"Out upon the calf, I say,
Who turns his grumbling head away,
And quarrels with his feed of hay,
Because it is not clover.
Give to me the happy mind,
That will ever seek and find
Something fair and something kind,
All the wide world over."
Unwilling to risk a journey to Yorkville in my broken buggy, I hired a team of mules and a lumber-wagon from my host, to convey myself and baggage thither; and placing Charley and the vehicle in charge of his son, a lad of fourteen years, we started for the distant village at daybreak the next morning. All the way over that rough road I had practical evidence that mules are, like facts, "stubborn things." I was furnished with a hickory goad as long as an angler's rod, and with this I labored faithfully, full half of the way, to whip the animals into a trot where a level space occurred. But I made no visible impression; walk they would, until they reached the brow of a hill, when they would descend with the vehemence of the swine of old, who, filled with devils, ran down into the sea. Down three long hills, rocky and gullied, they ran, while my energies were fully occupied in pulling at the reins with one hand, and securing my seat upon a loose board, covered with a sheepskin, with the other. I reached Yorkville in safety at a little past meridian, resolved never again to play postillion with mules or donkeys, whether biped or quadruped.
Yorkville, the capital of York District, in South Carolina, almost two hundred miles from Charleston, is a very pleasant village of about eight hundred inhabitants, situated in the midst of a high plain, on the dividing-ridge between the waters of the Broad and Catawba Rivers. Sheltered from the northwest winds by the mountains, the climate is mild in winter; elevated far above the low country of the Carolinas, it is salubrious in summer. The streets of the village are regularly laid out, and adorned with beautiful Pride of India trees, filled, when I was there, with clusters of fruit. I saw some elegant mansions; and in the gardens, fine palmettoes, the first I had seen, were growing. I passed the Sabbath pleasantly in Yorkville, and left it early on Monday morning, with the impression that not a lovelier village flourishes in the "upper eountry" of the South. Leaving the great highway to Columbia on the right, I traversed the more private roads in the direction of the Catawba, to visit the scenes of valor and suffering in the vicinity of that stream. The weather was fine, and the roads generally good. Soon after leaving Yorkville, I passed through a part of the Catawba reservation, a narrow tract of land on the Catawba River, near the southeast corner of Yorkville District. The Catawba tribe, once so powerful, have dwindled down to the merest remnant. For their general adherence to the patriots during the Revolution, they have always received the fostering care of the state. Their number now does not exceed one hundred, and in a few years that once great rival tribe of the Five Nations will be extinct. * So the aborigines pass away, and the few survivors in our land may chant in sorrow,