of several miles, leading from the Savannah road, through a continued forest, to a wooden house, encompassed by rice-grounds, corn and cotton-fields. On the right, a kitchen and other offices; on the left, a stable and coachhouse; a little further a row of negro huts, a barn and yard; the view of the eye bounded by lofty woods of pine, oak and hickory.

The solitude of the woods I found at first rather dreary; but the polite attention of an elegant family, a sparkling fire in my room every night, and a horse always at my command, reconciled me to my situation; and my impulse to sacrifice to the Muses, which had been repressed by a wandering life, was once more awakened by the scenery of the woods of Carolina.

I indulged in the composition of lyric poetry, and when I had produced an Ode, transmitted it to Freneau at Charleston, who published it in his Gazette.* But planters have little disposition for poetry, and the eye of the Carolina reader was diverted from my effusions by the more interesting advertisements for fugitive slaves. I was therefore apprehensive that my reputation would not become extended by the Muse, when at the

[* Peter Freneau (younger brother of Philip Freneau), Secretary of State of South Carolina, about 1795 became editor, and proprietor of the Charleston City Gazette. d. 1813. Cf. Duyckinck, I, 334.]

1

distance of fourteen hundred miles, I found an Eulogist in Mr. Dennie, who conducted the only literary paper in the United States, and whose praise was the more grateful from its being voluntary and remote. As conductors "of the only paper on our Continent that is

professedly literary, we consider it incum“bent on us to pay the tribute of praise to "certain easy poems which have appeared in "the Charleston Gazette, and which, instead "of being dated from Parnassus, or Helicon, or at least from some town of our Union, appear to originate in an obscure hamlet, of the barbarous and wigwam name of "Coosohatchie. Among the many pleasing "effusions of this writer is an imitation of "that exquisite Ode in which Horace, under "the name of Pyrrha, depicts the wiles of a "Courtezan. Mr. D., though stunned with "Indian names, and resident among Indian readers, has a mind to comprehend the

language, and catch the spirit of a liberal "Roman. There is, perhaps, no Ode of "Horace more difficult to render into English "than the Ode to Pyrrha; and many are the " versions that have been attempted without แ success by writers distinguished for their

[* Joseph Dennie, 1768-1813, Editor of the Farmer's Mu seum (Walpole, New Hampshire), from 1796 to 1799, “gathered around it one of the most brilliant corps of writers ever congregated to advance the fortunes of a similar undertaking in America." Duyckinck, I, 562.]

"classical attainments, and liveliness of im"agination. We, therefore, rejoice to find the "task performed with felicity on a soil where

genius sickens, and where fancy dies!"

HORACE, Book i, Ode 5, Imitated.

Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa, &c.

TO PYRRHA.

WHAT essenc'd youth, on bed of blushing roses,
Dissolves away within they glowing arms?
Or with soft languor on thy breast reposes,
Deeply enamor'd of thy witching charms?

For whom do now, with wantonness and care,
Thy golden locks in graceful ringlets wave?
What swain now listens to thy vows of air?
For whom doth now thy fragrant bosom heave?

Alas! how often shall he curse the hour,

Who, all-confiding in thy winning wiles,
With sudden darkness views the heavens low'I,
And finds too late the treach'ry of thy smiles.
Wretched are they, who, by thy beauty won,
Believe thee not less amiable than kind:
No more deluded, I thy charms disown,

And give thy vows, indignant, to the wind,

"We would recommend this writer if he "should chuse, or be compelled to remain at "Coosohatchie, or any other American town "of barbarous etymology, to turn either "Usurer, Speculator or Jew. His poetry, "however happy, will in this country experience only the fate of being buried among

"the rubbish of advertisements for runaway แ negroes. Neither Horace, nor his imitator, "will be inquired after; but What's the price "of cotton? and how a yoke of bullocks?

"

My ardour of literary application was increased by such spontaneous praise from a man whose writings were held in the highest estimation, and who was considered, from prescriptive veneration, the American Arbiter Elegantiarum. I now cultivated the lighter Ode, and felicitated myself on having sacrificed to the laurelled god in the woods of Carolina.* The common names of common towns, of Boston, New-York, and Philadelphia, awaken no curiosity, because every Traveller has described them; but Coosohatchie, which has scarce ever reached the ear of an European, cannot but possess the recommendation of novelty from the Indian derivation of its name, and the wildness of its situation. I, therefore, rejoice at the destiny which brought me to the spot; and I envy not other Travellers the magnificence of their cities.

The country near Coosohatchie exhibited with the coming Spring a new and enchanting prospect. The borders of the forests were covered with the blossoms of the dog-wood,

[* The poems so produced were published in a small volume, a copy of which is in the Library of the South Carolina Historical Society-Poems, Written at Coosohatchie in South Carolina. Printed by T. C. Cox, N. 137 Tradd St., Charleston. 120 pp. (12o, n.d.)]

of which the white flowers caught the eye from every part; and often was to be seen the red-bud tree, which purpled the adjacent woods with its luxuriant branches; while, not infrequently, shrubs of jessamine, intertwined with the wood-bine, lined the road for several miles. The feathered choir began to warble their strains, and from every tree was heard the song of the red-bird, of which the pauses were filled by the mocking-bird, who either imitated the note with exquisite precision, or poured forth a ravishing melody of its own.

I commonly devoted my Sundays to the pleasure of exploring the country, and cheered by a serene sky, and smiling landscape, felt my breast awakened to the most rapturous sensations. I lifted my heart to that Supreme Being, whose agency is everywhere confessed; and whom I traced in the verdure of the earth, the foliage of the trees, and the water of the stream. I have ever been of the opinion that God can be as well propitiated in a field as a temple; that he is not to be conciliated by empty protestations, but grateful feelings; and that the heart can be devout when the tongue is silent. Yet there is always something wanting to sublunary felicity, and I confess I felt very sensibly the privation of those hills which so agreeably diversify the country of Europe. I would exclaim in the animated language of Rousseau, Jamais pays de plaine, quelque beau

!