They wear the hues of blood also.
One great and reptured mass hangs directly above
the head of the conqueror. It is the smoke reeking
up from the field of fight, rising above, and
forming its appropriate canopy. The sun employs
it as a trophy. It becomes his banner; and its torn

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

and tattered edges are spread out, and rise with
him, as if borne aloft by the tallest of his angel legions—
some Azazel of the imperial host! Other
banners now appear along the horizon, as if rising
with him from the deep; forming a grand procession
to accompany his onward march. And see,
those pale white groups of cloud, flitting fast
away, right and left, as remotely as possible from
his line of march—a wild and capricious disarray.
May we not suppose them to be the scattered camps
of some auxiliary host, flying confusedly to escape
destruction or captivity. The whole broad expanse
of heaven exhibits as many contrasts and
varieties of shape and shadow, in the advance of
the morning splendor, as any field of various conflict,
or any country under the march of a dreaded
conqueror. It would seem as if the hosts of night
and ocean, assembled under the cover of darkness
for the conquest of the earth, had been dispersed
by a single glance from some glorious messenger
of heaven.

Editor.—You make quite a picture, Father.

Abbot.—It makes itself. This is one of those
spectacles that convert all men, more or less, into
painters. The mind catches from the prospect, a
thousand suggestions for the fancy, and the eye
looks forth for pictures. But the sunrise is not
simply a spectacle. It is a moral emblem. We
see the great invisible work of creation performed
anew with the return of every day. We see the
results of the Almighty working, as at the dawn
of all mortal being, though the process is wholly
hidden from our eyes. We see in the glorious

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

spectacle the moral that is designed to excite our
emulation. The day of man is a march in light.
It is a constant progress forward. It rises in
night, to have its setting in other regions, which
it is to enliven and illumine also. We pass on
from world to world; with an active duty assigned
to us in each. He only is the true Christian,
who goes on working and marching to the close.
In this way only can he unfold his possessions,
and bless other eyes with that trust of light, which
is conferred upon him for this very purpose.—
Happy he who obeys the law of his nature as implicitly
as the sun! Who rises regularly to his
duties, and, heedless of storm, and strife, and temporary
obscuration by cloud, vapor, and interposing
and envious bodies, still keeps in his old path,
“the ordered course pursuing.”

Editor.—Is not that last member a quotation,
Father? I think I have heard the phrase before.

Abbot.---Doubtlessly. It is a quotation from a
version which I made twenty years ago of Goethe's
famous Hymn of the Archangels, at the opening
of the Faust. It suits the scene, and you shall
have it all.

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

Editor.—I wished you had rhymed it, Father.

Abbot.—So do I. I shall rhyme it some day
when I am in the mood, and have the leisure; but
there are some subjects for verse which rhyme
does not seem to improve. Sacred poetry, for example,
always appears to me to lose something of
dignity and solemnity, by the petty tagging of the
rhyme. To pursue our moral analogies: it matters
not to man, keeping his natural symbols in his
sight, that his light may sometimes, nay,

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

frequently, fail to be seen, by those for whom it is designed,
and who are supposed to look for it. Enough
that he can reply with the magician in the mysterious
cave of the Visigoth: “I do mine office!”
It is quite sufficient that he wilfully withholds no
portion of his precious beams. It is the misfortune
and the error of those who wilfully refuse to
see.

Editor.—Yet unless they see, Father, where is
his recompense; where their acknowledgments?

Abbot.—His ample recompense lies in his own
exercise, if his ambition be the right one: looking
to the only proper source of reward. Shall man
look ever and only to his brother; and what shall
be the virtue in his charity, if he is perpetually
groaning for the quid pro quo? Genius is the
world's great benefactor. Shall it cease to be
genius because the world is ungrateful; and shall
the benefactor look to the pauper for his pay. What
is it to the noble----which is always the giving and
the performing mind----that his petty puling race,
each cursing himself and his neighbor with his
miserable little two-and-sixpence vanities, his small
conceit of place and position, and the strut which
is always laboring, not to be high, but to seem
high----stubbornly refuses to acknowledge the benefits
of the benefactor----in the powerful phrase of
Milton, “crams and blasphemes the feeder,” and
decries the claim, which it feels that it can never
satisfy? Nay, what were the real value of the
tribute of acknowledgment, were the world to
make free and full confession of the benefits received?
Would that be sufficiently compensative

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

for the performance, which still strives, and serves,
and saves? It is not intended that it should be!
The essence of compensation to man, for good and
great works upon earth, is to be found in the performance
itself. This is the principle of vitality in
the moral system. It is in the feeling that he does,
is doing, and has done, that the worker finds his
reward, in all moral and intellectual labors. This,
indeed, constitutes the secret of his dignity. He
is the master of a world-wide charity. The sense
of a gratified obedience, in the heart of man, is the
source, not only of the mens conscia recti, but of
the higher rewards of a justifiable ambition. Milton
alludes to this, when he says in Lycidas:

“`But not the praise,'

Phœbus replied, and touch'd my trembling ear;

`Fame is no plant that grows in mortal soil.”'

No! we fulfil a destiny, my son. The duty must
be performed; and it is not to man that we are to
look ever, for the reward of the worker. The sense
of duty done, and grief endured, without complaint
and in a cheerful, sanguine spirit, naturally
directs the eye of the laborer to the great Giver of
all endowments, and assures him of ultimate acknowledgment,
in the shape of continued and
higher employment hereafter. In other words,
though the Prophet toils for man, he toils in the
employ of God. To which ought he to look for
reward?

Editor.—What new and hopeful prospects does
such a view open to those who seem to toil in vain.

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

How it unfolds the vista of hope to labor and art.

Abbot.—Necessarily! Man belongs to a system,
even as the sun, the moon and stars. With
greater discretion allowed him, he is subject to
laws which are quite as exacting in degree. His
simple duty is obedience. In obedience lies the
whole secret of his usefulness; and usefulness, understood
in its enlarged and proper sense, covers
the entire tract of Christian obligation.

Editor.—Is there not some danger, Father,
from such a doctrine? Does it not tend greatly
to narrow the province of humanity? What will
become of our friends, Poet and Painter, if we
establish the utilitarian principle on such an eminence?

Abbot.—You do not give due value to the words
I use. I am not arguing for the vulgar doctrine
of utilitarianism. I said usefulness, in its enlarged
and proper sense, in which the Poet, in all probability,
occupies the highest position as a social
benefactor. He is the father of the profoundest
philosophy. He speaks for our noblest nature.
His very language belongs to a condition which
humanity may understand and feel, but cannot ordinarily
use. As one of the tribe has described
it—“is the large utterance of the early gods!” It
is a divine speech, worthy of prophecy and inspiration—
in which true inspiration has usually—nay
always—spoken.

Editor.—But all the studies and labors of the
great body of mankind, will fail to endow them
with this utterance—Poeta nascitur non fit! What
then becomes of its usefulness?

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

Abbot.—It lies partly in this very particular.
It is at once desirable and unattainable. It is not intended
that the world at large should speak this
language. It is enough if the world is content to
hear and take it to their hearts. If men were all
poets and prophets there would be no men. Humanity
would be advanced, at a bound, to one of
those higher conditions, which it may be supposed
to be designed to reach, only through long ages of
probation—toils ceaseless, and humiliations that
purge pride of all its grossnesses. We are permitted
to hear and comprehend this language of
the poet, and this is all. Enough if we acknowledge
its diviner impulses; if, freeing our souls, at
moments, from the miserable toils and vulgar anxieties
which form the clogs to the soul's progress
upon earth, we occasionally give ear to the pure
harmonies of the poet, while he soothes the stormy
ocean around us, and subdues to repose the vexed
and vexing billows of passion in our hearts. Our
merit will be quite sufficient, if we incline our ears
to the poet without seeking to emulate his song;
enough if we comprehend the divine utterance
which we cannot hope to imitate. Still we may
yearn to employ this speech. It is desirable that
we should. It is desirable as a motive to honorable
ambition—


“Fame is the spur which the clear spirit doth raise
To scorn delights,”
that we should seek to speak this language; and,
for another reason—that, as it is unattainable by

[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]

the unendowed, it should leave us always discontents.

Editor.—And is discontent, Father, a desirable
condition for humanity?

Abbot.----The most desirable of all! The very
condition which constitutes the lot of man on earth.
It is through this condition only that he finds the
usual stimulus to performance. Were it not for
this he would do nothing and be nothing. We
prattle a great deal very absurdly about content;
and what is hope itself but a happy sort of discontent?
It tells us of unattained objects and conditions,
and so paints their attractions to our mind,
that we naturally yearn and strive for their acquisition;
and hence our best performances. Man,
as an inhabitant of earth—as man—was never
meant to be satisfied with his condition. He is
still evermore afflicted with aspirations after the
possible—the vague—the, perhaps, unattainable!
In this yearning he establishes his ideal; and the
pursuit of his ideal affords the clue to his existence.
It is thus that he works out his deliverance.
It is thus that he finds out and exercises his powers;
and shows what are his highest conceptions
of the Deity, as well as of his own nature. The
Mahometan's dream of Heaven, for example, is
one of sensual delights and physical repose. He
dreams that he shall sleep in Heaven, on couches
of amaranth, tended by houri's—beings of celestial
origin, but meant as ministers to the faithful among
the sons of earth. He is not tasked with cares,
nor required to serve. He does not even engage

[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]

in hosannas to a common sovereign. All his being
lapses away in dream and reverie, and the gratification
of simply voluptuous fancies, without physical
effort. At most, he amuses himself with
archery, which the Prophet seems to have exulted
in as a practice of delight almost too good for
earth! But, with the Christian philosopher, the
future is a world for struggle and conquest, the
same as this; for exercise and continual achievement,
for which the present is a mere ordeal and
preparation. I say Christian philosopher, mark
you, and not Christian simply. I am afraid
that too many professing Christians look forward
to a Heaven, in which, if the delights
be not sensual exactly, they are yet designed
to minister to the desire of ease, and repose
from struggles, which always made them groan
and grumble under their fardels, throughout the
preliminary state, as a very much ill-used people.
This was certainly the Puritan philosophy,
with a difference. They were too much given to
insist upon themselves as the suffering Saints, having
title to, if not tenure of, the Lord's possessions
upon the earth, to forego, at any time, the free use
of its fruits in their season. We all seek our ideals,
and, in so doing, declare the degree of elevation in
our thoughts and sensibilities. The world knows
no higher ideals than those of the poet. If we
give him our ear, he invariably conducts us out of
the present. That is something. He lifts us from
the earth. That is something more. He thus
weans us from the pleasures of the sense, and raises
us up from the wallow into which the brutal parts

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of our nature would constantly conduct us. In
this lies one secret, and not the largest of his usefulness.
This is enough for us; and, in the employment
of this influence the poet shares with us
his nature and his gifts. The natural tendency,
struggling as we do, with petty daily necessities,
and against special social vanities, is continually
downward. The fine arts, of which poetry is the
most supreme, are perpetually interposing to arrest
or to modify this tendency. In this office they
are potent handmaids of religion, which has at
heart this object only; and even when serving us
simply through the tastes, they operate wonderful
results in behalf of the higher objects of the soul.
You are passing now two of the churches upon
the Island. Is religion aided in her objects, think
you, when the passer by smiles, or sneers, at the
dwelling to which we implore the presence of Jehovah?
Our tastes should no more be allowed to
contemn, in religious matters, than our philosophy.
We can understand why a temple of God, in a
small community like this, need not be a massive,
or of immense structure. But surely, society
should not allow itself to be in possession of any
arts superior to those with which she builds to her
Creator. If you lack the material for building,
the money, or the architect, why, then, the excuse
for a wretched temple is legitimate. But where
you possess the means, and where you have the
necessary arts, such structures as these are not only
discreditable to our tastes, but to our religion. In
other words, we employ a superior art in the erection
of a stable or a kitchen, to that which we

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

summon to our service in rearing the temples of the
Lord. You require Him to occupy a dwelling in
which you would not deign to reside yourself. I
have alluded to the expense of a good structure.
I need not to have done so. It is just as cheap to
build a good, as a bad structure. The same money
which has been expended on these buildings,
with the usual expense of repairs upon them, for
ten years past, would have put up pleasing and
graceful edifices, to which the eye of taste would
incline, as well as religion. To build symmetrically,
and according to the laws of art, is not necessarily
to build expensively. To make a fine
house, seldom costs more than to make an atrocious
one! This is the secret of art! She builds
economically because she wastes nothing. She
builds securely and durably, because she builds
symmetrically. The secret of strength is quite as
much in the symmetry of the structure as in its
materials. It is to this that we owe the wonderful
preservation of so many monuments of ancient art,
which have been preyed upon by storm, siege, fire—
the wilful assaults of man, and the corroding
and sapping influences of time. The building
gains nothing in strength, from the enormous bulk
of the mass. A well sprung arch will tie the granite
together in bonds which neither storm nor
fire can rend asunder, but it must be the hands of
art which must forge the bolts for their union.—
We have been accustomed to leave these matters
to the mechanic. But the mechanic seldom aims,
or pretends to be an architect. He has quite
enough to do in carrying out the plans of the

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

architect. We have buildings among us—churches—
which contain unnecessary brick enough to wall
the city! Some of our towers were made so massive
with brick, as to split and crack, and sink,
and cave in, and yawn—leaving the proprietors
doubtful whether the foundation would endure its
own weight, to say nothing of that of the spire
which it was designed to sustain! It was very
easy to respect such a doubt, and to forbear
all further experiments, when it was found that the
money, raised for the steeple, was all consumed in
the foundation. You perhaps recall the doggrel
which sang of a


“Christian people,
Who built a Church in Meeting-street,
But could'nt raise the steeple.”
The Church alluded to, has, of late years, repaired
its short comings. But we still see others about
the city—crude, unfinished monstrosities of architecture—
discrediting equally taste and religion—
without plan or purpose—symmetry or strength—
great barn-like fabrics, with porches and pediments
that seemed to have been fashioned after an awkward
squad of revolutionary officers, six portly
legs and pursy bodies, with one great sharp cock'd
hat upon the heads of the entire line. I repeat, it
is just as easy and cheap to build a fine fabric, in
good style, according to proper laws of taste, as to
build a mean one; and that the secret of durableness
consists much more in the symmetry and just
proportions of the structure, than in the materials
which you employ. A house, for example, of soft

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

and inferior brick, well planned, well covered,
with ample eaves and cornice, and plaistered or
stuccoed, will last just as long as the same building
made of the best brick, and finished in the same
manner. Nay, it will last much longer, indeed, if
while the proportions of the former be in accordance
with the laws of art, the latter issues from
the hands of a hodman in the business.

Editor.—I am curious, Father, about the new
Hotel on the Island. I confess to great anxiety as
to its establishment.

Abbot.—Be at ease on the subject. It will be
built. It will be done effectually, and in proper
manner. I have enjoyed an hour of prevision, my
son—a peculiar faculty, you are aware, which I
possess—which enables me to satisfy all your
doubts, and to soothe all your anxieties. I can
give you the whole particulars relating to the Island
House, though nothing has yet been resolved
upon. But all will happen as I tell you. We
will wait till our scape-graces come up—I see
them now approaching—when you shall have the
full history of the Hotel, its site, its style, its extent,
and all that belongs to the subject. In the
meantime, before I forget, let me remind you of
something which was said in a previous conversation,
in regard to the tenure by which lots are held
on the Island. It was then assumed that the grant
was from O'Sullivan. This may be so; yet, in the
absence of proof, it is well to know what old Jack
Drayton says on the subject. You will find at
page 206 of his “View,” a paragraph which states
that the first settlement of Moultrieville “was about

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the year 1791, when the Legislature passed a resolution
permitting people to build there on half
acre lots; subject, however, to the condition of
being removed whenever demanded by the Governor
or Commander-in-Chief. Of course, this
contemplates nothing more than the exigencies
which might follow from invasion; when it might
be necessary to convert the whole island into a
fortress. The eastern extremity, which was threatened
when Sir Peter Parker assailed Fort Moultrie,
should certainly have its defences also.—
Drayton mentions further, that the island was at
one time well wooded, and continued so till the
year 1700, when, by an act of Assembly, the trees
were cut down; a few prominent ones excepted,
which were left standing as marks for pilots.—
What motive could have prompted this proceeding,
seemingly so barbarous, is not said. Drayton
refers to Trott's Laws, p. 81, where probably the
preamble of the act affords the motive. Invasions
from French and Spaniards were common about
that period, and Pirates frequently made the coast,
its inlets, creeks, and marshes, their secret places
of resort. They might well have sheltered the
masts and spars of their little crafts, behind a clump
of forest trees, invisible from the city, whence,
were there presence suspected, they might have
been pursued, or signals given to the unsuspecting
merchantmen, approaching the shore, for whom
they lay in wait. The commerce of Charleston
suffered dreadfully from these marauders, whom,
under irresponsible administrations, her people had
rather encouraged. You are aware, perhaps, that

[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

the Pirates walked the streets of that good city
with impunity, not only tolerated, but in favor
with the people.

Editor.—Is it possible?

Abbot.—The secret was this. The Pirates
were good Britons. They preyed only on the
Spanish galleons, and filled their beakers only
from the wines of the French Islands. They were,
therefore, our natural allies. The French and
Spaniards were, in that day, our natural enemies.
Charleston encouraged the pirates, as Queen Elizabeth
did; and for the same reason. Her mariners
held the doctrine, that there was no peace
beyond the Line; and the cavaliers of Carolina
esteemed this doctrine to be not a bad one, in a
period when an English Monarch knighted Morgan,
the Buccaneer. Subsequently, however,
when the British Government, threatened equally
by France and Spain, was compelled to frown
down the piracies practised in her name in the
seas of America, South-Carolina was made to pay
the penalty of the eccentricities in morals of the
mother country. The Pirates who were denied to
enter the port which once received them graciously,
became its bitter assailants—watched its entrances
day and night, carried off its rich merchandizes,
and more than once laid the city itself
under contribution. Remind me at a moment of
greater leisure of this matter, and I will tell you
some curious pirate traditions of these very islands.

X.

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

Mine Host.—Venerable Father, and you, Reverend
Brethren, I pray ye consider yourselves at
home. Hold me as a serving brother only, and
command accordingly. These fish are the very
best that swim—at least to my notion. They are
the Cavalli. Here is butter, fresh from my own
poor dairy; and these eggs were laid, according
to instructions, the moment I heard of your coming.
My hens have had their training. I find them as
docile as my neighbor, Truesdell, finds his oysters.
Here, also, are some cream cheeses, the receipt for
preparing which is peculiar. I procured it from a
traveller who brought it from Bagdad. It had
there the traditional reputation of having been the
favorite dish of the famous Caliph, Haroun AlRaschid.
Of course, I have not omitted hominy.
That dish I hold to be the sine quá non in a Carolina
breakfast. But this is prepared of no common
corn. It is from a peculiar grain called the silver
eye. I beg that you will say nothing of it to John
Michel, or h'll be for crossing and improving it.
Now, I have a weakness in regard to this grain.
I do not wish its virtues perilled by any experiments.
It may undergo change, indeed, and that
change may be improvement; but my taste is now
so admirably accommodated to the commodity, as
it is, that I fear I should suffer some loss of appetite,
were I conscious of any variation in its flavor.
These rice waffles I can commend to you, and the
flappers and griddle cakes. Estifania, my

[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]

housekeeper, has a rare capacity in breadstuffs. She is
the very flower of my household.

Abbot.—Blessed is the woman that hath the
approbation of her master! Such a being is not
to be carved out of common wood. I can believe
all her merits. My nostrils agreeably confirm all
the impressions of mine eyes. You have made
princely provision for us, Mine Host, and you have
our blessings. The gods keep your larder always
full, your fowls always prolific, and your wine always
ripe, cool, and abundant. Receive from my
paternal hands the badge of our order.

Mine Host.—Holy Father! This is too much.
It is overwhelming! I had never dreamed of such
proud distinction.

Abbot—Modesty is the jewel of youth. Look
up, my son, and take heart. It is well to feel humility,
but not to sink under it. Henceforth, be
known to the order as Brother Bonhommie! Our
tenets and faith shall be opened to you at the first
solemn chapter which we hold hereafter. For the
present, Brother, do thine office. The Cavalli, if
you please. You do no less than justice to this
hominy, which you are right in assuming to be the
essential on a Southern breakfast table. Maize is
one of the noblest of the breadstuffs. We owe
something to the red men for that which we inherit
from them. That you have improved upon it,
by judicious culture and selection, is to your own
honor. It is the curse of too many of our planters,
of the Low Country, that they do not attend
to their own farmsteads. What can the overseer
know where the master knows nothing? This

[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]

absenteeism—this wandering off into distant and
ungrateful States—wasting profligately, in foreign
expenditure, the substance drawn ruthlessly from
the bowels of our own—is a crime no less than a
folly! Our misfortunes are almost wholly due to
this single cause; for the practice not only involves
us in a waste of substance, but a waste of time,
which is more valuable still. The waste of time
involves all sorts of wastes, not the least of which
is the waste of intellect. No man's mind can possibly
improve, who has no habitual occupation.
All progress fails in the community, or with the
class which devolves its duties wholly on subordinates.

Editor.—But, Father, the climate of our Low
Country,—so fatal to the white race.

Abbot.—I have not lost sight of this matter, my
son. There is something in it, but not every thing.
Many need not leave their homesteads at all; and
many need not go far. Settlements are to be found
within ten miles of almost every rice plantation in
the Low Country, where the summer might be
passed in healthy security. But look at those who
come to Charleston—and the Island. Need they
be idle because they leave their plantations?
Could they not do as has been done here, by our
worthy brother, Bonhommie? Surely, there is
nothing in the native character of this soil, but sterility;
yet, what has art and industry already
achieved for this isolated spot! Here has he
snatched from the desert a pretty little cantle. He
hath made the wilderness to blossom as the rose.
With honest pride, and parental pleasure, doth he

[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]

behold his pigs and his poultry. See how his peafowls,
and his turkies, his ducks and his chickens
throng about his footsteps as he approaches. Even
those chickens, which, in the earliest stages of their
growth, exhibit but downy and unfeathered extremities,
they have a chirp of welcome and affection
for the hand that scatters forth the pea and
grist to them at night, and noon, and morning.
Verily, Brother Bonhommie hath reason to be
happy. He is a benefactor to the inferior. But his
boast is larger still, when he casts his eye over his
little territory and sees its increase. With what
pride doth he behold his fields smiling in green
and grain—his mammoth pumpkins, of a rich golden
yellow, rolling about among his hillocks, like
so many great turtles on the beach, turned over
by the captors, and showing their yellow bellies to
the sun. See him, as we did this morning on our
arrival, thrusting his fingers into his potato beds,
to assure himself of the dimensions of his yams!
Hear him discourse of the cabbage and cauliflower,
in his own domain, as of treasures which, some
day, should emulate those of Dr. Bachman and
Captain, Paine; and while he points out his cornfield,
his eye glistens with the secret hope which
inspires him to persevere in the laudable ambition
to rivel Michel, in making his hundred and five
bushels of flint to the acre!

Bonhommie.—Oh! Father, such praise!

Abbot.—Nay, blush not, my son. Thou hast
done much in thy day and generation. Thy brethren
will be careful of thy fame—it is a common
property. Suppose, now, that our worthy

[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]

planters, who have left their plantations on the plea of
malaria, had gotten themselves little farmsteads on
the Neck, or in St. Andrew's, to which they could
have gone daily, and there perfected themselves in
the knowledge of their vocation by daily and diligent
toils and studies, trying all manner of easy
experiments under the guidance of thought and
science, how different would have been their fortunes,
and how much more beautiful and prosperous
the country! Look at the scene now between
Line-street and the Four Mile House: what a garden
has it become within the last ten years. Twenty
years ago the greater part of it was a common,
the farms mostly abandoned as worn out and exhausted.
What blathering stupidity is in such a
phrase. It is not possible for us to exhaust the
earth's resources, even should we try. It is true,
that a culture the most wretched, and a system the
most wasteful and improvident, did all that could
be done towards this unhappy consummation. But
the thing was impossible. The earth cannot fail
us. To the industrious man it was given for an
eternal heritage. It has sustained a thousand generations
which have gone before him—it will sustain
thousands of generations which are to follow
after him. The long tract of ages, countless and
unfathomable, behind and before us, dazzles the
imagination and defeats the judgment. We are
bewildered with the vain attempt to enumerate the
various races which have risen from and sunk into
that almighty bosom; which have fed at its exhaustless
granaries, and which will continue to
find ample provision upon its surface to the very

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crack of doom. There is no such thing as exhausting
the earth. You may impoverish it by
barbarous cultivation, and profligate waste; but
leave it to itself, fly from it, surrender it once more
to its Creator, and lo! the event of a single season.
The grass comes forth from the eternal principle
of germination which is everywhere intact and
indestructible. The trees re-appear, and cover
and beautify its surface. The work of decay
which goes on annually among their leaves, suffices
to refresh and reinvigorate the soil upon which
they perish; and the new forest which once more
protects it from the sun, proves the munificence
of God, which thus wondrously repairs the wastefulness
of man. These few truths prove every
thing. It is enough for us that they prove one
thing: that he will reap who sows, and reap only
as he sows; that labor, governed by thought, will
effectually keep the earth from exhaustion; and
that cultivation, so far from impoverishing, if judiciously
managed, must always improve the soil.

Bonhommie.—I believe it: I know it, Father.
See to the mountain of sedge which I have gathered
for manure. The late gale brought me in, to
the very edge of my enclosure, as much as I can
haul and gather in the next six weeks. I feel sure
that a man who makes manure of good quality, in
abundance, may make a soil what he pleases, and
raise every thing upon it.

Abbot.—No doubt of it, my son; and the process
is comparatively an easy one. In fact, I regard
agriculture as really the simplest and most obvious
of all arts—as really teaching its own processes,

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inevitably—if the heart of the cultivator goes with
his occupation, as it should in every business.
There was surely nothing either very mysterious
or very intricate, in the labors which were required
by the Deity at the hands of man. In the sweat
of his brow—such was the simple form of that
decree which was to be the elementary law of his
existence—he was to earn his bread. Whether
easy of compliance, or not, no law could have been
more obvious and simple; and even now, perverted
by evil counsellors, and misled, as we have been,
by false lights and vitiating habits, it appears to me
that a prompt return to its provisions will bring
back the fertility to our fields, and prosperity to
our homesteads. No books are needed for the
tuition of those who obey this law. No recondite
sciences need to be explored. That degree of observation
and thought, which are the inevitable
fruit of industry, will bring us more knowledge in
a single season, than can be gleaned from all the
heavy volumes ever yet written by grave and
scholastic self-sufficiency. “Experience,” says the
Roman poet, whose moral maxims for the agriculturist
should be got by heart by every planter,—

In the earth itself, the teacher and the treasure
lie buried together. The ancients did not vainly
fable, when they proclaimed Plutus to be the god
of the subterranean regions. There, in truth, he
sits, enthroned amid the equal splendors of his

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metalic, his mineral and his vegetable worlds. We
have only to dig for his possessions.

Editor.—But, Father, you would not exclude
book learning in agriculture?

Abbot.—I exclude no learning in anything,
where learning would be useful. But first assure
me that it is learning, and not the vain speculations
of those who do all their planting in their
writings, and never in their fields;—who undertake
to teach others, without being successful
themselves. I say to the planter, as I say to all
the arts and professions—get knowledge wherever
you can find it. But how much knowledge, of a
truly valuable kind, can you get by the common
course among us of asking questions. You concur
with a man who complains of hard times and an
unprofitable staple, and he straightway calls upon
you to tell him what he shall do. How unmanly
and unbecoming it is that people should be running
hither and thither from their fields, asking counsel,
in their own professions, from those who are no
older than themselves. A man who has been
brought up a planter, should know his own business
surely. Let him put his questions honestly
and manfully to the soil itself, and I guarantee that
he will never want an answer long. It is not denied
that a good farmer may occasionally receive
information from his neighbor; but a good farmer
is one who will seldom need to inquire; and the
principle which we would inculcate, is the one
equally broad and simple, that a devout and undivided
attention to one's own interests, will be the
best mode of learning how to conduct them. It is

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so, not in planting, simply; but in every thing—in
all the trades, professions and occupations of life.
Agriculture is one of many arts, all of which, so
far as they relate to their professors, have the same
governing laws. The planter must be prepared by
a continual study of the plant itself; he must first
learn the nature of the soil which it loves; the
temperature which delights it; the degree of shadow
or sunlight which it needs, or can endure;
and adapt the soil to the plant, and both, as well
as he may, to the fluctuations of the seasons. Virgil
teaches this doctrine in more elevated language:

How little of this knowledge can one obtain
from his neighbors. How much by a patient and
dutiful attention to his own fields, and by a constant
exercise of his thoughts upon the result of
his observations. This course alone can teach him
what it is necessary for him to know. No man
ever yet became a good planter, or a good anything,
from asking questions; for, indeed, such a
person, like Pontius Pilate, though he asks for the
truth, is seldom willing to wait for the answer.
Our oracle must arise from the earth, like all other
oracles; and let no man fear, if he knocks with a
strong arm, and with proper courage, at the door
of that ancient temple, that he will knock vainly,
and without profit. The answer will be such, we

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warrant him, as will amply satisfy any reasonable
mortal. Pass me those waffles, if you please.

Bonhommie.—Father, we have a bushel of fine
oysters, which Truesdell, hearing of your arrival,
has sent over with his compliments. Shall we
have a few of them roasted?

Abbot.—No, I pray you; so far as I am concerned,
let them be kept for dinner. Our brethren
must answer for themselves.

Omnes.—For dinner, surely.

Abbot.—You have celery, Brother Bonhommie,
in your garden?

Bonhommie.—An abundance, Father.

Abbot.—Good! Celery seems the natural adjunct
of the oyster. I fancy, if he could choose his
vegetable, he would decide on that. By the way,
speaking of oysters, Brother Bonhommie, is any
use made of those great banks which rise out of
the water between the extremity of Haddrell's and
your Island? They seem as regularly ranged,
as if laid down by art—the moles apparently of
some ancient bridge, and on the side of Haddrell's
there seems an artificial causeway, as if meant to
facilitate a communication from shore to shore.

Bonhommie.—You are right, Father; that line of
oaks which seems striding down from Haddrell's
to the sea, indicates the line of causeway. The tradition
is, that it was raised by Gen. Gadsden, who
built a bridge across, during the time of the Revolution,
in order to facilitate the escape of the garrison
from Fort Moultrie, should it so happen that
they were overpowered by the British. I have no
doubt that the bridge did exist; for, on this side,

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we have a wharf to correspond with the causeway
opposite; but my faith in the other part of the tradition
is somewhat shaken. I have not the histories
at hand, but I believe, that, in the fight of the
28th of June, the bridge provided for the escape
of the garrison, was one entirely of boats.

Abbot.—So I think also. But the tradition
may be reconciled with the history, if you will
remember that the Fort sustained two actions. I
have no doubt that the bridge was really built, as
you describe it, to meet the exigencies of the second
assault in 1780. But was it not General
Pinckney, rather than General Gadsden, who built
the bridge?

Bonhommie.—No, Sir; it was Gadsden: and
there is still extant, a lively letter of Col. Barry,
the British wit, in regard to, and ridiculing it. I
have also in my possession the extract of a letter
to Hon. George Bryan, of Pennsylvania, dated
14th March 1778, which confirms it. The writer
says, “This harbour is well fortified, and their
bridge from Sullivan's Island is an amazing work—
nöthing like it on the continent. It is called
Gadsden' bridge, from General Gadsden, who had
the direction of it.”

Abbot.—That should be conclusive. It is
greatly to be regretted, that we have not a bridge
there now. It would increase the securities of
the settlement, and afford the means for some delightful
drives at Haddrell's, giving variety to the
amusements of those who find time hang heavily
on their hands at all watering places. Let us hope
when the new Hotel is built, and the Island

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thronged with the wealthy and elite of our middle
and mountain country, that the old connection between
the two places will be re-established. The
work would neither be unsafe nor expensive. The
distance is not great, and the water is comparatively
shallow, almost too shallow for steamboats.—
But let us not forget the oysters. They belong,
on those banks, to the raccoon tribe, a small long
pointed oyster, growing in immense clusters, and
sticking together with all their heads upwards,
like a close knit family of ancient Hunkers.

Beauclerk.—I am told, Father, that the raccoon
has an appetite for them, and goes out oytering
for himself, and hence their name. It is said
that he has the cunning to provide himself with a
number of dry sticks, which he slyly slips into
each open mouth, and the oyster perishes; the sun
bursts its valves, and the raccoon feeds at his pleasure.
They say also, that the oyster knows his
enemy; and sometimes, while the raccoon is busy
thrusting his stick into the jaws of one of the family,
another pair will open, and take in his foot or
tail. He will then be kept fast until the tide rises
and drowns him, or the sharks snatch him away.

Abbot.—Invention has been bnsy for our benefit
in these stories. What does Brother Bonhommie
have to say?

Bonhommie.—I have heard these stories and
many others. One of them occurs in connection
with the question of the holy Father, touching the
uses of the raccoon oyster. Until a comparatively
recent period, they were as much eaten as any
other in our harbor. Half that were sold in our

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market belonged to this family. They were gathered
chiefly by old negro women, who fished for
them in dug-outs. But since the Yankees took up
the business, they have driven Sally, and Sukey,
and Mimy, and Ba'sheba, pretty much out of
sight. But a succession of mighty bad scares,
contributed something towards directing the old
ladies to a safer occupation. On one occasion, a
devil-fish received the anchor, or grapnel, of one
of the boats, within the capricious vortex of his
antennæ, and made off with it. It was the first
time that any of the African race had seen iron
swim. But a more serious fright was in reserve
for an old negro wench belonging to a widow lady
of Charleston. It appears that she landed at low
water on one of these oyster banks, and soon filled
her dug-out. Finding the interval short and shallow
between that and another bank, she fastened
her boat, as she thought, securely, and waded
across the intervening space. She loitered from
one to the other; at length fell asleep upon one of
them, and was only awakened by hearing the
murmur of the waters, and feeling the surf break
over her. The space between her and the point
where she had left the dug-out, was widened to a
chasm quite impassable to one who could not swim.
The bank itself was covered; and soon the fastening
of the boat became unloosed, and it was seen
floating high up into the marsh. The poor wretch
was in despair. The tide was still rising. The
spot of bare rock which she occupied was soon
reduced to a smple ring, which her person nearly
covered; and in a little while, the waters were

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over her ancles. They continued to rise some six
inches higher; and there she stood, momently expecting
the billows to sweep and carry her off.—
They did not, however; but a new horror, as she
told it herself, shortly assailed her. Looking forth
she discovered, steadily approaching, the dorsal
fin of a shark. The voracious beast himself, was
soon visible through the water. He had seen or
scented his prey, and she watched him with all the
agonies that predict a most terrible death, as he
quietly encircled her narrow territory. She could
see his gigantic form gleaming through the waters;
and she imagined she beheld his fiery eye, gazing
with all a serpent's power of fascination, directly
into her own. She could neither scream nor
speak, nor indeed would the effort have saved her.
She could only follow his movement, wheeling
as upon a pivot, as he circled the bank. The
water was too shallow where she stood to suffer
him to approach her in that manner which alone
enables him to seize his prey. But, desperate
with inflamed appetite, he dashed at her with
a fearful plunge, which brought his head quite out
of the water, and within a foot of her person.—
Then she screamed, and, in receding from his
jaws, had nearly fallen backwards into the deep.
But she recovered herself; and, shivering with
dread, continued to confront him. Again did he
slowly move about her narrow eminence—twice,
thrice—with his terrible eye watching hers.—
Again, desperate as before, did he rush upwards
almost to her person, his great head quite out of
the water, and his long, double range of sharp

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white teeth, broadly opening to snatch her into his
jaws. But he failed a second time, and drew off,
without making a third attempt, as if he had suffered
some hurts, probably from scraping upon the
sharp oyster-beds, in those which he had made
already, But he did not abandon the spot. Still,
round and round the bank, did he perform his
constant evolutions, until the poor negro was almost
ready to resign herself to fate, and fling herself
into his jaws in despair. But, at this juncture,
some oyster hunters, like herself, discovered her
predicament, and came to her relief. I have heard
that she gave, in a single sentence, the whole terrible
agony of that fearful trisl: “God a'massy, I
bin dead tousand times dat day!”

Editor.—When did this happen?

Bonhommie.—Oh! it was long ago! I forget
when I heard it.

Abbot.—Quite a scene, my son; and, I think,
in all probability true. The shark has been known
to rush clean out of the water, assailing a man in
a boat. It is curious he prefers white to black
meat. He will pass a negro in the water to get at
a white man. This might be in consequence of
his seeing the white skin more readily than the
black. It is one of the admirable advantages of
Sullivan's Island, that bathing here is so easily
rendered safe. The power of the surf itself, secures
you from his assaults; and the surf line gives
you security against the retiring floods. On the
back beach you have no surf;—but, higher up,—
here, where you abide, my son—the marsh tracts
interpose for your safety, and these creeks are at

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once noble and secure bathing places. Where do
you propose to plant your oysters?

Bonhommie.—In the basin, Father, from which
you see the carts now hauling. I shall make ample
provision, in future, for the reception of the
brotherhood. In another year, I hope to be the
father of a thriving family, which, in comeliness of
outline, plumpness of form, and sweetness of flavor,
shall equal those of Truesdell. But come,
Father, if you have finished. I will conduct you
through the myrtles, where we find a shady horse-back
ride to the end of the island.

Abbot.—A moment, my son, while give thanks
and invoke a blessing.