I will paint me with black, and will sever my hair;
I will sit on the shore when the hurricane blows,
And reveal to the God of the tempest my woes;
I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed.
For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead;
But they died not of hunger, or lingering decay—
The hand of the white man hath swept them away!''
Henry Rowe Schoolcraft.
I crossed the Fishing Creek at sunset; and at the house of a young planter, a mile beyond, passed the night. There I experienced hospitality in its fullest degree. The young husbandman had just begun business life for himself, and, with his wife and "wee bairn," occupied a modest house, with only one room. I was not aware of the extent of their accommodations when I asked for a night's entertainment, and the request was promptly complied with. It made no difference to them, for they had two beds in the room, and needed but one for themselves; the other was at my service. The young man was very intelligent and inquiring, and midnight found us in pleasant conversation. He would accept no compensation in the morning; and I left his humble dwelling full of reverence for that generous and unsuspecting hospitality of Carolina, where the people will give a stranger lodgings even in their own bedrooms, rather than turn him from their doors.
"Plain and artless her sons; but whose doors open faster