THE TOWN OF MOUNT PLEASANT. 55 1 



etery, near by the plain and simple slab that marks the grave of the 

 modest and gentle author of the " Legend." 



Near the foot, southward, lives J. R. Stevens upwards of eighty years 

 of age, in full possession of all his faculties. He married a Miss Davis, de- 

 scended from Win. Davids, born in 1707 (the name having been cor- 

 rupted). Her parents had owned the place long before ; here she was 

 born and brought up. They cannot remember when the family of the 

 Davids first came in possession of it. The house is old fashioned, with the 

 same doors as stood there during the Revolution. At one time it was 

 occupied by four or five English soldiers, who, returning after a raid, 

 amused themselves by hacking with their swords the doorway casings. 

 The front door has five or six deep hacks now, and the inner door two. 

 In the south sitting-room is a door leading into the kitchen with a small 

 pane of glass inserted in it, which was used in old times when slaves 

 were kept to peep occasionally at the little darkies, especially when there 

 was any disturbance. 



In the west room of the house General Washington had several times 

 passed hours, in consultation with his officers and other friends of the 

 cause of liberty; and we can easily imagine him ascending the summit of 

 the hill and there standing wrapped in thought and prayer, during those 

 dark and glomy days of the Revolution, and looking and planning for 

 the future. He could there look down on Arnold's treason and Andre's 

 forlorn and desperate venture, and wonder at the mysterious ways of 

 providence that lead to its defeat. 



The road leading north from the county house, passes near the cele- 

 brated Raven Rock, around which cluster a thousand strange stories, 

 and superstitions. The rock is said to have derived its name from the?, 

 fact, that it was once the favorite haunt of that ominous bird, whose 

 hoarse croakings were believed to prognosticate approaching ill. The 

 ferocious wife of Macbeth, on being advised of the approach of Duncan, 

 whose death she had conspired, is made to say in the language of the 

 poet : 



" The raven himself is hoarse 

 That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan 

 Under my battlements." — Macbeth, Act I. Scene 5. 



This ill-omened bird — once very numerous on our coasts— has long 

 since retired with the wild game into the interior. 



But the dark glen of Raven Rock is now haunted by a far different 

 object, viz., the lady in white; whose shrill shrieks are said to be often 

 heard during the long, weary winter nights, as if presaging a storm. 

 Tradition asserts she perished here in a deep snow. 



