Woodlands, near Midway, the half-way stop between Charleston and
Augusta, was a little kingdom of itself in the years of its greatness
when William Gilmore Simms was monarch of the fair domain. It was far
from being a monastery, though its master was known as "Father Abbot."
The title had clung to him from the pseudonym under which he had
written a series of letters to a New York paper, upholding the view
that Charlestonians should not go north on health-seeking vacations
when they had better places nearer home, mentioning Sullivan's Island
where the hospitable Fort Moultrie officers "were good hands at
drawing a cork." Of course, he meant a trigger.
Rather was Woodlands a bit of enchanted forest cut from an old
black-letter legend, in which one half expected to meet mediæval knights
on foaming steeds--every-day folk ride jogging horses--threading their
way through the mysterious forest aisles in search of those romantic
adventures which were necessary to give knights of that period an
excuse for existence. It chanced, however, that the only knights known
to Woodlands were the old-time friends of its master and the youthful
writers who looked to "Father Abbot" for literary guidance.
Having welcomed his guests with the warmth and urbanity which made him
a most enjoyable comrade, Father Abbot would disperse them to seek
entertainment after the manner agreeable to them. For the followers of
old Isaac Walton there was prime fishing in the Edisto River, that
"sweet little river" that ripples melodiously through "Father Abbot's"
pages. To hunters the forest offered thrilling occupation. For the
pleasure rider smooth, white, sandy bridle-paths led in silvery curves
through forests of oak or pine to the most delightful of Nowheres.
[Illustration: WOODLANDS, THE HOME OF WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS
By courtesy of D. Appleton & Company]
Having put each guest into the line of his fancy, the master of
Woodlands would betake himself to his library to write his thirty
pages, the daily stint he demanded from the loom of his imagination.
Sometimes he had a companion in Paul Hayne who, not so much given to
outdoor life as many of the frequenters of Woodlands, liked to sit in
the library, weaving some poetic vision of his own or watching the
flight of the tireless pen across the page.
By and by the pen would drop upon the desk, its task finished for that
morning, and the worker would look up with an air of surprise at
becoming aware of his companion and say: "Near dinner time, old boy.
What do you say to a sherry and soda?" As there was only one thing to
be said to a sherry and soda, this was the signal for repairing to the
dining room. By the time the sherry and soda sparkled hospitable
welcome the sportsmen returned and after doing justice to the genius
of the host in mixed drinks, they were seated around a generous table,
most of the good things with which it was laden having come from the
waters and fields and vines of Woodlands. For if a world-wide war had
closed all the harbors of earth Woodlands could still have offered
luxurious banquets to its guests. The host beguiled the time with
anecdotes, of which he had an unfailing store that never lost a point
in his telling, or declaimed poetry, of which his retentive memory
held an inexhaustible collection.
The feast was followed by cigars, Simms having begun to smoke of late
years to discourage a tendency to stoutness. Then all would join in
the diversions of the afternoon, which sometimes led to the "Edge of
the Swamp," a gruesome place which the poet of Woodlands had
celebrated in his verse. Here
Cypresses,
Each a great, ghastly giant, eld and gray
Stride o'er the dusk, dank tract.