“But sometimes virtue starves while vice is fed.” 
What, then?  Is the reward of virtue bread? 
That, vice may merit, ’t is the price of toil;
The knave deserves it when he tills the soil,
The knave deserves it when he tempts the main,
Where folly fights for kings or dives for gain. 
Honor and shame from no condition rise;
Act well your part, there all the honor lies.

Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow;
The rest is all but leather or prunella. 
A wit’s a feather, and a chief a rod,
An honest man’s the noblest work of God. 
One self-approving hour whole years outweighs
Of stupid starers, and of loud huzzas.

Know then this truth (enough for man to know),
“Virtue alone is happiness below.” 
The only point where human bliss stands still,
And tastes the good without the fall to ill;
Where only merit constant pay receives,
Is blest in what it takes and what it gives.

CXXXV.  MARION. (453)

William Gilmore Simms, 1806-1870, one of the most versatile, prolific, and popular of American authors, was born at Charleston, South Carolina.  His family was poor, and his means of education were limited, yet he managed to prepare himself for the bar, to which he was admitted when twenty-one years of age.  The law proving uncongenial, he abandoned it, and in 1828 became editor of the “Charleston City Gazette.”  From this time till his death his literary activity was unceasing, and his writings were so numerous that it is possible only to group them under their various heads.  They comprise Biography; History; Historical Romance, both Foreign and Domestic, the latter being further divided into Colonial, Revolutionary, and Border Romances; Pure Romance; The Drama; Poetry; and Criticism; besides miscellaneous books and pamphlets.

In the midst of this remarkable literary activity, Mr. Simms still found time to devote to the affairs of state, being for several years a member of the South Carolina Legislature.  He was also a lecturer, and was connected editorially with several magazines.  Most of his time was spent at his summer house in Charleston, and at his winter residence, “Woodlands,” on a plantation at Midway, S. C.

The following selection is from “The Life and Times of Francis Marion.” ###

Art had done little to increase the comforts or the securities of his fortress.  It was one, complete to his hands, from those of nature—­such an one as must have delighted the generous English outlaw of Sherwood Forest; insulated by deep ravines and rivers, a dense forest of mighty trees, and interminable undergrowth.  The vine and brier guarded his passes.  The laurel and the shrub, the vine and sweet-scented jessamine roofed his dwelling, and clambered up between his closed eyelids and the stars.  Obstructions scarcely penetrable by any foe, crowded the pathways to his tent; and no footstep not practiced in the secret, and to “the manner born,” might pass unchallenged to his midnight rest.  The swamp was his moat; his bulwarks were the deep ravines, which, watched by sleepless rifles, were quite as impregnable as the castles on the Rhine.  Here, in the possession of his fortress, the partisan slept secure.