The Shore Dimly Seen

The Shore Dimly Seen

The Shore Dimly Seen

The Shore Dimly Seen

Excerpt

THERE IS A mountain where Tennessee and Georgia meet. If it is a clear day and your eyes are good, you can stand and see from a single spot seven States that formed the heart of the Southern Confederacy and that today are the South as the rest of our country knows it. It is a land fabulous and romantic, somewhat akin to the Forest of Arden or the Seacoast of Bohemia.

I was born in this South and its past colors my dreams, as it must color the dreams of all those who were born to see Spanish moss hanging from great water oaks, or tall pines shimmering in the light of a hot August sun, or to hear the nostalgic voices of the Negroes on the wharves of Savannah, Memphis and New Orleans.

Each man must survey our common country from the spot where he stands and look at it through his own eyes and not through the eyes of another. But all of our looking at it must be very like that of Francis Scott Key peering through the dim . . .

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