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THE GOLD-BUG
What ho! what ho! this fellow is dancing mad!
He hath been bitten by the Tarantula.
--All in the Wrong.
MANY years ago, I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William Legrand.
He was of an ancient Huguenot family, and had once been wealthy; but
a series of misfortunes had reduced him to want. To avoid the
mortification consequent upon his disasters, he left New Orleans, the
city of his forefathers, and took up his residence at Sullivan's Island,
near Charleston, South Carolina. This Island is a very singular one.
It consists of little else than the sea sand, and is about three
miles long. Its breadth at no point exceeds a quarter of a mile. It is
separated from the main land by a scarcely perceptible creek, oozing its
way through a wilderness of reeds and slime, a favorite resort of the
marsh hen. The vegetation, as might be supposed, is scant, or at least
dwarfish. No trees of any magnitude are to be seen. Near the western
extremity, where Fort Moultrie stands, and where are some miserable
frame buildings, tenanted, during summer, by the fugitives from
Charleston dust and fever, may be found, indeed, the bristly palmetto;
but the whole island, with the exception of this western point, and
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