84 REMINISCENCES OF 



fection and our worship. Often when a boy have I 

 seen him on a Httle pony riding through our planta- 

 tion on his way to church in Christ Church Parish, 

 forty miles distant ; and when I heard him reply to 

 my father, who asked him the object of his journey, 

 that there was to be sacrament in Mr. McCauley's 

 church, I could scarcely take my eyes from him ; not 

 because I admired his zeal or his fidelity, but because 

 I thought he must be a fool. Mr. McCauley was a 

 Presbyterian and a man of some note in his day. 



In my frequent rambles amid these now deserted 

 plantations, I often stop to gaze on the ruins which 

 present themselves to my view. I feel lost in pain- 

 ful wonder at the utter desolation of these places : 

 not a living soul is there ; not a living thing that I 

 can see. Not a sigh, not a whisper, not a sound of 

 life comes from these ruins. The silence of death is 

 everywhere. Not even the wail of a bird of prey 

 reaches me throuo^h these shattered walls. There 

 is nothing but ruin everywhere. Not a bird of 

 good or evil omen sits upon these fragments. Not 

 a wild beast haunts these ruins. All is still, and 

 silent, and lifeless. I sit upon a fallen tree or a heap 

 of broken bricks, and look with a saddened heart 

 upon this scene of desolation ; and I wonder what 

 has become of all who once lived here — the good, 



