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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 the
western point, and a line of hard, white beach on the sea-coast, is
covered with a dense undergrowth of sweet myrtle, so much prized by the
horticulturalists of England. The shrub here often attains the height
of fifteen or twenty feet, and forms an almost impenetrable coppice,
burthening the air with its fragrance.