THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES SOUTHLAND WRITERS SOUTHLAND WRITERS, BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL SKETCHES OF THE LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. litli (Extracts from their Ifrnftnos. /I I *f BY IDA RAYMOND. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. II. PHILADELPHIA: i CLAXTON, REMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, 819 & 821 MARKET STREET. 1870. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by CLAXTON, RKMSEN A HAFFELFINGER, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. STEREOTYPED BY J. PAGAN 4 SON. PRINTED BY MOORE BROTHKltS. ! CONTENTS i VOLUME II ALABAMA. PS s-s/ r/7 s MRS. ADELAIDE DE VENDEL CHAUDRON 523 MISS KATE GUMMING 525 LAURA S. WEBB 527 MRS. ANNIE CREIGHT LLOYD 530 MRS. E. W. BELLAMY 531 MISS MARY A. CRUSE 548 LILIAN ROZELL MESSENGER 554 SARAH E. PECK 560 JULIA L. KEYES 561 AUGUSTA J. EVANS 56C I. M. PORTER HENRY 584 CATHERINE W. TOWLES 594 MRS. JULIA SHELTON 596 MISSISSIPPI. SALLIE ADA VANCE 609 MRS. MARY STANFORD 616 MRS. S. B. COX 622 ELIZA POITEVENT 631 FLORIDA. MARY E. BRYAN 645 FANNY E. HERRON 669 v 1125368 VI CONTENTS OF VOL. II. PAGE AUGUSTA 1>K MIU-Y 672 MRS. M. UMISE CROSSLEY 677 TENNESSEE. MI!S. L. VMICIXIA FRENCH 687 Mi:>. ANXIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM 703 MRS. CLARA COLES 713 ADELIA C. GRAVES 722 MRS. MARY E. TOPE 723 VIRGINIA. MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTON 735 MRS. S. A. WEISS 750 MRS. CONSTANCE CARY HARRISON 775 M. J. HAW 776 MRS. MARY WILEY 777 MISS VIRGINIA E. DAVIDSON 782 MISS SALLIE A. BROCK 784 MISS SUE C. HOOPER 792 MATILDA S. EDWARDS 797 MARY J. B. 1TSIIUR f 799 MARTHA HAINES BUTT BENNETT 806 MISS SARAH J. C. WHITTLESEY 803 HELEN G. BEALE 809 MRS. CORNELIA J. M. JORDAN 811 LAURA R. FEWELL 819 Mi;-. LIZZIE PETIT CUTLER , 821 NORTH CAROLINA. M \I;V RAYAHD CLARKE 827 MARY MASON 842 CORNELIA PHILLIPS SPENCER 843 FANNY MURDAUGH DOWNING ... .. 844 CONTENTS OF VOL, II. vii PAGE MRS. MARY AYER MILLER 853 MRS. SUSAN J. HANCOCK .. 855 SOUTH CAROLINA. SUE PETIGRU KING 861 MRS. CAROLINE H. JERVEY 866 CAROLINE A. BALL 871 MRS. MARY S. B. SHINDLER 875 MISS ESSIE B. CHEESBOROUGH 877 MARY SCRIMZEOUR WHITAKER 884 MARGARET MAXWELL MARTIN 892 MRS. CATHARINE LADD 896 CLARA V. DARGAN 898 FADETTE 905 ANNIE M. BARNWELL 912 MARY CAROLINE GRISAVOLD 918 MISS JULIA C. MINTZING 922 MARYLAND. ANNE MONCURE CRANE 931 LYDIA CRANE 941 GEORGIE A. HULSE McLEOD 943 TEXAS. MRS. FANNIE A. D. DARDEN. 949 MRS. MAUD J. YOUNG 952 MISS MOLLIE E. MOORE ... 959 MADAME ADELAIDE DE V. CHAUDRON. HIS lady, who stands unsurpassed as translator of the now famous Miihlbach novels, is a resident (we believe, a native) of Mobile. Her father was Emile De Vendel, a teacher of some distinction in a country where teaching is regarded as one of the professions, and where intellect, education, and birth are principally valued as the "open sesames " of good society. Adelaide de Vendel was married early to Mr. West of St. Louis: he was a law yer by profession. After his death, she resided in Mobile, where she contracted a second marriage with Mr. Paul Chaudron. Left again a widow, she was compelled by misfortune to adopt her father's honor able occupation, and being well qualified by her talents and accom plishments, she assumed the charge of a seminary for young ladies, a position she still fills. She is known as an author principally from her translation of the "Joseph II." of the Miihlbach novels, and also for her compilation of a series of readers and a spelling-book, during the late war. These were published in Mobile, and adopted in the public schools of that city ; they are regarded as really excellent text-books. The " Round Table," a journal not usually too favorable in its judg ment of Southern authors, speaks thus of the translation of the " Jo seph II. and his Court": " The translation of this volume is unusually praiseworthy. Some small things might be said by way of criticism, but we pass them in deference to its general superiority. A translator is to be tested by the success with which the spirit of the original is preserved in the translation. To translate \vords is a simple task, but to re-embody the original work in its spirit in the translation is the work of genius. Madame Chaudron, to achieve this result, has dared to assume the responsibility of a free translation, and has succeeded." 523 524 SOUTHLAND WHITER 8. " Joseph II." was published during the war by the late S. H. Goetzel, of Mobile, aud was the introduction of the now well-known Miihlbach i-i nuances into the United States. Mrs. De Chaudron is much appreciated in the society of Mobile ; she has fine conversational powers, an excellent memory, and a happy facility in imparting ideas and knowledge gathered from general read ing; her fine musical powers make her an acquisition to any circle; IKT #]>ecialile is decidedly the acquisition of foreign languages. MISS KATE CUMMING. MISS CUMMING hardly can be classed as a "writer" in the pro fessional interpretation of that term, " Hospital Life in the Army of the Tennessee " being her only contribution to the literature of the country. Miss Cumming is of Scotch descent, and has resided in Mobile since childhood. " Hospital Life in the Army of the Tennessee " was published by John P. Morton & Co., Louisville, Kentucky, in 1866. Says a re viewer : " At the first glance over the title-page of this book, the reader will, very likely, form an opinion of it from the work written by Miss Florence Nightingale after the Crimean War. But Miss Cumming's book is of a very different character. Miss Nightingale confined herself almost entirely to her life in the hospitals at Scutari and its vicinity, and gave minute directions upon the subject of nursing the sick and wounded, the manage ment of hospitals, and general clinical treatment. Miss Cumming aims to do more than this. She was constantly with the army in the field, received the wounded in nearly every action, and assisted in organizing the field hos pitals in the memorable campaigns in Tennessee, Kentucky, and finally in Georgia, when the army was retreating. She has told the story in a plain, straightforward manner, made up from the diary kept through the war ; and has presented a very fair history of the operations of the Western army under Bragg, Johnston, and Hood. To the soldiers of the Army of the Ten nessee, and to their relatives and friends, this book contains much that is interesting. An heroic woman leaves her comfortable home in the Gulf City, and offers her services as a matron in the corps of field-nurses. She devotes her whole time to the care of the sick and wounded soldiers, sees to the cleansing of their hospital wards, attends to their food, and often with her own hand prepares delicacies for those prostrate with wounds or burn ing with fever. But she is not located in some interior village, where every thing is quiet, and food plenty ; her place is in the field. She follows the army in all its wanderings, prepares lint and provides stimulants when a battle is expected, and establishes temporary sick- wards in the first building to be had, when the battle has been fought and the wounded are being brought in. For four years Miss Gumming followed this army-life, and every evening, 525 526 - " l I II I. A N l> U U ITERS. after tin- fatigue- of tin- day. <|>ent a fr\v nioinciits over her diary, recording the incidents that transpired around her, 'all of which she saw,' to para- phra-i thr c\|,rc --imi !' Ca-ar. 'ami :i |p;irt of which she was.' "The bonk is almost a transcript of that field-diary. It has been but little altered, and still bears evidences of haste in some parts, as if the word* were written ju-t before starting for Dalton or Atlanta, when the army was retreating ; and of fatigue in others, as if jotted down after being all day ministering to the sick. But while some may complain of this crudity, if we may so call it. then- can In- no doubt that this adds very much to the spirit or piquancy of the book. Its main beauty is, that the words convey all the force and testimony of an eye-witness, or even of an actor in the event* recorded.'' LAURA S. WEBB. MRS. "VVEBB is " one of the many " Southern women who have suffered much and lost their all by the war. For several years she contributed poems and sketches to various papers, under the signa ture of " Stannie Lee." Dr. W. T. Webb, the husband of Mrs. Webb, fought gallantly as a private, as lieutenant, and as captain, and was then surgeon in the Seventh Mississippi Regiment. He contracted consumption in the army, and died after the close of the war, leaving his widow with three little children. Mrs. Webb became a teacher in the St. Joseph's Institute, Mobile, and in the spring of 1868 published a little volume entitled, "Heart Leaves," to which the following is the introduction : " Read not through prismatic light These sorrow-shaded leaves, For they are from a heart where oft The spell of sorrow weaves ! No genius rare dwells in the soul From whence these leaflets came, , And the writer does not seek for them The laurel-wreath of fame. Yet sometimes from these humble leaves There comes an inward moan, That wells from the depths of a bleeding heart, By saddened memories torn. Like some deserted fountain, Choked by advancing years, The waters of that heart ooze out In silence and in tears." THE HOME OF MISS EVANS. " 'T is the home of the beautiful, the home of the true, Where the jewels of thought that hallow the view, Are linked with flowers that bloom in the soul, Down deep where the waves of genius roll ! " Not long since, we paid a visit to Miss Evans in her home, near the city of Mobile. It is a sweet, secluded spot, where thought can revel in the sun- 527 628 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. hhine of joy, and weave into deathless garlands the jewels that glow in the 1. rain ami tin- soul. All whisper of peace and breathe of beauty around the In line where Augusta J. Evans holds communion with her pen and soul. The enchantment that clusters around all that belongs to fame, clings tliirkly al.uut the homestead which her pen has rendered classic forever. Previous to our visit, we had never met Miss Evans, and, as we had often n-ail and admired her works, it was with pleasure we wended our way through the gravelled walks that led to her dwelling. Our summons at the door was answered by a servant, who ushered us into an elegantly furnished parlor, where we awaited the appearance of Miss Evans. While sitting there alone, we noted the rare beauty of the paintings that breathed upon the walls. They were master-works of master-minds, that had drunk deeply of inspiration, and had left the impress of their souls on the canvas that now glowed with life. But not long did we feast our gaze upon these glorious works of art, for soon Miss Evans entered, and then we saw nothing but her. She advanced to greet us with extended hand and pleasant smile, and soon we found ourselves conversing with her who has won the brightest wreath of Southern fame. She was robed in an evening dress of pale blue silk, that suited well with her complexion of pearly whiteness. It would be diffi cult to determine which pleased the most, her loveliness, the beautiful sim plicity of her toilet, or her conversation. All harmonized, all suited, all < /*'// ined. There is no pedantry or affectation about her ; she converses fluently, and the words ripple musically from her lips, as if they were the glad murmur of a happy heart. May she be forever blest and happy; for though the "Sunny South " is blighted and darkened, and many of her truest, hearts are sorrow ful and sad, yet may our gifted writer never feel her soul wrapped in the pall that deep sorrow weaves ! We spent a delightful hour in her company, and then, as we had other preying engagements, we rose to take our leave. Miss Evans accompanied us to the outer door, and as we bade her adieu, as she stood there in the doorway, with the golden light of sunset bathing her fair brow, we felt that though, perchance, we were destined never to linger near her again in life, yet our soul would forever keep her memory green. Mi>> Kvans is tall and queenly in her bearing, graceful and swanlike in her movements, and there is a charm about her manner that wins the heart at once. Her "eyes are thrones of expression," and seem to burn with their glorious beauty down into the caverns of the soul. But the crowning beauty of that classic face is written on the brow, where the seal of intellect is impressed. 'Tis a tit resting-place for the wreath that she has won with the irenius of her soul. May no poison ever lurk beneath those laurel-leaves that twine with dewy fre-hm-ss around that beauteous brow! Alas! how oft is the ehaplet of fame given those who drink deepest of the cup of woe! But never may the chalice of bitterness be pressed to the joy-wreathed lips LAURA S. WEBB. 529 of Augusta J. Evans ; may the night-time of sorrow never cling around her heart where the spell of genius lingers. " Oh ! why is it forever willed That hearts where brightest shine The gifts of feeling, deep and rare, Must deepest steep in sorrow's brine ? ' 'T is but to teach the gifted one There is no rest till heaven is won ! " Genius is a glorious, but yet a fearful gift a gift that wreathes the soul with the sweetest and most treasured flowers of the heart, bathes them with the dew that welled from the deep urn of the soul, and causes that heart and soul, with all their buds of beauty and of hope, to twine with deathless grasp around an earthly idol. Then for a brief, glad while, flashes of wild joy quiver through the deep chambers of the soul where the fire of genius burns, and then ask of the ashes of desolation that lie on the hearthstone of the heart. We have woven Miss Evans, her home and genius together, as they are one and the same, except the blight that so often withers the greenest wreath. We will not link the bands of sorrow with the destiny that we predict for her. The hand of fate may leave her brow unscathed. 'T is appropriate to link her name with that of genius, as she is the child, and her home the abode of genius. And the place that her footprints have marked, the birds that have sung at her windows, the breezes that have kissed her brow and cheek, and the flowers that bloom round her home, are blessed forever by the spell that her presence has cast. And though she may wander beneath the blue skies of Italy, and gaze with rapture on its glorious sunsets ; though she may tread the sunny shores of France, and inhale the fragrance of its delightful clime; and though Switzerland, the land of beauty, may thrill her soul with joy " in her wan derings from home," yet we know that " backward, still backward," will her heart ever turn to her sunny-bright home near the " Mexican sea." 2 MRS. ANNIE CREIGHT LLOYD.* ANNIE P. CREIGHT, in 1863, published several short articles in prose and verse in the "Gulf City Home Journal," of Mobile, her first appearance in print. The editor of that journal, in alluding to Miss Creight's contributions, remarked : " Miss Creight has put in our hands, with evident trepidation and timid ity, several short papers. We saw some faults, but we thought that they could be remedied by a little encouragement, and we gave them to the pub lic. We thought if we would assist the bird to learn to fly, that it would fly very well after a while." And the editor truly prophesied, for since that time Miss Creight has made for herself quite a to-be-envied place among " Southland writers." Her first novelette appeared in the "Army Argus and Crisis," Mobile, and was entitled " Garnet ; or, Through the Shadows into Light ; " which was followed by " Hagar ; or, The Lost Jewel," which we consider superior to any of her published novelettes. These novelettes have had the honor of republication in the columns of a Mississippi paper, since the close of the war. In the summer of 1867, Mrs. Lloyd was the successful competitor for a prize offered by the " Mobile Sunday Times " for the best romance ; " Pearl ; or, The Gem of the Vale," being the title of the successful novelette. Miss Creight was born in Abbeville, South Carolina : she is yet young in years, and with careful study and judicious pruning of her narratives will accomplish something worthy of herself and her coun try. At an early age, Miss Creight removed to Mississippi ; was edu cated in Aberdeen, where she graduated in 1859 ; deprived of parents, she came to Mobile, Alabama, and shared the home of an uncle ; in 1866, she was married to William E. Lloyd, and resides in Mobile, occasionally writing as a recreation. Extracts from her writings -were accidentally destroyed. 630 MRS. E. W. BELLAMY. MRS. E. W. BELLAMY ("Kampa Thorpe") has not, as yet, accomplished a great deal in the literature of her country, but what she has published she has cause to be proud of. Her novel "Four Oaks" was published by Carleton, New York, 1867. The " Round Table," New York, under the impression that " Kampa Thorpe" was of the masculine gender, thus alludes to "Four Oaks" : " This is a story of every-day life, in which all the incidents are probable, and, what is yet more rare, the characters are all perfectly natural. A num ber of men and women, differing in age though not in station, are brought together on terms of pleasant acquaintanceship, and there is a more liberal allowance than usual of intelligent men and brainless nonentities, of sensible women and those torments of modern society, women of an uncertain age on the lookout for husbands ; and although there are no diabolical villains, there are mischief-makers enough to occasion unpleasant complications, which, together with mysterious miniatures and family secrets, combine to sustain an interest which the events of the story would not otherwise suffice to keep alive. " The scene opens in the pleasant toAvn of Netherford, where, after a severe round of introductions to the forefathers and relatives of the heroine, we are presented to a charming, good-hearted, and beautiful girl, a little spoiled, rather self-willed, and somewhat too self-reliant, but so true and honest, so free from all the vices which attach to the fashionable and fast young lady of the present day, that we are grateful to the author who awakens our in terest for a woman equally endowed with vitality, modesty, and common sense. There is an absence of all romance about a life passed among such restless and ill-assorted people as form the society of Netherford, but the author has refrained from giving us any exaggerated or extravagant scenes ; he is thoroughly consistent and natural, and his imagination has evidently been greatly assisted by personal observation." And a Southern editor and critic of experience (Major W. T. Walt- hall) thus reviews the book : " We have subjected this volume to careful reading a reading much more careful than we are in the habit of giving to any new novel. " We confess having commenced ' Four Oaks ' with some nervous appre- 531 532 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. Illusions fear h-*t it might prove like too many books by Southern authors, which Ui.sk the ingenuity of an indulgent reviewer to effect an awkward com promise between camlor ami charity in the expression of his opinion. They have to be 'damned with faint praise,' or eased off with unmeaning plati tudes. ' Four Oaks,' we are happy to say, is not one of such books. We have read it through with continually increasing interest, and have laid it down with that paradoxically pleasant regret which busy people rarely have the luxury of feeling in finishing a book regret that it is ended. "Considering the temptations held out by the examples of some of the most successful novels of the day, ' Four Oaks ' is to be commended almost as much for what it is not, as for what it is. It is not a 'sensational' story. There is not a battle, nor a duel, nor a ghost, nor a murder, and but one pi>tol-shot in it. [We do not object to a reasonable use of these elements of interest in a novel, but it is very refreshing to meet with one that can be just as interesting without them.] It has no violations of the letter or the spirit of the seventh commandment no sentimental apologies for vice no poetic idealization of acts and passions which in the honest language of the Scriptures are called by homely names that would be inadmissible in elegant fiction. Without a particle of prudery or pretension, it is imbued with the very atmosphere of purity purity not inculcated, but taken for granted. To say that the author is a lady, ought to be sufficient to make all this follow as a matter of course; but, unfortunately, some of the lady nov elists of this generation have taught us a different lesson. " Nor does the author of ' Four Oaks ' delight in twisting and torturing human passions and feelings into agonies of strange attitudes and fantastic developments. Her characters are men and women, with loves, hates, hopes, (ears, joys, sorrows, faults, and follies, like those of other people. Neither is 'Four Oaks' a device for showing off the learning of the au thor. She shows the effects of culture, but not its processes. There is, per haps, rather too much botany in one of her chapters, but this is an exception to the general rule. " Again, ' Four Oaks ' is neither political, polemical, nor philosophical. Thoroughly Southern as it is, the word ' Southern ' scarcely occurs in it, nor is there anything said of patriotism, or chivalry, or the sunny South, or the peculiar institution. Its locality is defined only by its general tone, spirit, and the language, manners, and usages of the people who figure in it. It has no theory to maintain, nor any ' mission ' to fulfil. " It is needless, however, to specify the negative merits of 'Four Oaks,' when it has so many that are positive. It is a story of every-day life. Its materials and its style are of the most unpretending sort. We are introduced in the early chapters into the society of a pleasant little circle of people in ' the town of Netherford,' on the ' banks of the Ominihaw,' and these people :tute nearly all the personages of the story. The heroine is far from being a model of propriety. She is full of faults and foibles, which some- E. W. BELL A M Y. 533 times provoke the friendly reader and make his interest and sympathy trem ble in the balance for a moment, but she is sure to carry away his heart in the end. Her education is lamentably imperfect when she is first intro duced. She likes picnics and dancing better than books, has never read even ' The Lady of the Lake,' and ' The Burial of Sir John Moore' is new to her; but she has a heart, and an honest one, and she is witty and beautiful. Herein, as we think, the author again shows good sense. We have a great respect for plain women. They often make admirable nurses, friends, mo thers, sisters, and even sweethearts and wives for those who are indifferent about beauty, but they do not answer for heroines of romance. Even Jane Eyre has to marry a blind man. But Harry Vane is not only beautiful she is bewitching in every sense. We may vow that she is unworthy of being loved, but she wins us back in the course of the next minute, and binds us faster than ever. The progress of her character, and the quiet but steady growth of its improvement, are among the most interesting features in the book ; and yet there is no parade made of it. The art of the artist is admi rably concealed. " We have never read anything more thoroughly and unaffectedly natural than the characters, the conversation, and incidents of this book. It exhales the very odor of the groves, the fields, the forests, and the ancestral homes of Virginia or the Carolinas ; and yet, as we have already said, neither Vir ginia nor Carolina is mentioned. There are no tedious and elaborate de scriptions of scenery or analyses of character : the touches that set them be fore us so vividly are imperceptible. The humor of some passages is delight ful. It must be a dull soul totally insensible to mirth that can read unmoved such scenes as the account of the first meeting of the Quodlibet, or that of Mr. Dunbar's courtship, or his prescription of ' earthworms and turpentine,' or some others that might be specified. " But it is in the love-scenes of ' Four Oaks ' that its chief charm consists. Trite as is the theme, it is still that which stirs most deeply the human heart, and has the most universal attraction for human sympathy. We have often seen its influences depicted with more power, but never with so much of ex quisite grace, delicacy, and fidelity, as in this book. Without a particle of sentimentality to repel the most fastidious taste, it unites all the truth and tenderness of the sentimental school with the sparkle of the gayer and lighter sort, and touches of exquisite delicacy, which could proceed only from a woman's pen, and which may be appreciated, but scarcely described or ana lyzed. " We forbear to say anything more in praise of ' Four Oaks.' What we have said is not said from any undue partiality, for we know the writer only by reputation scarcely even by name. We are sensible, too, of some faults in her book. It has, to a certain degree, that fault from which scarcely any lady writer perhaps none is entirely free : the fault of diffuseness. But then, there is this difference : the works of most women (and perhaps of SOUTHLAND WRITERS. ii en too) would be improved l>y mincing them to one-fifth of their dimrii-iiMi-; in the case of ' Four Oaks,' we coully upare more than one-tilth. There is un artistic fault in the too rapid introduction of i -haraeter-i in the In-jrinning. The mind of the reader is confused, and one has to look hark lor explanation oftciier than we like in the hurry of novel- reading. " Tin- -urn of the whole matter is, that ' Four Oaks' is the most delightful book that we have ivad for a long time. It is the very book to be read aloud either by the winter h're>ide or the summer seaside, with one congenial lis tener, or a circle of such listeners, and to leave all parties more genial, more huppy. more thankful to the Creator for his good gifts, more charitable to ward his creatures. It is very rarely that we could conscientiously recom mend the author of a new novel to repeat the effort, but in this case we very much hope that 'Four Oaks' is only the beginning of a series. 'Kampa Thorpe ' has not mistaken her vocation." Mrs. Bellamy is a widow, and is a teacher in a seminary at Eutaw, Greene County, Alabama. Her essays contributed to the "Mobile Sunday Times" are beautiful and elegant articles, and we imagine she is an ardent Jover of " nature and nature's God." From her first book, one can judge that in the future something which the " world will not willingly let die " will be forthcoming. A SUMMER IDYL. When woodlands spread their denser screen, And wheat is reap'd on sunburnt plains; When apples blush for looking green, And berries ripen in the lanes; When bees go robbing clove r-fieM>. And barefoot truant- wade the brook, Or 'neath the shade the forest yields They seek them out some breezy nook ; When summer weaves" her slumb'rous spell Of dreamy murmurs, lulling can-. Till Thought lies dormant in his cell To watch the castles rise in air; What vocal rover haunt* the land. 1 1 ing adowu the dusty walks, E. W. BELLAMY. 535 Or in the stubble takes his stand, And loudly of the harvest talks? From sylvan coverts far and near A name is called from morn till night, And questions asked in accents clear About the crop of Farmer White ; That vague, mysterious crop of peas The gleaners of the feather'd gown Are waiting eagerly to seize When " Bob " shall lay his sickle down. Bob, Bob White! where doth he dwell? And wherefore do they call his name ? And who is he? can any tell? Can any whisper whence he came? Have any seen him on the hills, Industrious at the dawn of day? Have any spied him by the rills, Dozing the noontide hours away? Perchance he is akin to Kate Who did the deed without a name, Or that poor Will whose luckless fate The twilight babblers oft proclaim. "A man of words, and not of deeds," He dwells in an unreal clime, And takes his ease in sunny meads, Unjostled by the march of time. In those fair realms beyond the stream, That parts the infant from the man, 1 see this farmer in a dream, With kindly eye and cheek of tan ; A jolly wight, who loves his pipe, And knows the cunning speech of birds, But parleys o'er his peas unripe To teach his reapers human words. An echo from old Babyland, His name, across the vanish'd years By summer breezes lightly fann'd, Brings happy thoughts bedew'd with tears. 536 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. What tireless rambles through the wood, What revels round the bubbling spring, By slopes whereon the stout oaks stood, And held the grape-vine for a swing! O summer days I O summer joys ! That come not as they came of old ; Their charm still lingers in the voice Now piping from the sunlit wold. "Wherefore be blessings on the bird That warbles with such magic art; What time his " airy tongue " is heard, The past illuminates the heart! JULY, 1868. TRANSITION. "BRILL ON THE HILL," ALA. How soon will end the Summer days ! Though thick and green the forest-leaves, Already Autumn's golden haze About the woods and hilly waya A veil of tender radiance weaves. Oh ! what is in the Autumn sun, And what is in the Autumn air, Makes all they shine and breathe upon, Ere yet the Summer days are gone, Look so exceeding sweet and fair ? E'en weeds, that through the Summer rain Grew wanton, and o'ertopped the flowers, Rude children of the sunburnt plain, Bud out and blossom, not in vain, Around the Summer's faded bowers. For long ago the violets fled, The pansy closed its purple eye, The poppy hung its uncrowned head, And on the garden's grass-grown bed The lily laid her down to die. No more the roses bud and blow ; The few late beauties that remain E. W. BELLAMY. 537 Are tossed by rough winds to and fro, And all their fragrant leaves laid low And scattered by the latter rain. Like some old limner's quaint design The sunlight's checkered play doth seem, And through the clusters on the vine, As through a goblet filled with wine, Soft, shimmering sparkles gleam. i The red-cheeked apples thickly grow About the orchard's leafy mass, But when they hear the tempest blow, Through twisted boughs they sliding go And hide within the tangled grass. No more the partridge's whistle rings ; The dove her plaintive cry has ceased, From tree to tree, on restless wings, The mock-bird flits, but never sings : The west wind rocks an empty nest. All harmonies of Summer fail ! The vaulting insects cease to sport ; The songs of bees alone prevail, The winged traffickers that sail From flowery port to port. Upon the hills and in the fields A few pale flowers begin to blow ; A few pale buds the garden yields, A few pale blooms the hedge-row shields ; Summer consents not yet to go. O yellow leaf amid the green ! Sad presage of the coming fall, Soon where your withered tent is seen Shall Autumn's gorgeous banners screen The incipient ruin over all ! Though sadly to ourselves we say, " The summer days will soon be o'er," Yet who may tell the very day Whereon the Summer went away, Though closely watching evermore ? f>.'J8 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. With Hailing clouds the heavens teem, That beckon like impatient guides, x And like the gliding of a stream, Like thoughts that mingle in :i dream, The Summer into Autumn glide.-. She goes ! and leaves the woods forlorn ; For grief the birds refuse to sing ; Bare lie the fields that laughed with corn ; But of each garnered grain is born The certain promise of the Spring. SHADOW-FAME. "Where be those old divinities forlorn That dwelt in trees ? " Plea of the Midsummer Fairies. The imagination of the poet, says Madame de Stael, forms a link between the physical and moral world by building upon that secret alliance of our being with the marvels of nature. From this "secret alliance" sprang the exquisite creations of the elder bards, divinities that dwelt within the envel oping bark, and lived, suffered, and died with the tree, ofttinies walking abroad and communing with man. Those days are passed away : the imprisoned hamadryads walk no more abroad, yet not altogether silent do they dwell within their homes of bark. The forests still whisper unto man sweet idyls of the spring, or sigh forth sad elegies of autumn, and still orchards yield their gracious fruits, and hide within leafy bowers "all throats that gurgle sweet." Green boughs still throw soft shadows on the summer grass when the noon burns hot, and wave a brec/.y welcome. The story of that memorable tree in Eden, so closely interwoven with man's destiny, is but the beginning of the intimacy that has so long existed between mankind and the children of the forest and the garden ; as though the trees had followed the "exiles of Eden" out into the forlorn and dreary world to shelter and sustain them how often, in after-ages, to prove a most sure refuge in the day of adversity I Nor was this all ; faithful monitors from a ruined paradise, with arms forever stretching upward, they point man to the skies! Judea's stately palm sheltered the wife of Lapidoth in peace while "the children of Israel came up to her for judgment;" but an avenging oak in the wood of Ephraim seized the rebellious son of David, and held him aloft while Joab's three darts clove their way into his heart. When Zaccheus, in the press and crowd of Jericho, would see the Saviour of E. W, BELLAMY. 539 mankind, a sycamore lent its strong back to this man "of little stature." The fig-tree that withered at a word bore testimony to Christ's divinity; and it was under the shade of trees that he went out to pray when there were none to watch with him. In attestation of the universal sympathy between mankind and the heaven- aspiring trees, the religious myths of all lands have consecrated some tree to eternal homage. The ancient Hindoos, who believed in hamadryads, were accustomed every year to celebrate at great expense the marriage of the shrub Toolsea with the pebble-god Saligram. The Enada Mina of Lamaism has its heaven-born Zampa tree, bearing fruit for the sustenance of the Lahen, spirits whose radiant bodies sufficed them for light until they partook of the forbidden fruits of Shlma, the earth. Ormuzd, the great principle of light and good in the Persian mythology, after creating the sky, sun, moon, and stars, fire, wind, and clouds, and bidding the mountains rise, called forth the tree Horn, the first in the vegetable world, the perfect type of all trees. The coffin of Osiris, stranded among the rushes of Byblos on the Phoeni cian coast, found a safe asylum when the pliant reeds knit themselves together, and grew into a mighty tree, enclosing the murdered god. The Greeks had their sacred olive, and their sacred fig-tree, and that renowned Dodonian oak where the wood-pigeon whispered of hidden things, nay, the tree itself had uttered speech, and even its dismembered limb that ploughed the deep prophesied unto those early navigators seeking the Golden Fleece. And the Romans in their Ficus Ruminalis long preserved the mem ory of that wild fig by the yellow Tiber, where the wolf nourished Home's twin founders. The rugged imagination of the Scandinavians pictured the huge ash, Yggdrasill, supposing the universe sending forth roots that reached to the dwelling of the gods, the land of the giants, and the dreary regions of per petual cold and darkness. At one of these roots was the deep well where wit and wisdom lie hidden. The Druids held the oak sacred, and never suffered one to be cut. It is said the cathedral of Strasbourg stands upon the spot where a tree grew, worshipped by the rude tribes that dwelt along the Rhine. Haply it was the very oak to which the zealous Boniface courageously laid the axe, thick with interlacing boughs, that furnished the great model of the intricate Gothic arches. Islam never doubts the miracle of the acacia- tree, that suddenly sprang up in the dim dawn to veil the entrance of that cave of Mount Thor, wherein the Prophet and Abu Beker had taken refuge the first morning of their des perate hegira. Nor less credible, according to the Arabian chroniclers, is the miracle of the groaning date-tree of the mosque of Medina, disconsolate at the Prophet's withdrawal from its supporting trunk. Perhaps it was in grateful memory of this timely service and this delightful flattery that Mohammed assigned to trees so conspicuous a role in his fantastic paradise. 540 SOUTHLAND WKITlii:-. Tin- date tree li- buried beneath his pnlj.it, there to await the final resurroc- ti.ni. when ii .-hall he tran-ferred to Al Jannet to bear fruit for .true believers. Tin- beautiful faith of Habyland QOWteCfSAat a my>tic growth, which springs uj> in a midwinter night, ahla/e with blossoms of taper-flame, ladeu with the fruits of Santa Clans, and musical with the "bells of Yule." Rabbinical fable and monkish legend have contributed to the fame of trees; the rabbis aver that the true cross was made from a tree which grew from a slip of the tree of life brought by Adam from Kden ; and the monks of (ilastonbury affirm that the thorn of which our Lord's crown was made was perpetuated in England by Joseph of Arimathea when he founded the abbey in the Vale of Avalon. Hut the light of accepted history casts a blaze of glory around many hon ored trees that nt-ed not the aid of fable to enhance their merits. What memories of valor and heroic adventure do they record among the nations, as though the hamadryads bad stepped forth and stamped a page of history. Switzerland has her lime at Morat and the long-vanished tree of Altorf, under which Tell's little son stood with the apple on his head; France has In-r two pear-trees of Ivry; Sweden her pine of the Lnngsjo Forest, where ( ui-tavus Vasa found shelter; England her Royal Oak of Boscobel; America her Charter Oak and her Liberty Elm, and the sad South her "Seven Pines," breathing their odorous sighs over heroes who died in vain. The great lime of Morat was not standing there when the bold Duke of Burgundy led his forty thousand men one summer day before the gates of the little town, escaping when the battle was done by " dint of hoof." "Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombless host, A bony heap through ages to remain ; Themselves their monument." When, after three hundred years, the Burgundians of the French army destroyed the ghastly " ossuary," what more fitting monument to the mem ory of the victory patriotism gained over oppression could the Swiss have raised than this broad-spreading tree? The tree of Altorf, where Gemini Tell stood when his father's unerring arrow clove the apple on his head, is veiled in the mists and shadows of a vague tradition, at which the critic frowns; but it is sometimes well to culti vate "a wise credulity." Who would forego the delight of believing that the tower of Altorf's public square, with its rude pictures of Tell's brave exploits, marks the very spot where the shadows played upon the trembling peasants, awaiting the verdict of the Alpine bow. No monument rises where the two pear-trees of Ivry died upon the field of glory; but on that memorable day when Ivry, the obscure, burst into immortal glory. Henry IV. bequeathed these trees to fame, linked with "the white plume of Navarre;" for here was the rallying point he gave his troops. E. W. BELLAMY. 541 Doubtless the pine-tree of the Lungsjo Forest has long since vanished away ; it was already decaying when Gustavus Vasa made his bed beneath its boughs; but so long as Sweden reveres the memory of that young prince, who in the obscurity of the Dalecarlian mines formed the bold scheme of liberating his country, so long will she cherish the recollection of the decay ing pine. Here did the wounded and hunted prince find shelter three days and nights, while the Danish emissaries sought him in vain amid the dwell ings of man. Conspicuous among all the trees of fame stands the Royal Oak of Boscobel, "Wherein the younger Charles abode Till all the paths were dim, And far below the Koundhead rode And hummed a surly hymn." Of this memorable and unique adventure Charles himself has left an account in that paper attributed to him among the Pepysian MSS. in Magdalen Col lege, Cambridge. This pollard oak, whereof the branches grew so propitiously bushy and thick, stood not within the wood of Boscobel, where the fugitive king had previously passed a most miserable day, sore with fatigue, and wet with the September rain. Major Careless pointed it out from the windows of Puidrell'.s house, standing among several others in an open field. Thither came Charles and the faithful cavalier at dawn, and here they passed the weary day, Charles sleeping with his head in the Major's lap: while "going up and down in the thicket of the wood, searching for persons who had escaped," wan dered the vengeful Roundheads. Nor is Charles the only monarch who, in the hour of need, found safety by climbing a tree. It is related of Louis VII., of France, that when the army he was conducting to Palestine was attacked at dead of night by the Turks, he climbed a tree while the battle raged amid darkness and disorder, escaping only at dawn to find his camp almost deserted. Charter Oak stands first upon America's list of renowned trees. It grew upon Wylly's Hill, now within the city limits of Hartford, where it was found flourishing in the perfection of its glory when the first inhabitant of the name settled on the hill. Perhaps, as Cowper supposes in the case of Yardley Oak, a deer's nimble foot scooped a hollow for an acorn, and the forest winds nursed it into vigorous growth, while mysterious nature, work ing by unseen forces, formed the cavity at its root, where Andros never dreamed of seeking the missing parchment. The original Liberty Tree was one of a grove of elms in Boston, which has long since given place to bricks and mortar. The inscription on its trunk brought it under the displeasure of the British, who cut it down in 1774. It has been characteristically recorded by a Yankee that it furnished four teen cords of wood. But the flame it kindled the British could not quench. Every town in "the original thirteen" consecrated a tree to liberty. A live-oak in Charleston was the rallying point of the South Carolina patriots 542 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. in the days of stamp-act excitement. Here did Christopher Gadsden raise hi- nlot airain-t oppression, and for this very reason the live-oak shared the fate of tin- elm Mt Koston. Sir Henry Clinton ordered its demolition in 17-". It is not said how many i-onls it yielded, but enough remained of the stump to furnish cane-heads, as heirlooms, and a hallot-box, presented to the " '7>'> A--nriation," but which was unfortunately consumed in the confla gration of 1838. How long shall Richmond's Seven Sighing Pines whisper the story of that "glorious day in .June"? Yea, though their branches wither and their trunks decay, thrir voice still will echo amid the ruins of a nation's shat tered hopes, like that faint murmur of the multitude heard at nightfall in the Alhambra's haunted courts. " Old trees," says an English writer, " without the aid of an oracle to con secrate them, seem to have been some of the most natural objects of that contemplative and melancholy regard which "easily passes into superstitious veneration." Erasmus could not be convinced that trees felt not the first stroke of the axe ; and Evelyn, who so revered the British oaks, says he could never hear the groans of a falling tree without a feeling of pity. How pathetically does he record his vexation of spirit at the demolition of that " most glorious and impenetrable holly-hedge," at Sayes Court, through which it was the Czar Peter's pleasure to ride in a wheel-barrow! The " tongues in trees " sometimes babbled unto deaf ears : the Vandal from the Baltic, to whom, in an evil hour, Evelyn lent his mansion, had little regard for any forest-growth, save that he found well-seasoned under a carpenter's lumber-shed. The legends of classic antiquity are rich in that beautiful sympathy which man finds in nature. We read of the Babylonian mulberry, of which the fruit turned red with the blood of Pyramus and Thisbe; the bare almond- tree of I'hyllis the forlorn, bursting into leaf at the touch of her late return ing lover; and of that spiry group upon the tomb of Protesilaus by the Hel lespont, that ever, as they grew tall enough to catch a view of Troy's fatal shore, shrank and withered at the sight. Therefore would it seem that poets have a prescriptive right to make them friends among the trees, and doubt less the poets of every age and of every clime have been enamored of a hamadryad. We know that a laurel grew spontaneously upon the tomb of Virgil, or perchance some " light- winged dryad of the trees" planted it there, to die a martyr at the hands of the admirers of the Mantuau bard. And the Persians tell us the nightingales sing sweetest in the boughs that shadow Rocknabad, where Ilattz sat. In the grounds of l>ormington Castle, whence the "morning-star of song" sent forth his sweet niu-ic to the world, an oak as late as the days of Queen Elizabeth was known by the name of Chaucer's Oak. In its shadow, it is said, he wrote many of his later poems, and to the memory of Edward and Philippa he left two green monuments in the "King's Oak" and the " Queen's Oak," which he named for them. E. W. BELLAMY. 543 The three-peaked hill of Eildon, above the town of Melrose, once nour ished in its soil the tree under which stood Thomas of Ercildoun, poet and seer, while he delivered his prophecies to a credulous people. This tree exists no longer ; but the spot is marked by a stone that takes its name from the Eildon Tree. Shakspeare conferred an immortality upon the mulberry he planted in his garden at Stratford that Francis Gastrell could not take away. The infamy of this man shall endure as long as the fame of the tree he so ruth lessly destroyed. Well did he deserve the execrations that followed him through the streets of Shakspeare's native town. The mulberry shares the honor of Shakspeare's favor with a crab-tree on the roadside from Stratford to Bedford. The reputation of this town may be divined from its sobriquet of " drunken Bedford ; " the ale brewed here tripped up the poet's home- returning feet, and laid him low in the shadow of this tree to pass the night. Herne's Oak, too, in Windsor Forest, owes far more of its fame to the airy creatures of the poet's brain than to the frightful spectre of the horned hunter that haunted there on winter nights. It was cut down in 1795 by the king's order, being totally decayed. Penshurst, in Kent, boasts of "Sir Philip Sidney's Oak," where the hero of Zutphen loitered in the shade, nurturing those noble sentiments that beau tified his life and were the ornament of his death. Pope, who did so much to improve the English taste in gardening, has not left his fame destitute of sylvan monuments. Seven miles from Wind sor, in the village of Binfield, was a neat brick building, which England's great satirist describes as his "paternal cell" : " A little house with trees a-row, And, like its master, very low." A short distance from this house, amid a grove of beeches, stood one favored tree, where this forest-warbler, recumbens sub tegmine fagi, won his early fame. It is represented as a huge bare trunk, stretching forth one attenu ated branch ; it bears the inscription, " Here Pope sung," cut in large letters in the bark, and for many years annually renewed by the care of Lady Gower, of Workingham. But the willow, the far-famed weeping-willow of the Twickenham Villa, died of old age in 1801. It was a cherished foundling, a hardy twig bound round some precious curiosity from a foreign land. Pope reared it in that' renowned garden where he amused himself " planting for posterity," and this little twig from the banks of the Bosphorus sent forth its shoots all over England, and even into the gardens of the Empress of Russia. There is an ancient forest on the banks of Ouse, whither the bard of Ol- ney often strayed, soothing his melancholy in sweet converse with nature. Within the hollow of Yarkley Oak he would sit for hours 544 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. \V:th hearers none, Or prompter, save the scene," pondering the beauties of Kilwick and Dinglebury, that he knew so well how to make " live in description and look green in song." Yardley Oak was known for ages by the name of "Judith ;" it is supposed that it was planted by Judith, niece of William the Conqueror, who received the coun ties of Northampton and Huntingdon for her dower. The fame that attaches to this oak threatens to prove its destruction, and the Marquis of North ampton, upon whose estate it stands, has been obliged to threaten with the penalties of the law all those who shall injure or deface it. An elm in the church-yard of Harrow-on-the-Hill grows by a tomb which is still known there as " Byron's tomb." Here sat the incipient poet in the happy school-clays, "and frequent mused the twilight hours away." Thus lie wrote of it years afterward, when his heart yearned for the days that would never come again. At Newstead he planted an oak, with which he con nected his own fate, and which he celebrated in verse when he found it pin ing from neglect. Romance, too, has cast her spell upon the gardens and the groves, and tells strange, delightful tales of the hamadryads' power over men, of groans from hollow oaks, and trees that wither at the memory of horrid deeds. Abderaman the Just, in the loneliness of his grandeur, turned from the pomp and magnificence with which he had surrounded himself at Cordova, to indulge, in the shade of his date-tree, sweet memories of Araby the Blest, the land for which his soul was sick. Xerxes once stopped his vast army to pay court to a plane-tree, decking it with gold and gems and the gay fabrics of the Eastern looms; and a Roman consul cherished a beech-tree under which he slept, and often refreshed it.s roots with wine. This was a common practice among the Romans, and Caligula may have done the same to that huge palm they called his " nest,'' where he was wont to assemble his parasites, who could enjoy the luxury of the shadow and the breeze, but into whose callous hearts the sweet lessons of benevolence taught by trees never found an entrance. Louis le Debonnaire whiled away one pleasant hour, we may safely aflirm, planting the rose-tree by the church-walls of Heidelberg, forgetting the eares of state and his rebellious sons. Many long years after his broken heart had gone to its refuge in the island-tomb of the Rhine, his rose-tree continued to flourish and to bloom, only a few years' since it was reported as still vigorously climbing the church-walls. A rose-tree of the ninth cen tury well may challenge credulity, but this rose would hardly smell as sweet by any other name. Neither the historian nor the traveller would seek for the holly-bush of Bosworth Field, yet is there not the good old English proverb, " Cleave to the crown though it hang on a bush," to testify to the fact that Lord Stanley E. W. BELLAMY. 545 did not find the crown in the mire, but saw it glittering in a holly-bush, where a peasant hung it when it fell from Richard's head? This proverb was first spoken in 1485, and who would not rather believe it than all the histories ever written? On the borders of the elf-haunted forests of the Vosges, a voice prophetic, that could not speak unto the dull ear of Charles, stirred the aspiring heart of the innkeeper's daughter. Far away the tumult of battle raged over desolated France ; near by her young companions pursued their rustic sports ; but Joan sat silent by the fountain, while, among the leaves of the lime bending over her, she heard the Archangels, Michael and Gabriel, promising victory. Tradition tells a fearful story of a hollow oak among the mountains of Merionethshire : the ferocious Glyndwr here hid away the body of the murdered Sele, until the oak groaned and drooped under the curse of its awful secret, " And to this day the peasant still With cautious fear avoids the ground, In each wild branch a spectre sees, And trembles at each rising sound." However the story of Jane McCrea be told, the pine-tree is still standing near Fort Edward, though blighted by the memory of the piteous tragedy enacted in its shade. After these wild stories, how pleasant it is to fancy the doughty Peter Stuy- vesant issuing from his yellow brick house on genial afternoons, to sun his silver-embossed leg of wood under the veteran pear-tree, while the smoke of the distant city curled over the trees in the " Bowerie Lane" ! Haply the tree made a compact with Peter to stay and watch the city's growth. The companions of the orchard fled, dismayed and stifled by the march of im provement that, gorgon-like, turned all to stone, but dauntlessly the pear- tree stood its ground, defying the stones that usurped the carpet of clover and grass at its feet, heralding the spring, as was its old-time custom, with fair white blossoms, and ripening every autumn fewer and fewer of the old Dutch governor's favorite fruit, while the mighty city strode behind it. Who has not seen Cupid's foot-prints on a tree, the mystic hearts and darts signs by which the ubiquitous little god may be traced even along the walls of doomed Pompeii. These sylvan graffiti mark that curious crisis in a man's life when he is prompted to study the language of flowers, and to make a confidant of a hamadryad. In the garden of the Generalife, " the house of love," as the name signi fies, the cypresses of the Moors yet stand ; among them is the famous Cipres della Regina Sultana, where the fair prisoner of the harem held her stolen interviews with her lover, Abencerrages. It may have been by this very 3 516 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. tree that he took the fatal step into the Sultana's balcony which brought a bloody death upon so many of his tribe. The ill-starred Duke of Mmimouth carved upon a tree in Nettlestede Park the simple name "Henrietta," a touching monument to the lady of his love. Little he thought, while he shaped the letters, what a charm their fate would bequeath unto this tree. The melancholy Vanessa, at Marley Abbey, was accustomed to plant a laurel in her garden, with her own hands, to commemorate the vi>it~ of Swift. The garden is crowded with these witnesses of the double-dealing dean's perfidy. " All under the greenwood tree," memories of robber-life cluster thickly. In the lawless days of these mira gens, socii arborum, when the judges went on their circuit, they were accompanied by a strong guard of armed men. A great oak between Carlisle and Newcastle was long remembered as the >pot where this cavalcade were accustomed to halt for dinner. Epping Forest was so dreaded a robber-haunt that no person dared pass through it alone. It lay to the north of London, and near the city bounds \\as the famous Fairlop Oak, of which the boughs stretched out so wide. Here the Sunday fairs were held, and mountebanks and dancing-girls amused the idle crowd, while the denizens of the greenwood mingled un known among them. Fairlop Oak is not now to be found in Epping Forest, but in the church of St. Pancras, where it forms the pulpit. The oaks of Clipstone and of Welbeck Parks are linked with the memory of Robin Hood. Clipstone Park, the property of the Duke of Portland, ex isted before the Conquest, and Robin Hood's Trysting-tree, the gnarled Parliament Oak, is 1,500 years old. The Duke's Walking-stick, in AY'elbeck Park, is perhaps the tallest of trees, being higher than Westminster Abbey. In the same park is the famous Greendalc Oak, with. an archway through its trunk, once wide enough to admit a carriage, but slowly and steadily dosing up. Trees take strange freaks sometimes, and we will no more doubt the pictures of the willow by Napoleon's tomb, that, leaning on a stump, cast his shadow on the sky, than we doubt the existence of those enchanted and aerial Moors guarding the treasures of the Sierras of Spain. We know the cypress that was blown down on the estate of Vespasian got upon its roots again, only because Vespasian was to be blessed with grandeur and pros perity. Among those trees which kept open house, as it were, the Talbot Yew, of Tankereley Park, would permit a man on horseback to turn about very com fortably within its hollow boll, but the Caztarjno dc' cento Cavafli surpasses this by ninety-nine horsemen ; whether Queen Joanna and her one hundred at tendants could comfortably turn about within the bark of that hospitable of Mount .(Etna, where they were sheltered from the rain, it is ha/.ard- ous to declare. It is certain that not quite one hundred years ago a little hut was built within its enormous hollow for the accommodation of those E. W. BELLAMY. 547 engaged in gathering and preserving the chestnuts. The Sicilians call this " the oldest of trees," and as there is no possibility of estimating its age, they run little risk of contradiction. Nevertheless, the vague and wavering belief excited by this assertion fades utterly away in the shadow of the six thousand years M. Decaudolle assigns to the cypress of Santa Maria de Tecla, near Oaxaca. The Pre- Adamites might have dwelt beneath its boughs in the days when Jan-ben-Jan ruled the Genii. Had the sloe-thorn, which took root and bore fruit in the shepherd's breast, belonged to this era of mar vels, the Archbishop of Tarragon had not testified in vain to the truth of the only story of the trees at which credulity grows restive. The reverence for aged trees is not confined to the Philippines, though all do not believe them to be the chosen abodes of ancestors. It has been the amusement of the learned to -count the rings in transverse sections of trunks, and all the world listens and applauds. To be really venerable, a tree must reckon its age, not by years, but centuries. After M. Decandolle's statement, one will readily believe that the cypress exceeds all trees in longevity. A cypress in the garden of Chapultepec is considered by Humboldt to be up ward of 5,000 years old. The cypress of Somma, in Lombardy, sinks into in significance before these veterans of Mexico; it is only 1,900 years old, but it lived in the time of Julius Ca?sar, and Napoleon himself turned out of his way, when he made the road of the Simplon, to avoid interfering with it. A yew at Braburn, Kent, is computed to have seen 3,000 years, and one at Fortingal, in Scotland, very nearly as many. But as long as a stump stands upon Lebanon or Olivet, it can never be true that our reverence for aged trees is in proportion to the years they number. The " glory of Lebanon " is reduced to twelve gigantic cedars ; " their great age," says an American traveller, " is strikingly apparent in their gnarled and time-worn trunks." The best authorities are agreed that this grove, which is found at Bisharri, nearly opposite Tripoli, contains the original growth of Libanus, of which Isaiah spake so eloquently. The praise of the prophet is all-sufficient for their fame, but the Arabs of the Mount tell many strange stories of miracles enacted in their shade, and the petty vanity of man has cut away the bark in many places, and scarred the white and fragrant wood with names. Isaiah's Mulberry-tree, which is supposed to mark the spot where he was sawn asunder, stands, or did once stand, at the end of the causeway built across the mouth of the Tyropceon, that deep ravine which intersects Jeru salem from north to south. The olives of Gethsemane are eight in number, enclosed within a wall and strictly guarded. In the shadows of this sacred grove, where Christ uttered his sublime and touching prayer, there comes a vision of that Tree of Life the beloved disciple beheld on the Isle of Patmos : " and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations." In the New Jerusalem there shall not lack man's pleasant companion of the garden and the grove. MISS MARY A. CRUSE. MISS CRUSE is a native of Huntsville, Alabama, one of the most beautiful and hospitable little cities of the " Southland." Charles Laii man, in one of his volumes, thus alludes to this little city: " It occupies an elevated position, and is hemmed in with high hills, from the summit of which it presents an uncommonly picturesque appearance It is supplied with the best of water from a mammoth spring, which gushes from a rock in the centre of the town ; and this, with the array of from one to two hundred saddle-horses which are daily collected around the county court-house square, ought to be mentioned as among the features of the place. But on becoming acquainted with the people of Huntsville, the stranger will find that they are the leading character." This was an ante-bellum view, yet in this latter particular the people are not changed. The Cruse family are from Maryland, and one that would take position anywhere for their refinement and peculiar spright- liness of intellect. Sam Cruse, as he was universally termed, Miss Mary Anne's father, was a man of great probity and manliness of character, one of the first citizens of Huntsville. In the person of Mr. William Cruse, an odd old-baohelor uncle, the town of Huntsville will long remember an unfailing fund of witticisms and quaint pecu liarities which will render his memory delightful. " Billy Cruse " was a curiosity, an oddity, a genius, but leaving his fame, however, entirely to tradition. Miss Cruse, even at school, began to distinguish herself, by the stu- diousness of her deportment and the rapidity with which she acquired her tasks. Even then the germ of the future authoress might be dis covered. She frequently indulged in poetic flights when very young, in which the partial eye of friendship found buds of future promise, tin nigh I believe she has not in maturer years given any of her poetry publicity. She is highly cultivated and a fine classical scholar. She is a woman of warm friendships, rather secluded, however, in her tastes ; lavishing her sentiments upon a choice few, of great uprightness and 548 MARY A. CRUSE. 549 enthusiasm of character. It was in part through her exertion and earnest work in the cause that the Sunday-school and Church of the Nativity, at Huntsville, have increased in numbers and usefulness. Her books, entitled " The Little Episcopalian," and " Bessie Melville," a sequel to the former, show the beauties of religion, are pleasingly written, and were and are very popular among Sabbath-school scholars and children of a larger growth. The writer acknowledges to have read those volumes with pleasure and profit not many years ago. These tales were written more especially for the Sabbath-school of the Church of the Nativity. During the " war," when Huntsville was occupied by Federal troops, Mr. Sam Cruse was one of the old citizens who was sent to " Dixie " on very short notice, because he loved his Southern country too well to declare himself against it. We believe Miss Cruse accompanied him, and they were " refugees " for many months. Since the close of the war, (1866,) Miss Cruse has published her most ambitious work, " Cameron Hall : A Story of the Civil War." " A story," the author modestly tells the reader, " which was completed before the termination of the war, the result of which, so different from our anticipations, seemed at first to necessitate a change, or at least a modifica tion of many of the opinions and hopes confidently expressed by some of the characters. Upon reflection, however, it was decided to leave it as it is ; a truthful picture, as it is believed to be, not only of the scenes and events which occurred immediately around the author's home, but also of the inner thoughts and feelings, the hopes and expectations, in a word, the animus of the Southern heart." And " Cameron Hall," which we are pleased to say was a success, is, as the author says, " a work belonging rather to truth than to fic tion, a claim which will be acknowledged by thousands of hearts in our 'Southland.'" The " Round Table," a New York journal that is not at all partial to anything from the South, and not near as consistent and reliable a " Review " as the " Nation," the latter being very Radical in politics, but just in literature, attacks " Cameron Hall " in a very savage man ner. It says : "To any one who is at once a rebel and an Episcopalian, we unhesitat ingly recommend ' Cameron Hall.' It is hard to decide where to commence enumerating its undesirable characteristics. Perhaps the most apparent is a 500 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. preternatural long-winded IH-S." (And the "Round Table" continues at some length.) "Cameron Hull" would be improved by judicious pruning: there b too much of it yet it is so pure and fresh. To read it after reading :i >. n-ation novel, is like getting up early in the morning: it was very hard to start, and awful dull and sleepy to dress in the shuttered, dark room ; but once up and out, how fresh and pure and sweet! There is something so earnest and unsullied in it. Miss Cruse, like all Southern women, was a loser by the war; but she wasted no time in idly repining, and is teaching the " young idea how to shoot " in her pleasant home at the foot of " Monte Sano." And she is appreciated and loved, quietly going on the even tenor of her way. THE WAKING OF THE BLIND GIRL BY THE TONES OF THE GRAND ORGAN. " Have you ever been to Switzerland, Charles? " asked Uncle John. . sir." " Then it will be worth while for you to go with us. I will tell you, Charles, and would have told you before; but I don't want Agnes to know what she is going for, since surprise will add to her pleasure. In the quiet old town of Fribourg there is a cathedral containing an organ which has but one superior in Europe, and an organist whose marvellous execution is quite as wonderful. It is the only pleasure that I know on the Continent that can be enjoyed by the blind as much as by those who can see; and I am especially anxious that the child, who has been disappointed in being able to recover her sight, should at least enjoy that. Were it not for this, I would go home in the next steamer." They reached Fribourg early in the afternoon, and Uncle John was rejoiced that they had at last arrived at their destination, and he determined to remain there until Agnes should be thoroughly rested. As they drove rapidly through the streets, Charles saw enough to excite his curiosity, and make him anxious to study in detail the features of this sinirnlar-looking place. Its situation is most romantic, the town being divided by immense ravines, spanned by bridges, two of which are suspen sion brides, the only Jink to bind this quaint old town to the present. F.verything else seems to In-long to the far-di>tant past, and is black with the smoke, and dust, and mould of age. Upon one of these bridges Charles MARY A. CRUSE. "651 stood, and looked with wonder into the ravine below, where men looked almost as small as children. The bridge is said to be as high above the street underneath it as the precipice of Niagara, and it certainly seemed to our traveller to be a dizzy height. He was so absorbed that the gathering clouds failed to attract his attention, when all at once he was aroused by the large, heavy drops of rain. The storm came as suddenly and violently as only it can come in mountain countries, and by the time he reached the hotel it was pouring in torrents, with severe thunder and lightning. He found Agnes asleep upon the sofa, and Uncle John watching her anxiously. " I am uneasy about her, Charles," he said. "She was so bright and well at Chamouni, I thought that the Swiss air was going to work wonders for her ; but to-day she has been more languid than I have seen her since she left home." " That is nothing. The child is tired, and a few days' rest will make her as strong as ever." " Everything is adverse to my plans to-night, Charles," said Uncle John, going to the window, and looking out at the pouring rain and the flooded streets. "The rain and her indisposition combine to upset a favorite project of mine." "What is that, sir?" " It is an old man's whim, which I know will excite a smile, even if it does not awaken a doubt with regard to my sanity. For days I have been indulging a pleasant sort of dream about taking her asleep to the cathedral, and having her awakened by that wonderful organ-music. It would be such a delightful surprise to the child ! You don't know how much I dislike to give up the idea." "The plan is rather impracticable, sir," answered Charles, smiling, "espe cially on such a night as this." " Her condition, Charles, alone renders it impracticable. If I were cer tain that she was only tired, and not sick, I would not hesitate to try it, for I know that I could protect her from the rain." "Why not wait until to-morrow night, as we are to stay here some days? " " Because the organist will not play again, either to-morrow or the next night. He is a professor of music in Berne, and only comes here on certain nights in the week to play for the benefit of travellers, for many lovers of music come to Fribourg especially to hear its wonderful performance. Besides, I want Agnes to hear the music before she knows what I brought her here for." " How is she to get to the cathedral ? " " In my arms." The rain had temporarily ceased, and Charles said if they would go at once they could perhaps reach the cathedral before it rained again. ~,~>? SOUTHLAND WRITERS. It was very dark when they went into tin- street, and the feeble light of the lantern was almost i|iienehed in tin- Mirrotinding gloom. Uncle Jolm carried Allies with trcntlencss and dexterity, that showed he knew how to take rare <>!' lier. When they reaehed the cathedral, they found the doors not yet opened, ami they were compelled to stand and wait. As one and another were added to the waiting group, they looked with wonder and curi osity upon the foreigner with his singular burden ; but, unconscious that lie, was the object of interest or remark, lie leaned against the heavily carved portal, and in his anxiety to keep Agnes from being awakened, he forgot all eNe. Presently the crowd gave way to a man who approached with a lan tern, and motioning Uncle John aside, he swung open the heavy doors. All wa> lilaek darkness within, except that in the dim distance Uncle John and Charles saw one feeble ray, Avhich they followed, until they found it was the sexton's lantern, by the light of which he w r as seating persons in the other end of the church. By degrees, their eyes became accustomed to the dark ness, and looking around and above them, where two or three glimmering liirlits betrayed the position of the organ, they selected a seat at a proper di-tance. It was a strange audience that was assembled in the Fribourg Cathedral on that stormy night men and women, and one blind child ; some from a distant continent beyond the sea; from Britannia's Isle; and others who were born and reared in the same old town which had singularly enough produced the sweetest of organs and the most gifted of musicians. There they all sat in the stillness and darkness of midnight. Scarcely a whisper was heard, and a reverent silence pervaded the assembly. Presently the deep, trembling notes of the organ broke the stillness, and deeper, and louder, and more tremulous they grew, until it was difficult to believe that the rushing wind, of which it was so wonderful an imitation, was not sweeping wildly through the cathedral aisles. Uncle John felt a thrill pass through Agnes's frame as she sprang up and called aloud: " Uncle John I " He clasped her hand tightly, and whispered : " Here I am, Agnes." She was satisfied. She knew not, cared not where she was, or how she had come there ; she knew that Uncle John was with her, and that she was lis tening to her own dear organ, and she was happy. The strange performance went on. Thunder, lightning, wind, and storm exhausted themselves in wild unearthly music, and then died away in a strain so sweet and low that it might almost have been mistaken for an angel's whis per. Quicker and cjtiicker grew the throb of the childish heart, and tighter was the grasp with which she clung to Uncle" John, but she did not speak. It was a double spell that bound him, for he heard the music through Agnes's ears and felt it through her soul. Sometimes its crushing power made the stone walls tremble, and then gradually the strain wandered farther and MARY A. CRUSE. 553 farther away, until all that was left was a soft, sweet echo, so pure and so distant that it might have been awakened in the snowy bosom of the far away Mont Blanc. At length there was a long pause : artist and instrument seemed alike to have exhausted their wealth of harmony. Uncle John's hand had grasped Agnes's shawl, when there stole through the gloom such a strain of heavenly sweetness that his outstretched arm was arrested, and though he was not un familiar with this strange music, still he listened in breathless wonder, as he had done the first time that he ever heard it. Sweeter than the softest flute it floated through the air, and presently another strain was interwoven with it a low, subdued, liquid tone of the human voice, that blended with each organ-note the most exquisite harmony. It did not strike the ear ; the listener knew not that it reached the heart through the medium of a bodily organ ; it seemed to melt and flow at once into the very soul. Agnes was very still ; she clung closely to Uncle John, and scarcely dared to breathe. At length it was all over ; the last note died away, and they waited, but in vain, for another awakening. Presently a soft whisper said : " Uncle John, come close." He leaned down, and she asked, softly : " Uncle John, is it heaven ? " He did not reply, but the tears sprang to his eyes tears of pleasure at the thought that he should have given her so much happiness. The audience quietly dispersed. The storm was over ; the elements had ceased their strife, as if to listen, and the spirit of sweet peace had been wafted upon the wings of that music until it seemed to rest upon earth, and air, and sky. LILIAN ROZELL MESSENGER. T ILIAN T. ROZELL was born in Kentucky ; her parents were JJ Virginians, and were both fond of Poetry and Music. Hence it is not difficult to conjecture whence the daughter's genius, for at the parent fount her young soul quaffed. Her love of nature, of the beautiful, the grand and weird, was manifested at an age when most children think of toys and sweets. When a little child, she delighted in oratory, in climbing some elevation and imitating speakers she had heard, in either prose or verse ; and when not roaming the shades of moss-haunted woody places, she loved to fly a kite and to shoot a bow and arrow. From these early years she was a poet, for of all features of nature's glory, the clouds always furnished her more exquisite en joyment ; and the study of astronomy and natural philosophy dispelled so many fond illusions concerning the mystery of the clouds, that she almost regretted knowledge, and looked back on ignorance then as bliss. All of Miss RozelFs family are of a melancholy, sensitive, musical temperament ; and she is not sanguine, and is often and suddenly the victim of most depressing melancholy: in this particular she is said to be completely Byronic, if not his counterpart in genius. Considering tha^t Miss Rozell has never had the aid of a large library, or the advantages to be derived from literary groups, but worked in silent gloom and isolation without help or practical aid, her verse cannot be expected to be of a very hopeful strain. The death of her father caused a change in her prospects, inasmuch as it was the reason for the shortening of her school-days ; but she expects to study all her lifetime not always to sing her lays like the mountain streams, but aim to mount higher and higher. It was after her father's death, when everything seemed dark indeed around the young girl, that she wrote her first verses, and the subject was " Night." She was in her sixteenth year when the first publicity \\:is made of her poems. Colonel M. C. Gallaway was her " Fidus Achates." That true-hearted gentleman was the first to offer the young poetess and orphan a sympathetic hand. Her maiden effusions 554 LILIAN EOZELL MESSENGER. 555 appeared in the " Memphis Avalanche," under the nom deplume of " Zena Clifton." Miss Rozell was married in her seventeenth year to Mr. Messenger, editor of a newspaper at Tuscumbia, North Alabama a man of strong, clear understanding, blameless as a man and as a politician. He died in 1865, four years after their marriage, leaving his young widow and one son. During the war, when the Federal troops plundered Tuscumbia, they took a journal of manuscripts, principally lyrics, belonging to Mrs. Messenger. General Dodge tried to recover it, but did not succeed. Mrs. Messenger has contributed many beautiful poems to the " Louisville Journal," Memphis papers, and " New York Home Jour nal." Her most ambitious poems are lengthy, narrative poems, yet unpublished. One of these poems purports to be an epic, and has for its subject "Columbus the Discoverer." The theme of a second is " Charlotte Corday ; " and " Penelope, the Wife of Ulysses," is the subject of a third. Mrs. Messenger is a very sweet and earnest poet ; and I verily believe, had she been in a Northern literary clique, with all the advantages to be derived therefrom, she would now be a particular star in the firmament of poesy. She is yet in her youth; and, with a desire to become a worthy con tributor to her country's literature, to be recognized as a devout worshipper in the sacred temple of the Muses, she must succeed. Says she : " If I can aid in soothing any hearts, or help to inspire noble ambitious souls, it will be a sweet reward." Mrs. Messenger possesses good musical talents, and has fine talent for landscape painting. " Next to being a great poet, I should love to be a glorious painter," says she. Mrs. Messenger's home is in Tuscumbia, a small town in the north ern part of Alabama. THE OLD WHARF. AT PINE BLUFF, AKK. Sad, broken, and scarred, with a careworn look, It is never a place that a fay might haunt, This brown old wharf, where the murky waves Forever in idle monotone chaunt 556 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. A story which seems but nothing sometimes, Save :i babbit- <>!' foolish and quaint old rhymes; Like the broken fragments ol' winds that fell With sweet spring, swept to her flowery dell, Or yet tu their deep-toned caves, Whose soft blue gloom hath defied the sun, But the love- warm rays of the moonlight won. Sad, broken, and scarred, with its careworn look And no one thinks it can ever be more Than the brown old wharf by the idle waves, With hurrying cloudlets passing o'er; But I often think if these could speak, How its mummied secrets would crumbling break, And toll of the thousand steps that passed, (In a day near by, in a far-off day, Which may never return, or which may be the last,) And whisper of farewells again, That divided true hearts, and severed true hands, When over the South and its sweet summer-lands Hung the fiery Cross of Pain. On the grim, gory mount of war it gleamed, And woman, the weeper, was mourning there, One farewell cleaving brave hearts and brave hands, And fate seemed bound in the bands of prayer But only seemed ; and the same waves tell, By the old wharf brown, whatever befell, When their barks drew near, and others sailed out, Far off in the far-away ! Eyes there are, yet gazing through time's dim gray, That is flecked with the gold of that dawning day. Four times and three, at the old wharf brown, With a cloven heart have I said good-bye, And my secret left, and dreamed it the last, While the slow sad waves passed on with a sigh. But once they bore off a form enshrined In death's dim dusk ; and once they chimed To a marriage-bell, on a blue June-day ; That, too, passed out in the far-away. And I sometimes fear that a welcome more Will never come back from the brown old shore, Though an army with banners of joy stood there, Where the phantoms of hundred farewells are. LILIAN EOZELL MESSENGER. 557 ICONOCLAST. With the morn of hope, the star of love, And strength of faith, man meets his life, And hears the gentle music-strife Of rainbow wings, and clouds that move With fleecy feet through light above, , And songful winds that deftly leave Hints of a hundred sweets, which steal From star-kissed flowers while they kneel In sun-worship and softly breathe Halos of prayer their brows to wreathe ; Giving the days new melody, So that he calls life very good ; And carves in beauty's solitude Fair forms of that divinity Which haunts his soul on land and sea. These idols of his fondest care, Close bound with golden bands of love, That all his nobler nature move, He places on the altars fair Within his soul, and worships there, Saying, " They 're safe in beauty's dawn, Within this fane, nor life nor death, Nor any mist that sorrow hath Across this radiance shall be drawn To blot one star from out my morn : " Here 'mong my idols I will dwell, Nor aught of fear shall e'er intrude ; Earth shall not touch my solitude, While sighs of love that softly swell Just sway my temple's silver bell." But then a something men call fate Perhaps creation's negative Shadows the temples where they live, Breaking them with its hand of hate, And death and woe within create. 558 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. Ami while this l:irk Iconocla-t J>oth every idol break or mar, "Too many images there are For perfect light," says Faith at last; Go leave thine idols with the past." DENIAL. The myrtles flushed like a crimson snow From an evening crimson cloud, And a dew-lipped rose half breathed aloud, " I will kiss thee, kiss thee, sweet; Then in thy veins will a magic flow, And thou shalt forever, ever know Of beautiful mysteries here that meet In the silken folds of my heart, The same which fill the earth with mist As they softly come and go." But I answered, " Nay, I have mysteries more Than the human tongue can tell ; They have built me a sorrow-home full well, And I '11 none of thee, lest there may be One thought less for my loved one gone, Gone forever from me." The sweet stars came to the dusky gate Of night, and they whispered low, " Come out unto us ! Come, bathe in the glow Of a soothing, subtle fire ! With our golden wine we wait, we wait, That thy soul may drink and evermore hate The old earth there which hath bred thee woes, And thou be lifted higher. We '\ e tow'rs of gold, and kingdoms of light, Where all things pleasa ntest be, To loosen the fetters that fetter thee: And never has blown the breath of a blight O'er our seas of muirical flame; And hallowed mysteries, just the same As those which link the rose's heart To sea and sky and our burnished hills, May heal thee yet, and thy soul, perplext, Be freed from human ills." LILIAN ROZELL MESSENGEE. 559 But I said, " Not so ; for I will not drink Of your wisdom's golden wine, Lest I lose one thought of a love divine That 's gone forever from me ; For I scorn all heights and depths that win One thought from the thoughts I nurse for him Now gone forever from me." A memory pale came unto my soul, And folded its wings, and said, " O pilgrim, if now with me thou 'It wed, I '11 feed thee on fragments sweet Of beautiful hopes, and the bits of wings Of thy broken dreams, And echoes dim of the murmurings Of a lost love's silent lips : I '11 fan thee to rest with sleep's soft sigh, And thou shalt glide o'er a mystic deep At last to a day gone by, Whose light was the light of his love-lit eye And his smile shall encircle thee." And I said, " Ah, yes, with thee I '11 wed ; But not with an angel e'en Would I stay one hour, if it came between My love, and my loved one dead ; And in my grief, like an autumn-leaf, I could crush and scorn all things that win. One sweet thought which I nurse for him Now gone forever from me ! " SARAH E. PECK. MRS. PECK has, since the close of the war, contributed many interesting sketches to the literary journals of the South ; and principally excelled in sketches for children writing like a good, true mother. Sarah Elizabeth Peck is a native of Morgan County, Alabama. "She is industrious, knits and reads by day, and reads and knits by night. Her husband and children are as often entertained by the music of her sew ing-machine as by the reading or recital of some new story." Mrs. Peck was educated principally at Columbia, Tennessee. She was eminently successful in drawing and painting, as well as in taste fully modelling figures in wax. Several years previous to the war, while in wretched health, confined to her room most of the time, she amused the tedium of her confinement by making extracts from her readings. These she arranged alphabetically under different heads. The title was, " A Dictionary of Similes, Figures, Images, Metaphors, etc." She has been engaged for some time in preparing this work for the press. Says a friend of this lady, alluding to this work : " This is truly an eclectic work. It is too large for a bouquet ; shall I say that it is a garden into whose rich soil she has transplanted the choicest cuttings of the most celebrated rosaries ? " Mrs. Peck's home is near Trinity Station, on the Memphis and Charleston Railroad. 660 JULIA L. KEYES IS the eldest daughter of Prof. N. M. Hentz and Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, and was born at Chapel Hill, N. C., in the year 1829. At the time of her birth, her father filled the chair of modern languages in the University of North Carolina, but, while Julia was yet an in fant, he resigned his professorship and removed to Cincinnati. He did not, however, remain here long, but finally located in Florence, Ala., and in connection with Mrs, Hentz, opened a school for young ladies. It was called Locust Dell Academy, and soon became one of the most popular institutions in the South. Locust Dell ! ah ! it is music to the ear of many matrons throughout the South. It was at Locust Dell that the larger portion of Julia's childhood was spent. She was an artless, happy little girl, beloved- by her asso ciates, and admired by all who knew her for the simplicity of her na ture. With such associations, and with such a mother, it is not singu lar that she should, even at an early age, have imbibed a literary taste; and yet whatever distinction she may have attained has been done without the slightest expectation that her name would be mentioned among the female writers of the South. No such ambition has ever moved her heart and pen. From Florence, her parents removed to Tuscaloosa, Ala., in the year 1842, and took charge of the Female Institute at that place. Tuscaloosa was then the capital of the State, besides being the seat of the University. The period during which her parents resided there were days of pleasantness to Julia. They were perhaps the very happiest of her girlhood. Beloved and admired by all, with scarcely a care to disturb her peace, her young imagination painted the future with hues even brighter and more beautiful than those that then adorned her sky, for a vision of the Land of Flowers was ever in her heart. She knew that an abode would be prepared for her in that sunnier clime, for there was one, the object of her own and her parents' choice, who would there make himself a home. From Tuscaloosa, Professor Hentz, in 1846, removed to Tuskegee, Ala., where, in the same year, Julia was united to Dr. J. W. Keyes, to whom for several years her hand and heart had been plighted. 4 561 562 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. Soon after, she bade adieu to parents and home, and went with her husband to Florida, at that time the place of his residence. It was here, in the early years of her marriage, amid the mournful music of the pines and the bright flowers of the far South, she wrote some of her sweetest poems. She wrote, as we have already intimated, not for gain or glory, but from that poetic impulse of which all true poetry is born. It was, we believe, in the third or fourth year of her marriage she composed those beautiful lines, " To My Absent Husband." We append a few stanzas : I " Why does my spirit now so oft In fancy backward rove? As beautiful in mist appears That golden year of love. Why do I love to live again My first year's wedded life? Oh! I was then so young and glad A childlike, happy wife. i "Swiftly these few short years have fled, And I am happy yet ; But oh ! those bright and sunny days My heart will not forget. No care had I to make me look Beyond those hours of bliss, No griefs that only mothers have, No moments such as this. "And these dear little ones, that bind My heart so near to earth, So twine around me that I biess The hour that gave them birth. And then, my husband, thou hast been Kind, gentle, true to me, And these bright living links have drawn Me nearer unto thee. "This happiness is sweet and pure; But then so much of pain Is mingled with our love and joy In this domestic chain, That I am wont to wander To those bright sunny hours Win n lite was joyous, and my path Was ever strewn with flowers: JULIA L. K E Y E S. 563 "But think not that I would again My girlhood's hours recall ; I 'd rather bear life's ills with thee Than to be freed from all, And be without thy loving care, Thy fond, protecting arm, Thine ever constant, anxious wish To shelter me from harm." A few years passed quietly away, and she who had been the happy, hopeful girl was now a matron, immersed in the cares of a household, and that tender solicitude which never sleeps in a mother's breast was hers; and yet in that land where the birds sing and the flowers bloom always, and where the stars from the deep azure sky seem to look so dimly and sadly over the stillness of earth, and where, too, the sound of the sighing pines and surf-beaten shores is heard, her feelings would oft constrain her to give expression to them in verse. Few, however, of the many poems written at that period of her life have ever been given to the public. The year of 1856 was an eventful one, and one, too, of great sorrow to Mrs. Keyes ; for in that year she lost her gifted mother. She, too, had wandered to this beautiful land ; for the remaining members of the family followed soon after Julia's marriage. In one of those rare and fatal spells of cold which cut down the orange and lime trees, Mrs. Hentz was attacked with pneumonia her last illness. Nor was this Mrs. Keyes's only bereavement. In the latter part of the same year her father, who for several years had been in feeble health, died, and on the same day a beautiful and interesting little boy of five years, to whom her heart most tenderly clung. And yet she bore all these heavy afflictions in the spirit of meekness and humble reli ance upon the goodness of Him who " doeth all things well." In the year 1857, Dr. Keyes removed to Montgomery, Ala., where he had his home until the close of the war. During her residence in this city of the South, so " lovely for its situation," her time was greatly occupied in household affairs ; yet some of her best poems were written in the midst of these domestic cares. The writer of this sketch, who was an inmate of her home, has often wondered at her economy of time. After doing a large amount of sewing in the day, she would sometimes give us a poem, composed while plying the needle, and written down at odd moments. 564 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. We may here remark that her poetical talent would probably never have been known beyond the home circle, had not her husband drawn 1'mm her portfolio her fugitive pieces and given them to the public, he being, prrhaps, her greatest admirer. This, as we may suppose, has given her a stimulus, without which her pen would remain idle. In 1859, she obtained the prize for the best poem under sixty lines of the "Southern Field and Fireside." The poem is called "A Dream of Locust Dell," and is considered the most touchingly beautiful of all her published productions. Certainly, few can read it without bi'ing touched by its beauty and pathos. During the " war," Doctor Keyes was absent from home an offi cer in the army and Mrs. Keyes was left with all the cares of a large family upon her; and she patiently and cheerfully bore up under all her burdens, for her soul was strengthened and nerved by that holy and active patriotism which clothed with such undying glory our " women of the South." The fate of war was adverse to the cause he advocated, and Dr. Keyes felt that the South, under the rule of its conquerors, was no home for his family, and he went to Brazil, where they now reside. Above all and beyond all, Mrs. Keyes trustingly, steadily, and hopefully looks to a union of all that are dear to her in that " rest which remaiueth to the people of God." A DREAM OF LOCUST DELL. What spell of enchantment is that which enthralls me When winding the mystical mazes of dreams? What spirit is that which alluringly calls me, And leads me away over mountain and streams? I see from afar a rich landscape unfolding A beautiful grove a lake sleeping below 'T is my 'own Locust Dell once more I 'm beholding, As on wings of the zephyr there floating I go. I have reached it again, and the misty reflection Of childhood o'erpowers me with pleasure and pain ; These musings they seem but a dim recollection Of something I 've lost that I cannot regain. I wander along in this lethean existence; I weep, and my tears fall like dew on the grass ; JULIA L. KEYES. 565 I see a white mansion, not now in the distance ; I touch my own gate-latch, and entering I pass. So lightly and cautiously treading, I enter The hall where my voice in its infancy rung ; I pause for a moment when reaching the centm And list for the sound of some welcoming tongue. The quivering moonbeams and shadows are falling Like ghostly illusions along the dark floor : Why suddenly thus is that vision appalling ? Why throbs my wild heart as it ne'er throbbed before ? To open the chambers I now am unwilling ; No farther the mansion I wish to explore ; I feel a strange dampness the atmosphere filling The cold wind is rushing within the hall-door. Oh! where are the loved ones? Oh! where have they wandered? Why stands the dear homestead thus bared to the blast ? 'T was thus, while weak, fainting with anguish, I pondered, That memory appeared with a scroll of the past. The spirit of slumber still did not forsake me Again, as on wings of the zephyr, I flew ; The cool, vap'rous breath of the morn did not wake me ; I threaded the labyrinth of dreaming anew. I saw by a clear gushing fountain a flower On its bosom a drop of the crystalline spray ; I stooped, but the spell of some magical power Prevented my taking the blossom away. I watched the bright pearl-drop ; it slowly distended The blush of the rose seemed the hue 'of the sky; I saw a new world in the ether suspended Its groves and its lakes I could faintly espy. Amid clustering trees a white mansion was gleaming Two wandered together beneath the soft shade ; The pearl-drop has fallen I wake from my dreaming To see the long shadows the sunbeams have made. Oh ! I know 't is the absent I 've seen in my sleeping ! Unto mansions our Saviour prepared they are gone ; Love's vigilance still o'er their child they are keeping ; When I pass the dark valley I '11 not be alone. AUGUSTA J. EVANS. SOME critics of the sterner sex profess to believe that female writ ers skim over the surface of thought ; jump at conclusions without pausing to note the various steps or arguments by which those conclu sions were attained ; exercise imagination more than reason ; and ad dress themselves to the emotions rather than the intellect. That this is true in some instances cannot be denied, but it is far from being universal. Examples to the contrary cluster around us " thick a* leaves at Vallambrosa," among whom the subject of this sketch stands foremost. But even admitting the truth of the above proposition for the sake of argument, are we not creatures of feeling as well as of thought, and are the affections less important in the economy of nature than the intellect? Do not our spirits crave the beautiful as well as the useful ? What would the world gain by turning its flowers into forest-oaks, or its sweet green hills into impregnable mountains? I would refer all who imagine that women are incapable of deep metaphysical research and close logical reasoning, to the writings of Miss Evans, who, in grappling with infidelity the hydra-monster of the present age has placed herself among the first in point of polemic ability and literary acumen, and justly merits the title of the De Stael of the South. Like the author of " Corinne," she ap proaches a subject with a fearless, independent spirit, and gives it the whole energies of her mind. Augusta J. Evans is the eldest child of the late M. R. Evans, for merly a merchant of Mobile ; and connected on her mother's side with the Howards, a prominent family of Georgia. She was born near Columbus, Georgia, but while she was yet a child, her parents moved to Texas. The subsequent year they divided between Galves- ton and Houston, and early in 1847 removed to the then frontier town of San Antonio. The Mexican war was just then at its height, and this was a place of " rendezvous " for the soldiers sent out to rein force General Taylor. Here, between the lawlessness of the soldiery and the mixed character of the inhabitants, society was completely disorganized. There were no schools worthy of the name, and the 566 AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 567 education of the little Augusta was conducted entirely by her mother, a lady of great moral and intellectual worth. Like Madame Le Vert and Mrs. Mary E. Bryan, Miss Evans owes everything to her mother, and is withal a bright example of the efficiency of home culture. Amid the wild, uncultivated scenes around San Antonio, with scarcely a companion but her mother, (for her brothers were some years younger than herself,) she imbibed that strong, free spirit which breathes through all her works. Here she delighted to ramble about the crumbling walls of the Alamo, with her hand clasped in her mother's ; while nature's grand and gloomy solitude, and the dark and bloody tragedy which had so recently been enacted in and around those walls, stirred up the latent enthusiasm of her precocious young soul. There she first dreamed of authorship. She longed to describe the wide-spread Alameda, and tell of the treachery and cruelty that marked the fall of the Alamo and the brave men who perished in that fall. After a residence of two years in San Antonio, Mr. Evans and family removed to Alabama, and settled in Mobile, where they have resided ever since. There Miss Augusta entered school, but her health failing from the confinement, she returned to her first alma mater, her much revered and excellent mother. At the age of seventeen she wrote " Inez : A Tale of the Alamo," designed to show the errors and abuses of Papacy as revealed to her in San Antonio, and to embody the principal features of the Texan war of independence. "Inez" was published anonymously in 1855, by Harpers, New York : while hardly a " success," it was not a failure. Since Miss Evans has become famous, a New York firm has published " Inez " without her consent at least, the " copyright " had, we believe, passed from her control. For several years after the publication of " Inez," she wrote nothing, except a few book-notices for the papers. And consequently great was the surprise when " Beulah " appeared, creating a sensation throughout the country. It was published in 1859, by Derby & Jackson, New York. This book immortalized Miss Evans's name, a book much abused by certain critics, and much ad mired and read by everybody else. Its merit is abundantly shown in the fact that, coming from an unknown girl of twenty-three, it ran through editions of twenty-one thousand copies in little over a year.* Its great popularity is to be attributed, in some degree, to the original- * Since the publication of " Macaria " and " St. Elmo," there has been a great demand for " Beulah," and even " Inez." 568 SOUTHLAND WHITER 8. ity of its principal characters. Beulah Benton is not exactly like any girl who ever lived ; and yet when we remember the bitter sufferings of her early lite, her subsequent opportunities for mental culture, her P'liius, and the seclusion in which she lived, her character is perfectly natural. She is not as gentle, amiable, and loving as we could \vi.-h her to be; and the possession of some of those "amiable weaknesses" so charming in pretty women would make her much more lovable; but if this were the case, the book would be without those strong pecu liarities which are its most attractive features. Had Beulah's mind been less imbittered by early wrongs, she might not have struggled with those doubts which constitute the groundwork of the book ; she most probably would never have groped through the labyrinth of infidelity, and learned by experience that the weary soul can find no rest but in the religion of the Bible. Miss Evans's home is in Summerville, about three miles from the city of Mobile, on one of the city railways. " There is nothing dreamy or eccentric about her. She is a healthy, practical, straightforward, Christian woman." She is a member of the Methodist Church, and we believe is the leader of the choir in the St. Francis Street church of Mobile. Dr. Jerome Cochran, of Mobile, says: " Her most remarkable characteristics seein to me to be an enthusiasm, at the same time simple and childlike, and large and generous to a degree not very common among women ; and a resolute, energetic will, that will not allow her to swerve from any enterprise she has once deliberately undertaken. She has an immense capacity for work. Her genius is the same triumphant faculty that has made so many people famous in this world's history the genius of labor. Her fluency of speech is sometimes a matter of legitimate astonishment ; and yet, I believe, she does not compose very rapidly. She copies her manuscript with a great deal of care, in very clear, regular, legi ble chirography, with hardly a blot or an interlineation on hundreds of pages. She is a very womanly woman, and is an unwavering opponent of all the new-fangled doctrines that would lead the sex to invade the time- honored prerogatives of masculine humanity. She has her faults and her weaknesses, no doubt ; else she would not be human. But she is a genuine woman, and no counterfeit imitation of one a woman full of generous feel ing and high aspirations, and who is most highly esteemed by those who know her best." During the days of the Confederacy, Miss Evans was devoted to the cause of the South and to the soldiers. An encampment a short dis tance from her residence was entitled, in her honor, " Camp Beulah." AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 569 Here she was a constant visitor. "While the soldiers lived, one bright spirit never forsook them ; when they died, her eloquent tongue gave them counsel and comfort." It was a rare treat to pass the evening at Miss Evans's home ; and her parlors and piazza never lacked for guests highly entertained by her conversation and that of her sisters. It became a " military necessity " to destroy the beautiful trees about Summerville, as it was expected that there might be fighting in that direction, and it was thought advisable for Mr. Evans's family to remove to the city. Mobile was crowded with people, and house-room was in demand, and they fixed up the second and third floors of their father's store, fronting the river, and for several months occupied the same in a kind of " camping-out style." In the popular acceptation of the term, Miss Evans is not a bas bleu; for, as some one humorously remarked, " like the girls in the history of ' Sergeant Dale,' she sings psalms and darns stockings equally well." In 1864, West & Johnston, Richmond, published " Macaria ; or, Altars of Sacrifice." The motto of which was, " We have all to be laid upon an altar ; we have all, as it were, to be subjected to the action of fire." By many persons this is considered Miss Evans's best book. No man or woman ever had such a subject as that, or ever will have again. Says one critic in a Confederate journal : " In examining a work of this kind, the first question is, What, taken as a whole, are the characteristics of the plot and the principal characters ? In this respect 'Macaria' is unexceptionable. The plot is vraisemblable, and well sustained throughout ; the characters are deeply interesting and never inconsistent. From the moment that Irene, the heroine, is introduced, to us, she is lofty in her aspirations, independent in spirit, and almost eccentrically just in judgment, and so she remains to the last. When she appears in the second chapter, these qualities are justly represented as influenced by the inexperience of youth, and by the brusquerie inseparable from motherless training, masculinity of association, and unrestricted indulgence. She answers her Aunt Margaret with almost offensive pertness, but in the same breath evinces a sturdy spirit of self-reliance, and an utter disregard of con ventional pretentiousness. With Electra she presently betrays a charming though unexpressed degree of sympathy for the afflicted Mrs. Aubrey; imme diately afterward she more boldly and distinctly shows it to Eussell ; she does not fully express it, however, till she asks her father for the means of carrying it into practical effect; and she fully unmasks its force only when, after receiving her father's terrible rebuff and refusal, she finally obtains the 570 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. :iis of (eons and chiliasms, and more of love and duty. Here the authoress ex cels. The heart the great, loving, clinging, lovable heart is peculiarly the province of woman, and few there be who can touch its softest chords like the authoress of ' Beulah.' Striking those chords as she did in ' Beulah,' many will hang upon her words and bless her for the comfort and happiness they bring. Forsaking the substance for the shadow, and striving to reach the head rather than touch the heart, there are few who will not feel that she is giving but husks to the hungry. Classic allusion and metaphysic theory are ' caviare to the general,' and it is for the general the novelist should write. Those who love the classics will not look for their beauties in a mod ern romance ; and the devotees of science are still less likely to forsake the tomes of fact for the brochures of fancy. " But cuigue in stia arte credendum est let credit be given every one in his own craft. It may be thought that we speak too harshly of ' Macaria ; ' and ' Maearia ' shall speak for itself. " Here is the passage which describes the star-gazing of Irene. It is night, and she watches the heavens : "' In panoramic vision she crossed the dusty desert of centuries, and watched with Chaldean shepherds the pale, sickly light of waning moons on Shinar's plains ; welcomed tin' gnomon (first-born of the great family of astronomic apparatus) ; toiled over and }rl.>rifd in the Zaros ; stood at the armillary sphere of Ju, in the days of Confucius ; stu- ilicil with Thali-s, Anaximander, and Pythagoras; entered the sacred precincts of tho .K.-html of Crotona, hand-in-hand with Damo, the earliest woman who bowed a devotee at the starry shrine, and, with her, was initiated into its esoteric doctrines ; puzzled with Mcton over his lunar cycle ; exulted in Ilipparchus's gigantic labor, the first collection AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 573 of tables, the earliest reliable catalogues; walked through the Alexandrine school of sarans, misled by Ptolemy; and bent with Uliegh Beigh over the charts of Samarcand. In imagination she accompanied Copernicus and Tycho-Brahe, and wrestled with Kepler in the Titanic struggle that ended in the discovery of the magnificent trinity of astrono mic laws framed by the Divine Architect when the first star threw its faint shimmer through the silent waste of space. Kepler's three laws were an unceasing wonder and joy to her, and with a fond, womanly pride she was wont to recur to a lonely observatory in Silesia, where, before Newton rose upon the world, one of her own sex, Maria Cunitz, launched upon the stormy sea of scientific literature the ' Urania Propitia.' The Con gress of Lilienthal possessed far more of interest for her than any which ever sat in august council over the fate of nations, and the names of Herschel, Bessel, Argelander, Struve, Arago, Leverrier, and Maedler were sacred as Persian telefin. From the 'Al magest' of Ptolemy, and the 'Cometographie' of Pingre, to the ' Mecanique Celeste,' she had searched and toiled : and now the sublime and almost bewildering speculations of Maedler held her spell-bound.' "This is the style we dislike the false, strained, would-be Frenchy, ready- made scientific style, distressing to the reader, and unworthy the writer. It glitters, yet it is not gold. But here is the pure gold itself pray that the suc cessors of 'Macaria' have more of it. Eussell Aubrey is dying. They have brought him to the rear, and as his life is fleeting fast away in Irene's arms, he speaks : "'" I should like to have seen the end of the struggle but Thy will, my God! not mine." " ' He lifted his eyes toward heaven, and for some moments his lips moved inaudibly in prayer. Gradually a tranquil expression settled on his features, and as his eyes closed again he murmured faintly: " ' " Irene darling raise me a little." " 'They lifted him and rested his head against her shoulder. " '"Irene.! " '""I am here, Russell; my arms are around you." " ' She laid her cheek on his, and listened to catch the words ; but none came. The lips parted once, and a soft fluttering breath swept across them. Dr. Arnold put his hand over the heart no pulsation greeted him; and, turning away, the old man covered his face with his handkerchief. " ' " Russell, speak to me once more." "'There was no sound no motion. She knew then that the soldier's spirit had soared to the shores of Everlasting Peace, and that not until she joined him there would the loved tones again make music in her heart. She tightened her arms around the still form and nestled her cheek closer to his, now growing cold. No burst of grief escaped her, to tell of agony and despair : "But, like a statue solid set, And moulded in colossal calm," she sat mute and resigned, at the foot of the Red Dripping Altar of Patriotism, where lay in hallowed sacrifice her noble, darling dead.' " Bating the poetry and the many capitals at the close for human extrem- 574 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. ity never quotes poetry or employs capitals this is nobly written. Tt is true, and therefore touching. It is feeling, and therefore felt. It is worthy of the authoress of ' Beiilah,' and as far superior to the stringing together of microcosm and macrocotm, almagest and telefin, chUiasm and adyta as the elo quence of Pericles surpassed the mouthings of Cleon." Miss Evans is of medium size, small-waisted, a neck fair, and a perfect model for a sculptor. Her hands and feet are those of a Southern lady, very small and tidy. She looks as if she would weigh about one hundred and fifteen pounds, and to the eye of an artist resembles Power's Greek Slave more than the Venus de Medici or the Venus of Canova. After the close of the war, Miss Evans proposed to erect a monu ment to the Confederate dead ; but it was objected to by those in authority. "St. Elmo" was published in 1867, by Carleton & Co., New York, and soon acquired the reputation of being the "most praised and best- abused novel " ever published in this country by a woman. Says the " Round Table," in a lengthy notice of this book : " ' St. Elmo ' is a curious mixture of power and weakness of insight and superficiality of creative vigor, and of tame imitation; and while it evinces of real merit sufficient to stock half a dozen of the domestic fictions from female hands to which we are so well accustomed, it at once falls short of the ideal the writer herself unquestionably had in view, and persuades us that with time, perseverance, and a rigid chastening of style, she can pro duce something far better " ' St. Elmo ' is an interesting story, if it is in some respects a stilted and pretentious one. It is a promising story, if not a particularly robust or original one." From the many reviews and. notices that have appeared of "St. Elmo," we have selected one, written by Dr. Jerome Cochran, of Mobile, and printed in the " Home Monthly," Nashville, to make our extracts : " It is not necessary to read the title-page to know that ' St. Elmo ' is the work of the same warm, true heart, and of the same resolute, aspiring mind to which the world is indebted for ' Beulah ' and ' Macaria.' We have here, in still higher development, the excellences for which those two books were tvm.-irkable; the same love of inanimate nature; the same confident assertion of the dignity and blessedness of labor ; the same impatience of all servility, AUGUSTA J. EVAXS. 575 meanness, and duplicity ; the same immaculate purity of conception, thought, feeling, expression ; the same beautiful sympathy with all the forms and phases of self-abnegation and self-sacrifice ; the same reverent appreciation of the metaphysical and ethical doctrines of the Christian religion ; the same unswerving devotion to Duty stern daughter of the voice of God ; and, in a word, the same abounding enthusiasm, the same abiding faith in all things beautiful, and true, and good "In spite of all its faults, 'St. Elmo' is a genuine, earnest book; a strong, honest, rich book ; a book brimful of fine thought, graceful feeling, and bril liant imagination ; a book which no other woman could have written, and of which it may be safely said that in its day and generation it will do some good in the world. In the ordinary sense of the word, it is not a sensational book. It derives no part of its interest from perverse ingenuity of plot, nor from the skilful management of some tantalizing and perplexing mystery, with its customary train of evanescent and shadowy fascinations. And yet it throws over the reader a spell which he cannot shake off, which enchains his attention from the first chapter to the last, and will not allow him to stop until the end is reached. " It is easy to say that the style is inflated and ambitious ; but more than this is necessary to describe it fitly. It is always clear and strong, and rich with every variety of rhetorical embellishment. Sometimes it is imbued with the truest and tenderest pathos, and affluent of music as the song of the nightingale. Sometimes it is all aglow with the fire of eloquence, and gleams and flashes like a sky all stars. And this is its fault. It is too rich, too brilliant, too liberally garnished with those ambitious polysyllables, words sesquipedalian of learned strength and thundering sound, which were such favorites with Dr. Johnson and Dr. Parr. It seems at times to walk on stilts ; and very often, in passages which are in other respects beautiful exceedingly, we come across some verbal monstrosity, or some incongruous comparison dragged in by the heels, which provokes us beyond measure. There is too much glitter. We grow weary of the unchanging splendor of the prodigal opulence of similes, metaphors, and recondite allusions. " The plot is extremely simple. Edna Earl this name, by the way, is not musically correct Edna Earl, the heroine, is a simple country-girl, the daughter of a carpenter. Bereft in early childhood of both father and mother, she grew up, until her twelfth year, near Chattanooga, Tennessee, ignorant of worldly knowledge, and of the guile which so often keeps it company, under the shadow of Mount Lookout, and the care of her grand- lather, Aaron Hunt, the blacksmith, when, he also dying, she is left alone in the world, without kith or kin, and takes the cars for Columbus, Georgia, with the intention of working in the factory for a living, and of educating herself as she best can. Providence, which watches over the sparrows when they fall, does not favor the factory scheme, having quite other fortune iu store for the stricken wanderer ; and the train which carries Edna collides 576 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. with another, with the usual quota of broken heads and limbs. Edna, badly hurt, but with some life left in her, is taken to Le Bocage, the palatial resi- denre of the Murrays, to be watched and tended until she recovers from her injuries. Her sweet, patient temper, together with her gifts of mind and body, wins so much of Mrs. Murray's good opinion, that it is arranged that she shall remain at Le Bocage until she is qualified to teach; and her educa'- tion is intrusted to Mr. Hammond, the venerable pastor of the village church, under whose care her hungry intellect devours an immense amount of miscellaneous mental food, including Greek and Latin, and even a little of Hebrew and Chaldee, her unfeminine curiosity perversely leading her to seek acquaintance with Eddas, Sagas, Talmuds, Targums, and Egyptian, (Ireek, Roman, and Scandinavian mythologies, instead of resting satisfied with the usual feminine varieties. At Le Bocage she makes the acquaint ance of St. Elmo Murray, the hero of the book, the master of the house, and the only son of her benefactress. St. Elmo, like Phillips' Napoleon, is grand, gloomy, and peculiar. He is also handsome and rich his beauty, to borrow a simile from Edgar Poe, dark and splendid, like that ebony to which has been likened the eloquence of Tertullian his wealth of such fabulous abun dance as to enable him to gratify the most extravagant whims of his extrav agant imagination. He had grown up with his heart full of generous sym pathy for humanity's toiling and suffering millions, and with his head full of philanthropic schemes for the amelioration of humanity's abounding miseries. The darling friend of his youth, Mr. Hammond's son, whom he had overwhelmed with benefactions, betrayed his confidence with treachery most foul. The beautiful woman whom he loved with all the fervor of his passionate nature was cruelly unfaithful to her vows. He tore the false woman from his heart with scorn and loathing ; the false friend he killed in a duel. Soured into misanthropy and skepticism, fierce, moody, implacable, taking no delight in man, nor woman either, he heaped bitterest maledic tions and anathemas upon the whole hated race of human beings, and de voted himself, soul and body, heart, mind, and estate, to the service of the infernal gods. This man, trampling all the charities and nobilities of human nature under his irreverent feet, Edna regards, first with fear and aversion, then with pitying wonder, and then inexorable, inevitable fatal it v with blind, passionate love; illustrating the truth of Pope's familiar lines: " ' Vice is a monster of such frightful mien, As to be hated needs but to be seen ; But seen too oft, familiar with its face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace.' "And how does St. Elmo feel, think, act toward the poor orphan girl whom accident had thrown under his roof? She was human, and therefore, in his opinion, vile. She was woman, and therefore, according to his phi losophy, false. But when he found her always clinging resolutely to the AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 577 right; when years of temptation and trial left her always faithful and true always ' pure, womanly ' his stoical misanthropy gave way. The love that had been cast out of his fierce heart, and buried out of sight for so many years, revisited the glimpses of the moon. He struggled against it ; but it would not down at his bidding. At last, clasping her in his arms, covering her lips with passionate kisses, he poured into her ear the dark history of his life, into her heart the perilous burden of his passionate love. Here is the crisis of the book. For a weak woman, under the circumstances, there would have been no hope. But Edna is not weak. In spite of the mesmeric fascinations which invested her lover as he stood before her like an arch angel fallen in spite of the love that pleaded for him out of the depths of her woman's heart she will be none of his; she will not degrade her womanhood by marrying a man whom she knows is not worthy of her. " They parted ; she to pursue a brilliant literary career in New York to win money, reputation, hosts of friends, everything necessary to gratify her ambition. She is admired and praised, and her hand is sought by men most brilliantly endowed in mind and person and in this world's perishable goods. But her heart still clings, with unreasoning affection, to St. Elmo ; and so, poor, proud, honest woman that she is, the flattering offers are all declined. In the mean time, Edna's love of St. Elmo for well the wicked man knows she cannot help but love him is the one star, radiant of hope, which shines in the dark sky that overshadows him. He will make himself worthy of Edna ; with that prize before him, his lexicon has in it no such word as fail. He mends his ways. The lips that have so often uttered God's name in curses, now tremble in pious supplications. All that he can do to atone for the folly and wickedness of his misspent life he does. And the peace that passeth all understanding descends from the heaven of heavens into his heart once more. He is ordained to the ministry. Mr. Hammond's venerable hands are laid upon him in benediction, and his mother's heart blossoms like the rose. Rehabilitated in the sight of men and of angels, he seeks Edna Earl. She cannot be more just than God cannot condemn the man whom God has pardoned ; and so she takes him the usual way, for bet ter or for worse, to love, honor, and obey " The character of Edna has at least one of the merits which criticism demands it is true to nature. Miss Evans puts herself, more or less, into every book she writes. Beulah is like her in many things ; Irene is like her in many things ; but Edna is her finished and authentic portrait of herself. The biographical details of Edna's life are not applicable to Miss Evans, and in personal appearance they are widely different ; but in moral and intel lectual character they are precisely the same. As Edna feels and thinks, so feels and thinks Miss Evans; and just as Edna talks, Miss Evans talks. ,The most dazzling conversational bravura of Edna in the book is not one whit more keen, polished, and brilliant than Miss Evans's impromptu conversations 5 578 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. in real life ; and Edna's self is not more worthy to be loved and honored than the .irit'tnl lady whose fancy painted her. "MU- Kvans has done well in ' St. Elmo ;' but she can do better. She has the native power of thought, the energy of will, the shaping-power of imagination, and the triumphant faculty of labor, which sweeps all difficul ties from its path, all the qualifications that are necessary to produce a truly great book a book that will deserve to live, and that will live." Miss Evans was married, on the 1st of December, 1868, to Mr. L. M. Wilson, of Mobile. Her residence is at Summerville, very near the home of her girlhood. She has in the press of Carleton a novel written before her marriage, which will be eagerly welcomed by the many admirers of her former works. INDEPENDENCE. " Clara, I have been commissioned to invite you to spend several days with us, until you can select a boarding-house. Dr. Hartwell will be glad to have you come." " Did he say so ? " asked the mourner, shading her face with her hand. " He told me I must bring you home with me," answered Beulah. " Oh, how good, how noble he is 1 Beulah, you are lucky, lucky indeed." She dropped her head on her arms. " Clara, I believe there is less difference in our positions than you seem to imagine. We are both orphans, and in about a year I too shall be a teacher. Dr. Hartwell is my guardian and protector, but he will be a kind friend to you also." " Beulah, you are mad, to dream of leaving him, and turning teacher ! I am older than you, and have travelled over the very track that you are so eager to set out upon. Oh, take my advice ; stay where you are ! Would you leave summer sunshine for the icebergs of Arctic night? Silly girl, appreciate your good fortune." " Can it be possible, Clara, that you are fainting so soon? Where are all your firm resolves? If it is your duty, what matter the difficulties? " She looked down, pityingly, on her companion, as in olden time one of the ath lete might have done upon a drooping comrade. " Necessity knows no conditions, Beulah. I have no alternative but to labor in that horrible treadmill-round, day after day. You are more fortu nate; can have a home of elegance, luxury and^" " And dependence ! Would you be willing to change places with me, and indolently wait for others to maintain you?" interrupted Beulah, looking keenly at the wan, yet lovely face before her. AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 579 " Ah, gladly, if I had been selected as you were. Once, I too felt hopeful and joyous ; but now life is dreary, almost a burden. Be warned, Beulah ; don't suffer your haughty spirit to make you reject the offered home that may be yours." There was a strong approach to contempt in the expression with which Beulah regarded her as the last words were uttered, and she answered coldly : " You are less a woman than I thought you, if you would be willing to live on the bounty of others when a little activity would enable you to support yourself." " Ah, Beulah ! it is not only the bread you eat, or the clothes that you wear ; it is sympathy and kindness, love and watchfulness. It is this that a woman wants. Oh ! was her heart made, think you, to be rilled with gram mars and geographies and copy-books ? Can the feeling that you are inde pendent and doing your duty, satisfy the longing for other idols? Oh ! Duty is an icy shadow. It will freeze you. It cannot fill the heart's sanctuary. Woman was intended as a pet plant, to be guarded and cherished ; isolated and uncared for, she droops, languishes, and dies." Ah ! the dew-sparkle had exhaled, and the morning glory had vanished ; the noontide heat of the conflict was creeping on, and she was sinking down, impotent to continue the struggle. " Clara Sanders, I don't believe one word of all this languishing nonsense. As to my being nothing more nor less than a sickly geranium, I know bet ter. If you have concluded that you belong to that dependent family of plants, I pity you sincerely, and beg that you will not put me in any such category. Duty may be a cold shadow to you, but it is a vast volcanic agen cy, constantly impelling me to action. What was my will given to me for, if to remain passive and suffer others to minister to its needs. Don't talk to me about woman's clinging, dependent nature. You are opening your lips to repeat that senseless simile of oaks and vines : I don't want to hear it ; there are no creeping tendencies about me. You can wind, and lean, and hang on somebody else, if you like ; but I feel more like one of those old pine-trees yonder. I can stand up. Very slim, if you will, but straight and high. Stand by myself ; battle with wind and rain, and tempest- roar ; be swayed and bent, perhaps, in the storm, but stand unaided, nevertheless. I feel humbled when I hear a woman bemoaning the weakness of her sex, in stead of showing that she has a soul and mind of her own, inferior to none." " All that sounds very heroic in the pages of a novel, but the reality is quite another matter. A tame, joyless, hopeless time you will have if you scorn good-fortune, as you threaten, and go into the world to support your self," answered Clara impatiently. " I would rather struggle with her for a crust than hang on her garments asking a palace. I don't know what has come over you. You are strangely changed," cried Beulah, pressing her hands on her friend's shoulders. " The same change will come over you when you endure what I have. 680 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. "With all your boasted strength, you are but a woman, have a woman's heart, and one day will be unable to hush its hungry cries." "Then I will crush it; so help me heaven!" answered Beulah. ' " No ! sorrow will do that time enough ; no suicidal effort will be necessary." AFTER THE FUNERAL. Back to a desert home, whence the crown of joy had been borne. What a hideous rack stands at the hearth-stone, whereon merciless memory stretches the bereaved ones I In hours such as this, we cry out fiercely : " The sun of our life has gone down in starless, everlasting night ; earth has no more glory, no more bloom or fragrance for us ; the voices of gleeful children, the carol of summer birds, take the mournful measure of a dirge. We hug this great grief to our hearts ; we hold our darling dead continually before us, and refuse to be glad again." We forget that Prometheus has passed from the world. Time bears precious healing on its broad pinions ; folds its arms compassionately about us as a pitying father ; softly binds up the jagged wounds, drugs memory, and though the poisonous sting is occasionally thrust forth, she soon relapses into stupor. So, in the infinite mercy of our God, close at the heels of Azrael follow the winged hours, laden, like Sisters of Charity, with balm for the people. RUNNING THE BLOCKADE. " Well, Miss Grey, I shall place you on Confederate soil to-morrow, God willing." " Then you are going to Mobile? " " Yes ; I shall try hard to get in there early in the morning. You will know your fate before many hours." " Do you regard this trial as particularly hazardous? " "Of course; the blockading squadrons grow more efficient and expert every day, and some danger necessarily attends every trial. Mobile ought to be pretty well guarded by this time." The wind was favorable, and the schooner ploughed its way swiftly through the autumn night. The captain did not close his eyes; and just about day light, Electra and Eric, aroused by a sudden running to and fro, rose, and simultaneously made their appearance on deck. "What is the matter, Wright?" " Matter ! why, look ahead, my dear fellow, and see where we are. Yon der is Sand Island light-house, and a little to the right is Fort Morgan. But AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 581 the fleet to the left is hardly six miles off, and it will be a tight race if I get in." There* was but a glimmering light rimming the east, where two or three stars burned with indescribable brilliance and beauty, and in the gray haze and wreaths of mist which curled over the white-capped waves, Electra could distinguish nothing. The air was chill, and she said, with a slight shiver : " I can't see any light-house." " There is, of course, no light there, these war times ; but you see that tall, white tower, don't you? There, look through my glass. That low, dark object yonder is the outline of the fort; you will see it more distinctly after a little. Now, look right where my finger points ; that is the flag-staff. Look up overhead I have hoisted our flag, and pretty soon it will be a tar get for those dogs. Ha ! Mitchell ! Hutchinson ! they see us ! There is some movement among them. They are getting ready to cut us off this side of the Swash channel ! We shall see." He had crowded on all sail, and the little vessel dashed through the light fog as if conscious of her danger, and resolved to sustain herself gallantly. Day broke fully, sea and sky took the rich orange tint which only autumn mornings give, and in this glow a Federal frigate and sloop slipped from their moorings, and bore down threateningly on the graceful, bounding schooner. " But for the fog which puzzled me about three o'clock, I should have run by unseen, and they never would have known it till I was safe in Navy Cove. We will beat them, though, as it is, by about twenty minutes. An hour ago I was afraid I should have to beach her. Are you getting fright ened, Miss Grey ? " " Oh, no ! I would not have missed this for any consideration. How rap idly the Federal vessels move ! They are gaining on us." Her curling hair, damp with mist, clustered around her forehead ; she had wrapped a scarlet crape shawl about her shoulders, and stood, with her red lips apart and trembling, watching the exciting race. " Look at the frigate ! " There was a flash at her bow, a curl of white smoke rolled up, then a heavy roar, and a thirty-two pounder round shot fell about a hundred yards to the right of the vessel. A yell of defiance rent the air from the crew of the " Dixie " hats were waved and, snatching off her shawl, Electra shook its bright folds to the stiffening breeze, while her hot cheeks matched them in depth of color. Another and another shot was fired in quick succession, and so accurate hjfe they become, that the last whizzed through the rigging, cutting one of the small ropes. " Humph ! they are getting saucy," said the captain, looking up coolly, when the yells of his crew ceased for a moment and with a humorous twinkle in his fine eyes, he added : 582 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. .. lirl-iw. Mi Civy: they might clip one of your curls next time. Tin- Vandals see you, I dare say, and your red flag stings their Yankee pride a little." " Do you suppose they can distinguish me? " " Certainly. Through my glass I can see the gunners at work ; and, of 'Min>r. they see you. Should not be surprised if they aimed specially at you. That is the style of New England chivalry." Whiz whiz ; -l>oth sloop and frigate were firing now in good earnc-t. and one shell exploded a few yards from the side of the little vessel, tossing the foam and water over the group on deck. "They think you have hardly washed your face yet, Miss Grey ; and are courteously anxious to perform the operation for you. But the game is up. Look yonder. Hurrah for Dixie and Fort Morgan ! " From the dim flag-staff battery bellowed a gun. The boom of a columbiad from the fort shook the air like thunder, and gave to the blockaders the unmistakable assurance, " Thus far, and no far ther." The schooner strained on its way ; a few shot fell behind, and soon, under the frowning bastions of the fort, whence the Confederate banner floated so proudly on the balmy Gulf breeze, spreading its free folds like an aegis, the gallant little vessel passed up the channel, and came to anchor in Mobile Bay, amid the shouts of crew and garrison, and welcomed by a salute of five guns. THE MODERN MACAEIA. The canvas, which she leaned forward to inspect more closely, contained an allegorical design representing, in the foreground, two female figures : one stern, yet noble-featured, crowned with stars, triumph and exultation flashing in the luminous eyes Independence, crimson-mantled, grasping the Confederate banner of the Cross, whose victorious folds streamed above a captured battery, where a Federal flag trailed in the dust. At her side stood white-robed, angelic Peace, with one hand over the touch-hole of the can non against which she leaned, and the other extended in benediction. Viv idly the faces contrasted one all athrob with national pride, beaming with brilliant destiny; the other wonderfully serene and holy. In the distance, gloaming in the evening light which streamed from the west, tents dotted a hillside ; and, intermediate between Peace and the glittering tents, stretched a torn, stained battle-field, over which the roar and rush of conflict had just swept, leavinir mangled heaps of dead in attestation of its fury. Among the trampled, bloody sheaves of wheat, an aged, infirm Niobe mother bent in tearless anguish, pressing her hand upon the pulseless heart of a hand some boy of sixteen summers, whose yellow locks were dabbled from his AUGUSTA J. EVANS. 583 death-wound. A few steps farther, a lovely, young wife, kneeling beside the stalwart, rigid form of her husband, whose icy fingers still clutched his broken sword, lifted her woful, ashen face to heaven in mute despair ; while the fair-browed infant on the ground beside her, dipped its little, snowy, dimpled feet in a pool of its father's blood, and, with tears of terror still glistening on its cheeks, laughed at the scarlet coloring. Just beyond these mourners, a girl of surpassing beauty, whose black hair floated like a sable banner on the breeze, clasped her rounded arms about her dead patriot lover, and kept her sad vigil in voiceless agony with all of Sparta's stern stoicism in her blanched, stony countenance. And, last of the stricken groups, a faithful dog, crouching close to the corpse of an old silver-haired man, threw back his head and howled in desolation. Neither blue shadows, nor wreath ing, rosy mists, nor golden haze of sunset glory softened the sacrificial scene, which showed its grim features strangely solemn in the weird, fading, cre puscular light. I. M. PORTER HENRY. MRS. HENRY is perhaps best known as a contributor to General Hill's magazine, "The Land we Love," and other Southern pa pers and magazines, under her maiden name of Ina M. Porter, also publishing under the nom de plume of " Ethel Hope." She is a native of Tuscaloosa, Ala., a daughter of Judge B. F. Porter, a South Caro linian by birth, and the writer of occasional verses of considerable poetic merit. Mrs. Henry from a very early age indulged in litera ture, always happy when she was able to sit near her father and write. For several years, her " youthful " muse sang Indian legends, vague fancies, the beauties of her mountain home, and revelled in the mists which, shrouded the rolling hills, or grew ecstatic on the bosom of the lovely Tennessee River ; yet she wandered, sighing for some deeper song to sing. She felt that power within her which must be perfected through deeper emotions than those called forth by the calm beauty of nature, some key-note more sublime than caves, chasms, and mighty waters. It came when the war-cry sounded through our land, she knew that the " South " was her theme. Through the sufferings of her countrymen and women, she learned that poets could find no higher strain than love of right and hate of wrong no holier subject than truth. Judge Porter made his home in Greenville ; now a thriving little town, on the line of the Mobile and Montgomery Railroad. Miss Porter wrote a play during the second year of the war, entitled " None but the Brave Deserve the Fair," which was performed at the Mobile Theatre, and subsequently at Greenville, for the benefit of the " Confederate Soldiers." In Simms's " War Poetry of the South," " La ment for Mumford " and several other poems commemorative of the struggle of the South appear from this drama. Miss Porter's prose arti cles during the war were mostly on topics of local interest, or upon some practical question applicable to the wants and means of aiding our soldiers. The " Roadside Stories," appearing in " The Land we Love," were truly excellent pictures of " life in Dixie." Few, to read them, would f - 584 I. M. PORTER HENRY. 585 think they were written under adverse circumstances written during that period of desolation which followed the surrender of the " Con federate cause." Judge Porter's family shared the common heritage of Southrons, and were left with little to wear and little to eat; and to add to these "evils," sickness surrounded them. A friend tells me that Miss Ina Porter and her mother were the only available workers on the place all the others sick, and the ser vants all left, except one, a girl, who had the small-pox, and was of no assistance. Mrs. Porter was physician and nurse, and Miss Ina cook and maid of all work. Under these circumstances, not favor able to literary labors, the " Roadside Stories " were written. We mention these facts to show the heroic spirit that animated one of our bright stars among " Southland Writers," and can truly say she is but a representative of the many in her " will to do." In October, 1867, Miss Porter was married to Mr. George L. Henry, and continues to reside near Greenville, Butler County, Ala. She continues to " wield her pen " when other duties and health permit for, we regret to say, her health has not been good, and the death of her father was a severe blow. Mr. and Mrs. Henry have begun the battle of life with " Confederate weapons," warm hearts and strong wills ; and success and happiness must crown their hearth-stone. KIMMER. I stand before thee, Rimmer, And as thy chosen wife Am exultant in the glory Crowning glory of my life. Wind no rosy veil about me, My actual self to hide ; As a real not ideal Look upon your future bride. You smile at my odd fancies ; Smile but know me as I am, Or our voices ne'er can mingle In the holy marriage-psalm. SOUTHLAND WRITERS. You flatter me, gay Rimmer ; You call my eyes sky-bright ! Have you seen the blue skies darken At the falling of the night? You vow my cheeks are petals From living roses rent ; Ah, the roses wither, Rimmer, When the summer shine is spent ! There ! my unbound hair you 're calling Golden eddies of the morn ! Do you know the dawn-waves whiten When the yellow sun is gone ? If you love me, if you trust me, Erring, human, as you see, Give your honor to my keeping, As I give my own to thee. My life I cast before thee ; Its pages lie unclaspt ; Read from alpha to omega, Judge the future by the past. Canst thou mete as I have measured Truth as boundless as the sea ? Speak ! my heart will not be broken Ha ! 't is glorious to be free ! Oh, forgivte me, noble Rimmer I No love nor faith I lack ; But the wedding robes are holy As the coffin's solemn black ! Our souls are God's, not ours My heart is all I bring ; Lift me higher, royal lover ; I crown thee O my king ! CCEAN SIGHS. A sigh-laden, whispering shell of the sea Whispers a tale of the deep to me; I. M. PORTER HENRY. 587 It echoes the moans, The sobs and the groans, That were heard one night on the roaring wave, When a ship went down no hand could save. I shuddering list to the sighs and moans, The piteous shrieks and maddening groans, And wish they could sleep In the moaning deep, And nought but murmurs sweet and low Could rise as the waves reel to and fro. Shell of the sea, listen to me, Cease that wild, shuddering song of the sea ! Some spirit bright Went down that night, Chanting a paean of joy and peace ; Thy sighing and groaning, thy shuddering cease ! Ah, faintly it floateth. Hush! Mark the soft tone Dreamily, dreamily sighing alone! A lullaby motion Stirs the green ocean, And heaves from its bosom a boat of bright shells, Her topmast aglow with silver-tongued bells. Dark spirits, be still ! Whence cometh that light ? Are moonbeams or starbeams so dazzling to sight? A voice in the air Sighs 'tis the bright hair Of an earth-cradled maiden lost in the sea, Lulling the storm with her sweet lullaby. Her wistful blue eyes are watching a sail That soareth on proudly, through calm or fierce gale; I hear the shell say, As the moans die away, That her prayers nutter upward on silvery beams, Like white-breasted doves cleave the sky of our dreams. Two white arms encircle her lover alway, Her floating hair spangled with glittering spray ; Awaking or sleeping, The love-watch she 's keeping ; And bright is the path o'er the ocean's soft breast, With her hand on the helm and the sailor at rest. 588 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. Come, dreamer, and list, ere the vision has flown; The ocean-bell's chime is dying is gone ! But I wonder no more, Bright shell of the shore, That a voice wild and thrilling, yet sweet as can be, Floats weird-like and solemn across the deep sea! MISERERE. Holy Mary! Thou hast known the woe of life, Thou art past the bitter strife: Look upon us from thy rest, Bear our sorrow on thy breast, Holy Mary ! By thy gentle name I bear, By this womanhood I wear Broken-hearted! let me lean On thy bosom, Heaven-Queen ! Miserere ! Holy Mary! Does the blood, heroic shed, Cry in vain ? Alas, our dead ! May I see the patriot's name High in heaven, through sword and flame, Holy Mary! May the purple path they trod Lead my weary feet to God ; Slumberers on historic plain, Teach my hand to wear its chain. Miserere I Holy Mary ! Crown the victors; they have won Freedom through thy martyred Son: Lo! the silvered Cross is high, Borne aloft to Southern sky I Holy Mary ! Gloria ! for those who fell On their spotless shields ; 't is well ! Sigh thou with us stricken band, Miserere, motherland I Miserere ! I. M. PORTER HENRY. 589 Holy Mary! Giant sorrows drag their length, Noiseless in their deadly strength ; I have wept L ah, let me weep ! Bock my tearless heart to sleep, Holy Mary ! Guide me to thy sweet relief; By our sisterhood of grief, Bear the Father every cry, "Woman-angel ! sigh for sigh I Miserere ! OUR DEAD. Written for the Anniversary of the Floral Decoration, April 26, 1863. The evening shadows lift themselves and turn Toward the west, whene'er the pure-faced moon Comes out with silver wand to watch the world. Thus, when an angel-sentry walks the earth, Or stands in breathless beauty o'er Our Dead, The greatness of my sacred theme revealed, I shrink away in silent awe. My hands Are filled to finger-tips with silent love; My head bows down with holy reverence, And I can only cry, Alas, Our Slain! Traitors assassins they are called, because They dared to stand as bulwarks round our homes. They stood they fought they fell as did the Greeks Around Etolia's walls; and we who live Are only left to toil in blackened woe, To shameless grief and utter misery! To mark the bloody path across our land O'er heaps of bones, and barren, ashen plains ; To hear the cry of Bachel while she sits Like some lone bird beside her ruined nest, Who calls, and calls her missing ones in vain ! They fell. Thank God, the Dead, at least, are free ! There are shafts of spotless crystalline that rear Themselves, at God's behest, beyond the stars; The noblest shaft is reared to Martyrdom. It bears upon its beauteous shining scroll 590 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. Coeval dates with birth of worlds andlo! The loftiest name was called from Bethlehem. Ah ! those whose garments trail in their own blood Have placed their names anear the aureole That clothes His name the God-man, Jesus Christ. Oh ! countless thousands sheathed their dripping swords, And laid themselves, in tattered gray, to wait And rise in ranks, at muster-roll of God! Can we forget? Say, can a father's curse Rest on the son who died for Honor's cause? And can a mother slay her first-born child? Can comrades cease to think of those who bore The brunt of conflict, marching side by side Forget how youth forgot his beardless face, Made battle beauteous with his val'rous arm, And reared his living walls across the plain, Or closed the dear, dead eyes, when all was o'er? Can sisters coldly touch the honored blade That lies across a fallen brother's bier? Ah ! can the grave with all its cold, cold bands Confine the soul? or life with heartless sounds Drown the sad wail of love in widowed hearts? Man has the electric current i his grasp, But can he turn one flash upon its way? The Atlantic holds a cord within her breast That thrills two hemispheres, and bears a word In wondrous motion through the pathless deep; But who, save God, can bid one wave, " Be still J" Ay, point thy swords to yonder cloud, and guard The lurid light within its awful folds, And bind one wavelet of the restless sea, Ere Southern hearts forget our Southern dead! No drums are heard, save those whose muffled beat Are heard in homes where black-robed women sit I'.y vacant chairs, to lean the pallid cheek Against the folded suit of faded gray, And kiss its stains; or turn at every sound To watch for those who never, never come ! Or in the breasts of little ones, who hear, With wondering eye and flushing cheek, of him Who went away, and never came again ! Our flag is folded o'er our darling dead; And, like Merope's gentle face, that turns I. M. POBTEE HENEY. 591 Upon her sister Pleiades with tears, Its cross is blurred with mists of human woe ! Its folds are bloody as the bannered west, When slowly through the castled clouds there float The kingly colors of the setting sun : But search its field thou canst not find one blot Of shame, to make us curse the day they died ! We hand them thus, in stainless winding-sheet, Back to the God who gave, and called them home ! As long as April hangs his light green shield Upon the dark-clad forests of the South, And in his dewy mantle comes to kiss The blush upon the cheek of queenly May, Or plume with feathery ash her spotless brow, Let vet'rans (battle-scarred) repeat the tale; And while we women list, (with kindling cheek,) We '11 twine the new-born flowers of spring, and gem Their fragile cups with homage true of tears. We'll bid the laughing birds, that learned to sing In happier days, to hush their songs, and fly Across the Gulf to where, in Torrid heat, The Arawanda hides among the palms, With lifted head and drooping wing, to toll The weird, sad music of her mystic bell. Ay, while we wander through the land of graves, To lay our gifts of love on every mound, Fair bell-bird, Arawanda, come and rest In snowy flocks upon our sighing pines ; Here in the sweet magnolia dip thy spotless beak, And toll a chorus, while we maidens chant A nation's requiem for her sleeping sonsl DIRGE. (AiR "I would not live alway.") Bend low, weeping willows, our harps must be strung, Our princes have fallen, their dirge must be sung ! A paean of glory ^for heights they have gained, A low wail of sadness for captives unchained ! Let it rise from the valleys in heart-thrilling song, Till hundred- voiced mountains its echoes prolong ; 592 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. On through the Gulf waters, by Southern breeze whirled, The requiem sounds o'er the sea to the world 1 Nay, hush thy loud pealing, thou merry-lipped bell, The spires standing silent our story can tell ; Peal softly and sweetly, and blend in the sky The call to a bridal with notes of a sigh I Blow gently, wind-trumpets, among the fresh flowers, That rise from the bosoms of loved ones of ours ; They have drawn their-rich hues and their sweet-scented breath From the hearts of dead heroes, from gardens of Death ! Bring myrtle, magnolia, bay, orange, and lime, With boughs of green palm in its stateliest prime ; Bring straight, slender cedars, as types of their youth, And white-hearted lilies, to witness their truth. Ked roses, that bear in the depths of your breast The stain of lost battles, that bloom where They rest, Above the long file of the soldiers asleep, Ye lift happy faces, while we mourners weep ! Ye speak, through the tints of each beautiful cheek, A wisdom more lofty than mortals can speak ; Of a Hand that has touched you, and lo, from the tomb Ye are risen, from ashes to loveliest bloom ! Faith tells us they live on the shores of the blest, The Great Shepherd watches His flock while they rest ; But orphans an-hungered cry out for the slain And pale women shudder with heart-breaking pain. roses, with faces like widows, dead-white, Mute watchers by grave-stones, say, what of the night ? Ah, sweets, ye are voiceless as they, and your bloom Is spotless as angels' ; watch on by the tomb. But, by the long watch o'er our graves ye have kept, By every heart broken, by every tear wept, 1 charge ye, fair flowers, these tokens to bear To the dead, love eternal to the living, a prayer! A\ inds, forests, and flowers the same message tell Of rest for the weary who fought the fight well Of homes for the homeless of tears wiped away Of crowned, faithful servants of night lost in day ! I. M. PORTER HENRY. 593 The same which was spoken where Lazarus slept, When the head of our Saviour bowed down while he wept : To sorrowing women He speaks now as then, (And weeps with us, Southrons,) Our Dead rise again ! Eternal Justice speed the day when Truth Stamps Falsehood in the dust, and cries, " Oh, shame I " Till then we mourn for those who fell asleep. Recording angel ! thine 's the hand to pen The glorious history of each nameless grave I Thine to record our unrecorded dead ! Oh, they have died as mighty men of old ; As crowned princes lead them up to God ! As Danish sailors stay the graceful oar To watch Vineta's spires, and hear her bells Chiming beneath the waves of Rligen's lake, They tell in whispers of a time to come, When solid earth shall heave each placid wave, Till from her hold they shrink away appalled Then men shall marvel when they see arise A peopled city from her deep-sea grave, Awakened from her wondrous sleep of years Thus I await, with patient trust, God's time. This wreath of loving words and sparkling tears I gather from the garden of my heart, And offer, kneeling, to my country's sons. I pray each faithful heart to come with me To every sacred spot where Southrons lie : With folded arms, they dream sweet dreams of home, Regardless of the foe GOD is ON GUARD ! Sleep on, brave men, nor heed the rush of worlds ; Nor taunt, nor tears can move your lips to speak, Nor hearts to beat ; but if your spirits turn With tenderness to those who mourn your loss, Accept this tribute from a woman's hand, Of truth to God, her native land, and you ! 6 CATHERINE W. TOWLES. AMONG the writers of the " Southland " who have labored in the " heat of the day," never ceasing in the good work of providing interesting, instructive, and moral literature for her countrywomen, may be named Miss C. W. Barber; for by her familiar maiden name is she best known to the readers of Southern periodical literature. Miss Barber was born in Charlemont, a romantic little town in Northern Massachusetts, on the 25th day of October, 1823. She was the daughter of a farmer, and her earliest recollections are of green pastures, where fed herds and flocks ; rich meadows, where waved the tall grass ready for the mower's scythe, and fields of golden grain ripening in the sunshine. She early began her literary career, sending verses to the country newspapers while yet a mere child. These verses were favorably received by the reading public, and were frequently copied into other journals. Hon. Whiting Griswold, now of Green field, Mass., was her principal teacher ; he was at the time a student in Amherst College. He brought her books to read from the college library, and encouraged her to study and literary effort. In 1846, soon after the death of her father, she came South to reside in the family of her brother. Her literary reputation followed her, and contributions were solicited of her by Southern journals. In 1849, she received two prizes, one for the best tale, and one for the best poem, written for the "Madison Family Visitor," a literary and family journal started in Morgan County, Geo., and was solicited to take charge of its literary department; and did so, and continued editress of this paper for three years. It was during this period that she wrote a series of tales for the "Masonic Signet and Journal," which were so well received by the fraternity that they were collected into a volume, and published in New York under the title of " Tales for the Freemason's Fireside." Shortly afterward she wrote a series of "Odd- Fellow Tales," which were published in a volume, entitled "The Three Golden Links." In 1861, Miss Barber became connected with the "Southern Lite rary Companion," a paper published by I. N. Davis, a blind man, in 694 CATHEKINE W. TOWLES. 595 the town of Newnan, Georgia. To this journal she contributed some elegantly written novelettes, and articles on subjects "humorous, grave, and severe." Her connection with this paper continued until the close of the war. In the spring of 1866, she became editress and proprietress of a literary paper published in Newnan, called " Miss Barber's Weekly," which was continued until August 29th, 1867, when Miss C. W. Barber became the wife of Hon. John C. Towles, of Lafayette, Ala. She now resides on her husband's plantation near that place. Although of Northern birth, Mrs. Towles is Southern by acclima tion and long residence, and she considers Alabama her home ; for to her it is now " a land of rest." MRS. JULIA SHELTON. (" Laura Lorrimer.") " GENIUS native talent." T AURA LORRIMER possesses "genius of a rare order," and J-J several years ago was noted as one of the most promising of the young writers of the South. In December, 1855, she married Mr. J. A. Shelton, of Bellefonte, Alabama, at which place she resides at the present time, having two children, a son and daughter. Julia Finley was born on the Cumberland River, Tennessee, and at an early age commenced "poetizing." She was one of George D. Prentice's galaxy of poets of which Amelia Welby was probably the best known. The South, and indeed the whole country, owe much to this gifted and noble Kentuckian, for his helping hand and encour aging words to young aspirants for literary fame. " Laura Lorrimer " was a contributor to the various journals and magazines, North and South Godey's "Lady's Book," "Louisville Journal," and " Field and Fireside," among others. THE FEVER-SLEEP. A PRIZE POEH. There was a Hecla raging in my soul, Of wild emotions which might not be stilled. Through its dim arcades flashed the murky light, In fitful corruscations, and each niche Grew all irradiate. On the year's broad breast Four months had wreathed their coronals and died, For it was May, but in my fevered soul The sweet May flowers had withered, and upon Its myrtle garland slept a mildew blight. One year ago that very May, I bent, In love and faith, beneath the deep-blue heaven, 696 JULIA SHELTON. 597 And as the stars went floating up its arch, My soul was floating on the passionate breath Of new, strange music to a fairy land. Life then was golden-tinted : I had not One unbelieving thought ; I could not link The purple glory of my dreams in one ; They wavered, flashed, and paled like sunset gleams, Through the proud arches and pilastered domes Of Southern climes. Oh ! I had never known Aught half so blissful, and I lived an age In every breath which chronicled that hour Of my existence. Immortality Seemed charactered upon it, and I heard The low, sweet chiming of a thousand streams, Which swept their crystal through the amaranth bowers Of Aiden, and the mystic language grew Articulate. * I seemed to hear them say That love like this could never die ; that through The march of centuries to Eternity, Its hymn of adoration still would rise And tremble on the air. I have had dreams Which crowned my spirit as I walked amid The shadowy vale of visions, with a band Of all unearthly radiance, but, oh ! none So bright as those which clustered round me on That sweet May midnight, when my eyelids drooped, Dank with the dews of slumber on my cheek, And the soft echo of love's thrilling words Still lingering around me. How my soul Grew gently luminous with gleaming wings, As the night-sky with stars ! May came again ; But my hot brow seemed banded with a chain Of living fire. My senses all were bound In the dread fetters of a fever-sleep. I struggled with my thraldom, and my thoughts Wandered within a narrow, darkened cell Pale, wingless phantoms, striving to unlock The gates of destiny. Then strange, wild birds, With eyes of fire and wings of lurid flame, Perched close beside me, and, from time to time, Sank deep their vulture beaks into my heart. I knew they were my incarnated passions, which The fever-demon mockingly had called 598 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. Into a fierce existence. Closer still They flocked around me, and I was upborne Upon their rushing pinions through the stars, On, on to " outer darkness." There are orbs, Which ages since flashed down a golden ray, Whose earthward journey yet is scarce begun, And we had passed the farthest; now we stood At the closed gates of dread, eternal Night. " Room" shrieked, half humanly, each vulture throat, " Room for our burden" Fetterless, the winds Eoamed the abyss, and answered, " There is none t " Time had not winged another moment ere Light flashed upon my eyelids. On the earth How one short moment oft has crowned my soul With years of rapture, and I have grown old, Even in the folding of one warm caress ! Another moment, and a star-throned isle Gleamed in the blue beneath us. " We must rest," Moaned my fierce carriers ; " room is for us here, In this fair planet ; here our weary wings Shall leave their burden." Wooingly the waves, From their blue, throbbing bosoms, whispered " Come." It was a lovely world : its temples lay Like heavy snow-rifts, in the gentle light Of seven bright moons. It was a paradise, Which I had never imaged, even amid My wildest visions. Opiate incense rose From nameless flower-buds, like the heavy mists From the damp earth, and every nerve grew faint With dreamy languor. I was all alone, That star-world's sovereign. It had never yet Felt the soft stirring of an angel-plume In its calm air. The chiming of the wave, The wind's low footstep, and the wild bird's song, Were all its music. But my heart-strings still Were linked to earth, and to earth's passion-dreams. One cloud may veil the "day-god's" fiery steeds, Even in the zenith of their blue-arched path ; And now earth-shadows severed from my soul The soft, gold arms of the caressing light. Wiser than I have tangled up their prayers In the dark tresses of a haughty head, JULIA S HELTON. 599 And sung a hymn to clay instead of God ; And I am but a mortal ; so I had An idol with me, e'en among the stars, A name to which my soul forever sang As to a deity, and whispered words Of half-unearthly worship. Hours or months, It might have been, grew gray and died, but yet There came no day. My spirit could not count Time's heavy throbbings, but the very air Seemed faint and tremulous with an unseen And mighty presence. Four bright pinions came Floating above me, and then wavered down, Like the gold leaves of autumn, by my side. Beautiful angels were they, Love and Faith, But Love stood nearest, bending o'er my heart, As if to count its throbbings. God had sent Visible angels, thus to symbol forth The thoughts invisible which filled my soul. Oh, in the heavens, Israfel's sweet lute Ne'er to his fingers thrilled as did my heart To the soft music of their murmured words That angel lullaby ! My lids drooped down, Charmed with its opiate. To the land of dreams, I bore the vague, sweet echoes of the song : Slumbers be thine, Gentle and deep ; Queen of the star-isle, Eest in our keep ! Chased by our pinions, Trouble shall fly, Ever around thee Eise Love's lullaby. Faith ever near thee Guardian shall stand, Love round thy forehead Twine her bright band. The music died in wailings. O'er the sky Swept a dark tempest, and my star-isle shook To its foundations ; fiery lavas rolled In desolating fury down the slopes 600 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. So grand with beauty, and the temples fell In shapeless masses on the trembling earth. My angel guards had fled ; beside me stood A demon presence, giant-like and stern. Fearfully beautiful twined the iris crown In the black billowy locks which swept away From the lost angelhood of his broad brow Fit rival for the passions glowing fierce And tiger-like in the wild orbs beneath. Silent in demon majesty he stood, But ever and anon the heavy wings Shook almost to unfolding, and the mists Dropped from them, leadenly, upon my brow. All, all was silence, save the wild heart-throbs Which strove to burst their prison ; for I shrank In voiceless terror from the bitter smile Which curved the haughty lips, and from the stern And blasting gaze of those dark, fiery eyes. I rose and strove to fly ; but demon wings Flapped heavily around me, and a voice Which filled the universe hissed in my ear The awful words : " Down ! down ! to meet thy doom. Thou hast lost heaven for earth, and staked thy soul Against a mortal's love. For one whose brow Is crowned with amaranth, thou hast flung down The gauntlet to Omnipotence. Depart ! " I was a wanderer. A mark was set, Like Cain's, upon my forehead ; and alone, Amidst the mighty forests of the West, I writhed my way. Like sleeping Titans lay The mountain ranges in the dim gray light Which heralded the dawn. Before me rolled The ocean, with its hungry waves astir, Leaping in eager bounds upon the strand, Like wild beasts on their prey. "Alas," I cried, "Alas for thee! my own sweet spirit-love! Thou art not now beside me ; but thy deep And passionate words are floating round my heart Like angels in the darkness, and again I drink a haunting music from their swell ; Their memory comes like echoes from the past, JULIA SHELTON. 601 The blessed past. Will no one ope the gates, And lead me backward to that glorious state, And to the idol of my girlhood dreams And their wild fervor ? " Then a genius came, And he unlocked the caverns of the deep ; Then bore me downward to the blue-sea halls, And midst those coral grottos cooled my hands In crystal vases. There the opal shone With mystic radiance, and the emerald wreathed The pale, dead brows, which gleamed up white and strange Amid the sea-weed. Oh ! they slept with pearls And all things beautiful, and the great waves Forever pealed a requiem o'er them, and Thus shall they sleep until time's dying throbs Shall shake the universe. " Go seek thy love," Whispered the spirit, and a mocking smile Bent his red lip ; " perchance he sleepeth here In Neptune's regal palace." One by one I numbered o'er the dead, and wandered on For weary miles. I lifted raven curia From many a brow, and bent o'er many a lip ; But yet saw none which bore the spell of his For whom I sought with hopeless, patient love. Soft through the waters, gleaming like a star, Flashed a clear ray. " Sweet love ! " I murmured then, " Be this the guide to lead my steps to him." Fresh glories gleamed around me. Eainbow-hued And crimson sea-flowers climbed a coral arch, And draped a regal couch ; and there he lay, Not pale and dead, but warm and rich with life. Age yet had pressed but lightly on the brow So glorious in its beauty, and those curls Of raven darkness swept its marble breadth In shadowy magnificence. The eyes Had learned not coldness from the frozen years Which rolled their heights between us ; the full lips Were curving their rich crimson in a smile, And angel pinions drooped with silvery sheen From the broad shoulders. Like a peal of bells, He syllabled my name. I never thought If he had wings on earth, or was so fair, 602 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. But still I nestled in his warm embrace ; And then he said, one cabalistic word From him would ope those portals as the sun Unbars the gates of day. With trumpet-voice He breathed the mystic spell. A thousand flowers Seemed blending all their blossoms into one ; A thousand music-echoes seemed to sweep Into infinitude, and dazzling rings Of golden light, in widening circles, flashed Athwart my vision, and my fever-dreams Were torn apart, as by a wizard spell. Yet one remained the sweetest one to be A sweet reality. A proud face bent O'er my pale brow, and wooing, loving words Charmed my weak senses. All athirst, I drank The God-sent nectar, and my pulses beat With healthful throbbings. Life to me once more Was beautiful, and the great boundary-line Which spanned my Eden was Eternity. THE LEPER'S CHILD. Daughter of Judah's race, thine eye is bright, Thy red lip's beautiful and scornful curl Regnant with pride; thy heart is free and light In its first blooming. Oh, most radiant girl ! Alas! that bitterness and gloom must now Shadow the whiteness of thy pure young brow ! No more amid those purple-gleaming bowers, Draped with the Orient's many-tinted dyes, Rich with the perfume of a thousand flowers, Will, in calm slumber, droop thy dreamy eyes. Listen, O Zara ! ere my brain grows wild : A curse is on thee thou'rt the leper's child I My own sweet one, Gehazi's awful sin Is clinging to thee; ere one fleeting year,' Its loathsome crust will whiten o'er thy skin; Save to me only, thou wilt be a fear, A form of dread to every passer by: There now is nothing for thee but to die. Zara, sweet June was in her depths of bloom On thy first birthday, ere I knew that he, JULIA SHE L, TON. 603 Round whom my love was circling like perfume, Bore the dread curse which soon will rest on thee, While I, calm, careless, like a dew-bent flower, Slept, all unconscious of this horrid hour. A whirlwind swept my dreams. His crimson lips Were wooing mine with love's sweet honey-dew, And his proud eyes lay half in sad eclipse, Beneath the lids which veiled their midnight hue. The air was heavy with his grief; he said, " Young, bright, and sinless, better were she dead : Dead ere " Oh! let me veil the words which came, To coil like fiery adders in my breast, And from his parched lips burst like gusts of flame. Zara, forgive him. he is now at rest; But while life's pulses in thy bosom glow, Oh ! never curse another with thy woe As I have thee. Cast love's sweet poison by : It was distilled for other lips than thine ; And, had I known how soon its bliss would fly, Its venom never would have moistened mine. Then, my soul's idol, veil thy pure young face, And die the last of an accursed race. "AS ARTLESS AS A CHILD." " As artless as a child ? " The downward bending Of her pale lips returns a bitter " no ; " It is no girlish impulse which is sending From heart to cheek that deep and fitful glow. It is that she has learned a truer linking For words and thoughts than that she studied o'er, So long ago, when utterance and thinking Both the same meaning to her spirit bore. Around her brow there rests a golden glory, Like the faint shadow of an angel's crown, Where ringlets bright as Hope's bewildering story, Float, like the mists of sunset, softly down. Love seems with folded pinions sweetly dreaming, Nursed in the shadows of her violet eyes ; 004 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. And yet, alas ! alas ! it is but seeming, 'T is Falsehood wears the boy-god's radiant guise. " As artless as a child f " That low, rich laughter Rings out above her heart's wild wail of pain, And nothing earthly now can ever waft her The peaceful dreams of childish hours again. Like the rose-scented, seaward- roving breezes Which hover round the coast of Malabar, Her tone's soft witchery every spirit seizes, And leads it captive, in love's chains, afar. Yet (cold Iconoclast) one picture only Of those in childhood crowned with rainbow light Hangs in her bosom, desolate and lonely, A star of beauty 'mid the gloom of night. And when youth's rose-tint from her cheek has faded ; When age's silver glory crowns her brow ; When sorrow's darkest mists her soul have shaded, That one dear picture will be bright as now. "As artless as a child? " Alas ! there lingers Within her bosom now but one fresh flower ; 'T was planted by the blind god's fairy fingers, One gentle autumn at the twilight hour. The chill December watched its glorious blooming, And May's white-clouded, blue, caressing skies Still kept the vigil, and at spring's entombing Gave for a guardian June's voluptuous eyes. She whispers love-words to it when the fringes Which shade her eyes have curtained them to dreams, And kisses it when bright-haired morning tinges With golden shadows crystal-footed streams. Ah ! there are flowers whose laggard petals never Unfold, save o'er a century's dying hour ; But none like this, whose radiance lasts forever : Eternity keeps watch above this flower. JEWELS FOE LETHE. Jewels for Lethe ! Genii, bring the key The heart 's the casket where those jewels be. The bright-winged angel, which, in purple state, Sat, with furled pinions, singing at the gate, JULIA SHELTON. 605 Has drawn the bolts, and sought a prouder throne, Leaving the rich insignia there alone The heart's crown-jewels. Fling them side by side In the calm crystal of the Lethean tide. Jewels for Lethe ! Bring the brightest first, (Love's ruby coronet;) in times of erst It was the fitting crown for beauty's brow, An emblem meet for knighthood's holiest vow And fearless worship. Now, oh ! who may dare Unscathed its wreath of flashing light to wear ? Where can it find a softer, calmer grave ? Oh ! cast it unpolluted in the wave ! Jewels for Lethe ! Ha ! a laurel-wreath Carved out from emeralds ; but close beneath Lie jagged thorns ; the heavy golden clasp Is a coiled serpent, holding in its grasp A wounded dove. Poor bird ! how like to thine Their fate who round their fair young temples twine That wizard ! Be it buried deep, Where, charmed to silence, Lethe's waters sleep. Jewels for Lethe ! Jewels from the heart, Why, when its regal visions all depart, Should the regalia linger ? Well it were They ne'er had burned in princely splendor there. Give the dark waters yet another gem, Brightest but one in life's star-diadem : When Love and Glory sleep beneath the tide. Faith too should veil its radiance by their side ! Jewels for Lethe ! Ah I no more there be ; Upon the empty casket turn the key ; And if its guardian angels e'er come down, They must bring jewels for another crown, And in Elysium forge another key ; This, Lethe, is an offering unto thee. Shroud Love, and Faith, and Fame beneath thy flow : What are they all but synonyms for Woe f MISSISSIPPI, 607 SALLIE ADA VANCE. ALLIE ADA KEEDY was born in Northern Alabama. Captain James Reedy, her father, removed to Lexington, Mississippi, during her infancy. Miss Reedy was early inclined to study ; was passionately fond of reading, and had the advantage of careful and judicious culture. While a child in years, she began to write in verse, and her early poems exhibit the same thoughtful tone, the same impassioned ten derness which can be seen, ripened and refined, in her later writings. In 1860, her poems, which had appeared from time to time in the various periodicals of the South, were collected for publication in book- form. The " war " caused the idea to be abandoned for more auspi cious times. In 1865, about the close of the war, Miss Reedy entered upon a new phase of womanhood : she was married to Mr. Vance, and resides in Lexiitgton, the home of her childhood. The character of Mrs. Vance's poetry is subjective her thoughts most frequently introverted finding their field of research in the in finitely varied human heart. Yet she feels the charm of nature with all a poet's sensitive organization ; and she describes the beauty of earth, sky, and ocean with the vivid truthfulness of an appreciative as well as imaginative mind. Her melody of versification is remark able. Her thoughts ripple away into rhyme so easily that we per ceive it to be their natural vehicle. Her words are always musical and well chosen. But there are depths in her nature which have not been stirred : there are chords which have not been sounded. When these have been awakened by the hand of a larger experience, we shall see the poetry of Mrs. Vance take a wider range a deeper and more earnest tone. fShe has recently finished a poem, longer than any she ever published, which is considered by judges to be the best she has ever written. 7 609 G10 SOUTHLAND WKITEKS. Mrs. Vance lost her husband in December, 1868. " Beautiful as a poet's dream " is an old saying but hero is a poet's dream that is more than beautiful : THE TWO ANGELS. A boy at midnight sat alone, And quick throbs o'er his being stole, Like those to graver manhood known When high resolves are in the soul. Two winged angels softly leave The brightest star in all the sky, And one is fair as sinless Eve The other has the serpent's eye. Now to the boy they softly glide, And fold their starry wings unseen, Then rest them, one on either side, And watch him as he sits between. Each angel holds within her hand A spotless scroll of purest white, For God has sent them with command To write the boy's resolves that night. "I will be great! " his hot cheek burned "That men shall shout in ecstasy, When first their wondering souls have learned How like the gods a man may be." The angel on the left hand smiled, And wrote it with suspended breath ; She knew ambition oft beguiled To sin and sacrifice and death. "I shall have foes, as greatness hath, Whate'er may be its brilliant sphere; But I will sweep them from my path, Or maim their puny souls Avith fear." The angel on the left hand caught And wrote the proud boast with a sneer; The angel on the right had nought Upon her page but one bright tear. " Love, still the poet's chosen theme, Shall be a thing abjured by me; SALLIE ADA VANCE. 611 And yet my childhood's happiest dream Came to me on my mother's knee. My mother's knee ! Why what is this That on my lips is trembling now ? A prayer? I almost feel the kiss Her dying lips left on my brow. "She'd rather hear her name and mine In some poor creature's night-prayer told, Than have the proud world rear a shrine And write it there in burning gold." The angel on the left awhile Seemed half in doubt and half in rage; The other smiled a warm, bright smile That dried the tear upon her page. "I will be brave, and ask each heart That faints in life to lean on mine, And strive to do that better part That makes a mortal feel divine ; And, if my faults should win a foe Relentless through all coming time, I'll pity you who may not know Compassion makes this life sublime." The boy looked upward to the sky ; But ere his vow was halfway done, And ere the light passed from his eye, The angel on the left had flown : The angel on the right was there, And for one joyful moment stood, Then waved her bright wings on the air, And bore her message back to God. Very seldom, in all the range of poetry, do we find anything so perfect in all respects as the following gem. It is unexceptionable in every respect a lesson for life, to be conned every day by those who would worship the good, the beautiful, and the true : GUAED THINE ACTION. When you meet with one suspected Of some secret deed of shame, And for this by all rejected As a thing of evil fame 612 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. Guard thine every look and action : Speak no heartless word of blame ; For the slanderer's vile detraction Yet may spoil thy goodly name. When you meet a brow that's awing With its wrinkled lines of gloom, And a haughty step that's drawing To a solitary tomb Guard thine action : some great sorrow Made that man a spectre grim; And the sunset of to-morrow May have left thee like to him. When you meet with one pursuing Paths the lost have entered in, Working out his own undoing With his recklessness and sin Think, if placed in his condition, Would a kind word be in vain? Or a look of cold suspicion Win thee back to truth again? There are spots that bear no flowers Not because the spil is bad ; But that summer's gentle showers Never made their bosoms glad : Better have an act that 's kindly Treated sometimes with disdain, Than, by judging others blindly, Doom the innocent to pain. STRAUSS' FIRST LOVE. At eve they summoned the bridal crowd To a lofty- pillared dome, Where the daughter fair of a lineage proud Went forth from her childhood's home; And white plumes waved in the diamond light That shone over princely brows, While the eye of beauty grew softly bright As it read love's hidden vows. SALLIE ADA VANCE. 613 Rich tapestry trembled upon the breeze, And the tall wax tapers shone, And fragrance, swept from the Southern seas, Stole in with the lute's low tone. It seemed not pleasure that wildly thrilled The cadence of gushing song, But bliss so deep that its depth had stilled The pulse of that mighty throng. And yet there was one dark, mournful eye, Whose searching and soul-lit glance Saw but one fair form as it floated by In the whirl of the breathless dance. By a column tall he leaned apart, With a brow so deadly pale That one might read of his broken heart As though 't were a written tale. He loved with the love of a noble soul 'T was scorned by that haughty bride ; And the fountain, checked, all coldly stole O'er his heart with a frozen tide. She had spurned the truth of the minstrel's vow, And given her hand to one Who placed a crown on her fair, young brow For thus are the soulless won. But hark! there burst on the deep'ning night A murmur of grief profound, And the dancers paused in their giddy flight To catch the unearthly sound. The minstrel poured all his breaking heart In melody's wailing strain, And the bride grew pale at the sudden start And the swollen tensioned vein. Still higher and deeper the music swells, Till the marble pillars ring; As the song of the dying swan excels The lay of all birds that sing. Then a pallor over the bride's cheek crept, And her brow grew coldly white As the bridal veil that around her swept Like a gossamer cloud of light. 614 SOUTHLAND WRITER 8. Her ducal robe wore a crimson stain, ('T was the heart's red blood, I wot ;) Then pealed still higher the music-strain ; Yet the dead bride heard it not! The hall is deserted the revellers fled Save he of the mournful eye : Oh ! who dare tell, when the loved lay dead, Of his soul's deep agony ? THE SISTERS. Those were not mortals standing there With eyes bent on a sleeping child, Who, all unmindful of their care, Saw dreams at which his red lips smiled. And one was blue-eyed, with a face Round which the brown hair closely curled With such a soft, bewitching grace, It might have maddened half the world. The other's meek eyes, raised above, Seemed reading trouble for to-morrow : The brown-haired, blue- eyed one was Love ; The other was her sister, Sorrow. And Love's bright wings flashed -here and there You looked to see her float away ; But Sorrow's drooped with silent care, As though prepared for longer stay. " Now, sister, give me this fair boy," The blue-eyed angel gently said ; " A bosom soft and warm with joy Should only pillow such a head. You've followed me where'er I roam, You 've clung to me through many years, And when I touch a heart, you come And blot the record with your tears." The meek-eyed angel floated near, And took the soft hand of her sister, And on her cheek there was a tear, That trembled as she gently kissed her. SALLIEADAVANCE. 615 "Oh, Love.! thou dost remember well, When Eve and Adam were too wise, And, weeping forth a sad farewell, We went with them from Paradise. "They wondered at the storm above, And what the flowers would do without them ; I think they would have died, sweet Love, But that your arms were twined about them. I loved the stars and soft, blue skies, And winds that sung to us at even, And made our lovely Paradise Almost as beautiful as heaven. " And so I wept, and prayed that they Might go from my dark presence free, While I, the meek-eyed one, would stray, And weary Heaven with prayers for thee. The guarding angel shook his head, And sadly pointed up above, And said: 'Alas! it is decreed You part not with your sister, Love. " ' She was the fairest from her birth ; But, pale-faced Sorrow ! thou art wise ; While Love would make their heaven on earth, Thou 'It mind them of lost Paradise.' I could not leave thee then, and now " But Love's bright arms were round her thrown, And that one kiss on Sorrow's brow Had left a brightness like her own. " Dear sister, this fair boy shall be A pilgrim at thy radiant shrine; But every time he bends his knee, Half of the offering shall be thine." The boy awoke almost in tears, So strange and sad the vision seemed : Perchance he knew, in after-years, He had not only slept and dreamed. MKS. MARY STANFORD. "Ah, the most loved are they of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice." A LTHOUGH few of Mrs. Stanford's productigns have reached the ~L\- public eye, her genius has long been acknowledged and admired by a large circle of friends. Her poetic faculty was a gift of nature, which received culture in her early education in the nunnery, near P>a rds town, Kentucky. Under the oaks and magnolias of Claiborne County, Mississippi, she was born, and her maiden name of Mary Patterson will thrill the hearts and memories of many old associates and contemporaries. Her girlhood was passed amid scenes of gayety and pleasure; her ready wit, vivacity, and poetic taste, together with a graceful, petite physique, making her a charming companion and ornament to society. Her parents died when she was very young, leaving her two brothers and herself, and their estate, to the care of a relative. Mrs. Stanford was twice married and widowed. An only son \va* the fruit of her first marriage; and in that son she "lived, moved, and had her being." " The ocean to the river of her thoughts," he grew to be an idol, worshipped with a devotion few mothers have given their offspring. He was her inspiration, the polar star of her life. Freely were her private interests sacrificed in raising and equipping a battery, of which her son was first lieutenant, and subsequently captain ; and no more manly, noble, and splendid talent was given the cause of the South, than when FERDINAND CLAIBORNE enlisted, and bravely fought and fell, a martyr to that cause, leaving in the mem ory of his mother and countrymen a monument of honor and chiv alry more bright and enduring than the marble erected by his com rades on the spot where he fell. And this little tablet, pure and white and glistening, embowered in roses, and embalmed by a mother's daily kisses and tears, tolls to the lingerer in the quiet little ceme tery of Port Gibson the same history it told at the fortifications of Vicksburg, where, like a sentinel at his post, it guarded the lonely mound where a martyred hero slept. 616 MARY STANFORD. 617 Mrs. Stanford was for many years a resident of New Orleans. While the guns at Fort Sumter were still reverberating in our hearts, she pressed the farewell kisses on the lips of her son, from whom she had never been separated. About this period, Mrs. Stanford contributed several lively tales of life in the Crescent City, and poems to the " Southern Monthly," pub lished in Memphis. Says she: "My writings are only to be considered for the idolatrous love that inspires them." And few mothers in our land can read her " lines " without deep feeling. When New Orleans fell, feeling that by remaining there she could no longer guard and protect her son's pecuniary interests, she felt that the one thing left for her to do was to find her child, to be where she might at an instant's notice seek him. She had a motherless niece to care for; and not wishing to proceed on a wild, blind search for her boy, she went to the old home of her girlhood, (Port Gibson,) and found rest and sympathy with those who had loved her in the long- ago. For weeks she had not heard from her son, until she reached this place, and some returning soldiers told her of his whereabouts. When he wrote to her, he forbade her attempting to join him, urging her to remain with her old friends, " and perhaps they might meet again perhaps he might be ordered farther South but he could not ask for a furlough." At last, the mother's patient waiting was rewarded. Her son, who had been for over a year in East Tennessee, and in Kentucky with General Bragg, was ordered to Vicksburg with General Stevenson's Division ordered where his mother waited for him. Need we say that the mother was soon with her son ? Some months before this, finding her resources fail, being able to get nothing from New Orleans, she had opened a school for the support of her niece and self, that she might not take from her son, and this was in successful operation when she visited him. She found him all that a mother's loving heart could hope or pray for, but so wedded to his duties, so proud of the noble battery he commanded, that again, as he had done before, he kissed her and blessed her, and gave her to another's charge, and left her, to go where she could not follow. The long siege of Vicksburg succeeded. What the year is to a mother, what it is to the country, is well told to the heart, in these few artless, plain verses : 618 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. MY NEW- YEAR'S PRAYER. New- Year's Day ! Alas ! the New- Year's days That stalk like troubled ghosts before my sight, From happy youth, through weary years, till now, When my life's sun must soon be lost in night, And I, in death's untroubled, tranquil sleep, Shall learn how sweet it is to cease to weep I New -Year's Day ! Yes, I remember one The day I watched a little rosy face Of six months old, with dimpling smiles Peep out from under folds of silk and lace : That face, the sweetest to a mother's eyes That ever made of earth a paradise. And then another New- Year I recall, Bringing sweet prattlings I so loved to hear ; The only music I could understand, The only notes that ever charmed my ear, Save th' accompaniment to this sweet song The steps that bore my tottering boy along. Then, New- Year's days in numbers pass me by, Bearing new beauties both to heart and mind, And adding graces to the manly form I did not wonder in the three to find All I once hoped to see united there My son's young promise was so passing fair. But where, in this dark, cheerless New- Year's day, In thy full manhood, must I look for thee? I shall not find in that worn face such smiles . As dimpled through the folds of lace for me ; And stern, harsh lines are on the once smooth brow, Babe so beloved ! a man and soldier now I Ah ! since thy mother's arms were round thee last, Since thou wert folded to thy mother's breast, Since her appealing voice hath met thine ear, Since her last kisses on thy lips were prest, My son, my darling, what has chanced to thee? Loving as then wilt thou return to me ? MARY STANFORD. 619 Ghosts of the New Years ! with them come the hopes That made the promise of thy youth more fair, Whispering how thy manhood's love would guard A mother's age from every grief and care. How canst thou be to me this guard and shield, Thou in constant change from tent to battle-field ? Ghosts of the New Years, visit him to-day, My baby once ! my country's soldier now ! Paint to his memory the unselfish love That, since a mother's lips first touched his brow, Till now, when such despairing words are said, A mother's heart has showered on his head. Spirit of to-day ! breathe in his ear the prayers That day and night ascend on high for him ; Unceasing, hopeful, trustful, brave and strong ! Earth's dreams delude its brightest hopes grow dim But from the ruins soars, fresh, undefiled, The mother 's prayer " GOD BLESS AND SAVE MY CHILD." When the siege of Vicksburg was over, and for weeks after, there was no one hardy enough to tell her " she was childless ! " Weeks of darkness came, after this; but there was one thing to live for to find the grave of her son. Once more, for one night the same roof sheltered mother and son he in his coffin, into which she dared not look ! And through the Federal army, and down the river, and amid perils and sufferings, and hardships that it is a wonder, now, she could ever endure, she brought her darling to Port Gibson there, to live and die beside him to be buried in his grave in his arms, if it could be. "DIED AT HIS GUNS."* Extract from a letter found in the trunk of a young soldier who "died at his guns," in the siege of Vicksburg. " DEMOPOLIS, Ala., June, 1863. .... "Will yua not name one of your guns in honor of my little daughter, the ? I have not forgotten your wish to make her your patron saint ; and if, in the anticipated battle at Vicksburg, your battery comes out, as I know it will, triumphant, I will present you a stand of colors, the white stripe of which shall be made of my bridal robe of moire-antique " You are placed where only brave and gallant men are called ; for well the enemy * From " Banner of the South." 620 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. know how important tho acquisition of that stronghold. You may receive this on the eve of one of the grandest of the many grand battles fought for your country's freedom. For God's sake, do not falter ! Let them wade through a sea of blood before they take a gun from your command." In answer to the above, was written the following : "BAPTIZED IN BLOOD." Lady, when you counselled this young soldier This spirit bold and daring did no voice Whisper within you that for him, perchance, There might be fearful prescience in your words ? And did your heart not bleed, recalling then The soft, dark eyes that looked such love in yours, Or danced in mirth, or proudly answered back Your own proud patriot look of dire resolve ? Did you bethink you, then, of that sweet smile, So full of tenderness, your startled heart, Albeit guarded, to its depths was stirred, As if a dream of girlhood had come back? And did then mingle with these later dreams Remembrance of the fresh, glad voice that made Such music, soft or tender, sad or gay ; While came the thought, " How dear all these must be To some fond heart that finds in them its world ; For 't is no common love proud natures win ; " And knowing this, did you not, lady, know, To " wade through sea of blood," alas ! might be To close the eyes, take from those lips their smile, And still the music of that voice fore'er? "Baptized in blood the noble gun shall be I " Pledge lightly made, but royally redeemed : Whose heart's blood flowed to make that promise good? Oh, noblest blood that ever dyed our soil ! Oh, truest heart that ever ceased to beat I Oh, purest patriot of the martyr dead ! Brave blood so vainly spilt, so quickly dried True heart, with all its wealth of love, forgot Pure patriot, 'mid a country's woes passed by, Save in a mother's proud idolatry ! Fair friend brave comrades weeping lady-love Where were ye then ? Amid the tumult wild, And through the city's wrecks, the mother 't was MARY STANFORD. 621 Who sought and found the lonely grass-grown mound Where slept her darling. 'Twas the mother's love, Through victor foes, and from beneath their flag, That bore her coffined idol to a grave Lone, still, and quiet, where the step of those Who made her childless might not thence to stray. The mother 't is who watches, morn and noon And night, that sacred spot, o'ergrown with flowers, And keeps upon his tomb the fadeless wreath, Pure as his valor, fresh and green as lives His noble memory down in her heart. Fair friend brave comrades mourning lady-love And dear companions all where are ye now? In Sacred Writ we read of one whom Christ, The blessed Saviour, at the gates of Nain, Brought back from death to life ; and gave, unasked, Again unto the weeping mother's arms This one a widowed mother's only child! MRS. S. B. COX. MRS. COX, whose maiden name was Hughes, was born in War ren County, Mississippi, five miles from Vicksburg. Her par ents were Virginians, but adopted Alabama as their home, where her father, Judge Beverley Hughes, presided at the bar with distinction. They removed to Mississippi six months before the birth of the subject of this sketch, and eighteen months before the death of her father. A lady friend says : " Unfortunately for Miss Hughes, in the death of her father she lost the hand which would have been the fashioning and guiding power of her life." Her mother married a second time a man chilling in his manner and her childhood passed without one genial ray of warmth to expand and open the hidden nature within her, save rare interviews with her mother, full of love and tenderness, and usually embracing one theme that was exhaustless the virtues and graces of her father. Says Mrs. Cox, alluding to this : " These conversations about my father were so colored by the admiration of a devoted wife, that he alone seemed to fill my idea of God's nobleman, and early became the inspiration of my life. To be worthy of being his daughter, enlisted all my faculties in every effort I made for good ; no temp tation beset me that I was not fortified against it by the thought, that, to yield to it would be unworthy the daughter of my father. My successes at school were alike due to this single inspiration of my life." Miss Hughes was married very young fourteen years and three months old on her wedding-day. Her life became very checkered : at the age of twenty-eight, when life is bright and full of joyousness to many, she became hopelessly bedridden. The trials of her life were numerous ; but, to use her own language breathings of the mother : " I was a mother, and this bore me up to live and labor for the im mortal ones God had intrusted to my care." For eight years she could not take a step, or even stand alone ; and she says : " Yet, amid all, God was very good in preserving my mind clear, and 622 s. B. cox. 623 strengthening my will to conquer every repining for myself, and devote my remaining energies to the training and cultivation of my four little daugh ters. Up to the opening of the war, my world was found in these, my life centred in them; but a mightier appeal thrilled my being; my country called, and my whole heart responded. I felt that even the claim of my children was secondary to it, and devoted my time, my purse, and my strength, without reserve, to the sick of the Confederate army." A friend, who is indebted to an eye-witness for his information, says : " At one time the enemy shelled the hospital, which was near her residence. Her house, though within reach, was out of range of their guns, and she opened her doors to the inmates of the hospital, and for several weeks there were three hundred soldiers with her." At the raising of the siege, her means were exhausted ; and at the commencement of the second siege, General M. L. Smith informed her that her house had fallen within the line of fortifications, and would have to be destroyed. The Father seems strangely to provide for his creatures in the very darkest moments of their lives. Just at this crisis with Mrs. Cox, homeless and without money, her husband was discharged from active duty on account of failing health, and returned from Virginia in time to prevent her despairing, if such a hopeful mind as that of Mrs. Cox can be looked upon as " giving up." Her husband applied for and obtained government employment in the Trans-Mississippi Department, and they removed to Shreveport. The reaction from active excitement to comparative quiet prostrated Mrs. Cox again entirely to bed, and thus it was with her until the news of the fall of Vicksburg fell like a leaden weight upon her. Says she : " For the first time, woe took the place of full confidence, and never again was the bow of hope unclouded in my heart ; yet when the fall of the Con federacy was told to me, I reeled and staggered under the blow, not aware for weeks if my vitality would survive it." The superior facilities to be found in the public schools of New Orleans for educating their daughters, decided Mr. and Mrs. Cox to make that city their home. They were scantily supplied with the " world's goods." Mr. Cox, over fifty years of age, without a son to assist him, had to begin anew the world, and for nearly two years they struggled for the necessaries of life "a struggle such as cannot be conceived of unless felt." Mrs. Cox had contributed to the papers of Vicksburg and Shreve port, among other articles, several appeals to the Southern people upon 624 S O U T II L A N D W R I T R S. subjects pertaining to the war. These were published over the ?/ plume of " Beverley." Now, in the terrible strait of poverty, the idea of writing for money came to her. Says she : " I caught at it as a drown ing man clutches at a straw, and almost as hopelessly and desperately. Without an introduction to the press of New Orleans, I made my \\ay into the journals." A writer in the "Crescent" thus refers to her: "We think a woman, even an invalid, who can neither sit in anything but a robe de chambre, nor stand long enough to have her hair frizzed, like our own 'Beverley;' whose pathos moves to tears; whose philosophy makes us proud of our own sex ; whose wit and sarcasms few would wish to en counter ; whose faith has for years irradiated her sick-chamber with a hal lowed light, is infinitely superior to a lady whose highest acquisitions arc moire-antiques, thule, coiffures, tinsel, or even diamonds; whose resoun happiness are theatres, masquerades, and dancing; whose faith exhibits itself in a few Lenten visits to church ; whose self-abnegation and humiliation are the changing from one luxurious diet to another perhaps a little more deh'cate." In the Spring of 1869, Mrs. Cox lost the use of her right hand and arm from paralysis, her physician ascribing it to the incessant writing for weeks to meet her engagements, for she supported her family with her brain-work. Mrs. Cox continues to contribute to the various papers of New Orleans, and to several Northern journals, particularly to the Sunday edition of the "Times" newspaper. SPIRIT-WHISPERINGS. Philosophy stands up in the severe, grave dignity of truth, and demands demonstrable facts in all things. But is there nothing within us. to the intellect vague, shadowy, and undefined, which may not be reasoned upon, yet is a feeling, a consciousness from which we may reason and deduce facts as clearly as from anything material? Surely this is evident to all. We may draw from every created thing or being an undeniable evidence of a Great First Cause or Creator. From the delicate violet, which opens it- beautiful petals out upon the bosom of the brown earth, up to the dewy kisses of the night-winds; to the stone-girt mountain, which, from its burn ing caldron of boiling lava, hurls forth destruction and death for miles around; from the tiny insect to his own image in man, all proclaim most unmistakably the existence of a God, the Creator of all things, and the llulcr of bis ereation. But perhaps the most satisfying evidence to man is the demand in his own being for a God that universal reaching out of the soul which is found in the breast of the most benighted heathen. s. B. cox. 625 Of the inspiration of the Bible, but slight evidence is given by historians since the advent of the Saviour ; but it is when we compare its high and holy truths with the self-evident facts of man's life, that we find the first positive proof which is apt to be taken hold of by man. Let the unpreju diced thinker turn his mind in upon his own soul, and compare its aspira tions and its longings with the truths of the Bible, and therefrom will he draw evidence beyond refutation ; and therein is the mystical chain of spirit with spirit ; that half-hidden, half-defined something which baffles the lore of philosophy, yet enchants and delights man. Trouble upon trouble enters in upon the heart of man ; care upon care silvers the dark threads, and bends the head low upon the stooped shoulders ; the weary, aching thought of the brain, which brings no fruition; the half- requited labor, the heart-sickening disappointment in friendship and love ; and man grows weary and faint, and cries out for the waters of oblivion to sweep over his soul in this dark hour of woe and despair. Then comes the small, still voice of the Spirit, and whispers: "All of earth is passing away, and heaven is eternal ! " Death lays its icy touch upon our idol, and our heart is torn until every fibre is bleeding out its own vitality, and reason staggers upon its throne. Then whispers the Spirit : " Be still, and rest in the hands of thy God." It is only a little while sooner than you that the spirit has bid adieu to the troubles of life. A little white bird wafted its downward way from paradise, and, finding its tiny, delicate form growing cold and numb in this bleak world's grasp, sought refuge in my quiet home for a few brief hours folded its snowy wings gently and lovingly upon my breast ; but though I nestled it warmly within my bosom, and wooed it to linger with me, it gave a few farewell moans, and, softly gliding from its earthly casket, took its returning flight to paradise. Thus came and went our little babe. But a cell had been opened up in our hearts for love of her ; and though we consigned to the dark earth that beautiful waxen form of purest whiteness, and other children have been born to us, love for her is still warm within my heart. That heart beats still for the angel one. Her little baby form, her eyes of heavenly blue, her mouth of sweetest mould, are yet fresh within my memory. Ah ! who can doubt 'that we two will meet again? My spirit whispers that my heart throbs are not for nought, but will beat on throughout eternal ages. Ah ! yes, let us listen to these sweet whisperings of the Spirit, and they will breathe into our souls strength to conquer, strength to bear. Listen to them, confide in them, and they will rob death of its sting, and open out to us a great, broad vista of ages of eternal bliss. Wife, by the death-bed of thy husband ; mother, by thy dead child, take comfort from it to hush thy grief. There is a Spirit whispering of warning and hope to the young man in a career of sin and profligacy, bidding him pause, reflect, and follow its promptings. 626 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. To the old man tottering upon the verge of a dishonored grave, it says : " Even now listen to me." Frail woman, in thy fall and degradation, listen to it; hush it not in thy poor, sin-stained soul. When all the world turn from thee, and only sin and shame clasp hands with thee, it will prove thy best friend. It is sent to such as thee by God. A SKETCH FKOM REAL LIFE DURING THE WAR. In a war of invasion, who can say that woman's part is not the severest? Quietly she must watch the march of the foe over the land dearer than all else to her, the land in which all the love and pride of her soul are garnered : mile by mile she must behold their devastations, and yet be denied the ex citement of resistance, which almost swallows up the terror of conflict. She may ply her needle for the soldier, labor to raise provision for the army, and attend the sick and wounded. These are glorious deeds of a beautiful mis sion upon earth ; but all these may be well performed even while a constant heart aches and a terrible dread is slowly tearing the heart-strings and wear ing away life itself. Ay, she may ply the needle and force back the scald ing tears " which hinder needle and thread," while they fall back upon her heart hot and burning. She may watch the writhing agony of the wounded, and the death-throes of the dying. The far-distant wail of anguish from wife, mother, daughter, and sister may ring within her ears as she folds the cold hands over the pulseless breast, and her heart echoes back the cry, while it is almost bursting with indignation against the foe who has brought such desolation to her very door. She must turn shelterless and foodless from the smouldering ashes of her home, with her children clinging to her knees, yet no hand of resistance can she raise to the barbarous deed. In silence she must accept the terrible cruelty, and, for the sake of her little ones looking to her for life, she must crave food from the hands which applied the burning torch to her home. Yes, we say that in a war of invasion woman's part is far more terrible than man's, although she may rarely face shot or shell. Look upon her powers of cheerful endurance amid these terrific trials, and we exclaim, Surely there is a heroism in it equal to any in life! During the late war, our land abounded with instances of cheerful hero ism in woman under all the dreadful terrors of an invading army ; but we think that it was in country homes, often cut off from every white neighbor by the distance of several miles, that the most striking heroism was to be found. Woman saw that the land must continue to be cultivated, that famine might be kept off, and, naturally timid and shrinking as she is, she cast all fear aside, and arose equal to the demand of the times. But it is not merely to eulogize woman that we have taken up our pen, to present our readers s. B. cox. 627 with a short sketch of a country maiden during the late war a sketch true to the lives of many more than the one we present. t Mr. Kline lived in Mississippi, between Jackson and Vicksburg, near the railroad. Laura, his eldest daughter, was just sixteen when the war opened. She had been reared in all the luxury of a wealthy Southern planter's life. Just as soon as the Federal army was within reach, every able young hand, save a boy of fourteen, left and went to the enemy, leaving the old and in firm to add to the care of providing the necessaries of life. "Wife, I suppose we may as well turn the cows and calves out together; old Charity is too rheumatic to attend to them, and 1 have tried in vain for two hours to milk them." " Xo, indeed, papa ; we cannot do without butter and milk. I can milk the cows." " You milk ! Where upon earth did you learn? " " I learned when I was quite a little girl. Do you not remember how you and mother used to call me in from the pen and seat me in the house, lest I should grow rude and hoidenish? Well, I stole out often enough to learn to milk quite well; but, papa, you look as red as if all your blood were in your face, and you are panting as though you had been running a foot race. It cannot be the effort of milking so much, since you did not get a drop ; pray tell us what it is all about? " A mischievous twinkle stole out of the brown eyes, and rippled over the dimpled cheeks and around the cherry lips, as she looked banteringly upon her father. " Well, Miss Saucy-box, I have had a chase after nearly every cow in the pen, and, after closing in the corner first one and then the other, have not been able to draw one drop of milk. Nor do I believe that those little white hands, which have only toyed with flowers all your life, will ever get a pint ; but if you wish, you can try." " Try ! yes indeed, and milk them too. After all, I do not believe you lords of creation are half as useful as we bits of womanhood." And the blithe creature shook her curls saucily, and rang out a merry laugh. " Why are you taking that immense bucket, Laura. If you succeed in milking, three or four will yield milk and butter sufficient for us." " I know that, mother ; but I am not going to lose so much for our sick soldiers ; you have been sending them twenty pounds of butter every week, and I intend to continue doing so." " Things are very different now from what they have been ; neither your father nor Henry can spare time to take it. How will you get it there, after it is made ? " " Never do you mind, mother ; ' where there is a will there is a way.' I have it all planned very nicely." Blithely she tripped away, with her bucket on her arm, looking back and laughing at her parents. 628 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. Twice was Mr. Kline called to bear the immense bucket in, full of the de lightful beverage, and each time Laura bantered him with every step; but :H he quaffed the refreshing milk after a day of toil, he gave her full permission to laugh at him so long as she succeeded. Bright as a bird, the young girl flitted through the house and over tin- place, and, though you would scarcely believe her working, all was done in order and in time, and her half invalid mother was spared every extra labor. Mr. Kline had learned how much more and better work can be done by one's own hands than by servants, and they were all just becoming contented with the change in their mode of living, when the Federal army reached their neighborhood ; and then began the work of devastation and ruin in real earnest. Their house soon fell into the hands of the foe, and they looked helplessly on while the flaming torch was applied to the magnificent edifice, which, in a few hours, was a heap of burning coals. They supposed that Mr. Kline had gold ajwut him, and resorted to various tortures to extract it from him. These terrors and exposure soon snapped the attenuated threads which held together the frail life of Mrs. Kline, and in three days after she was burned out of house and home, they laid her to rest in a quiet spot in the garden. " Laura, I feel completely crushed ; there is no life nor strength left for labor and struggle. I feel that I too must die ; nor can I wish to live alter she is gone. What will you do, child ? " " Father, do not talk thus, do not feel thus : there are three younger than I. For these we must arouse from our grief; for these we must work on. We owe it to the helpless ones ; we owe it to the dead ; we owe it to your sons in the field, to our struggling country, to show that as long as we live we can be self-sustaining." " What do you propose now, Laura ? all is gone, even the roof over our heads." " The land yet remains; the gardener's house is untouched. This contains two rooms, and is shrouded in trees, and lies in such a deep valley that it will not be likely to attract the enemy's notice. Indeed, I suppose the ter rible wrong they have done us will satisfy them, and they will be willing to leave us to our poverty without further molestation. You have cows in the big black swamp ; three or four of these must be gotten up, and with the provision we buried we can live until we can raise more. The negroes, ex cept Aunt Charity and Henry, must be sent within the enemy's lines to be fed. I will give them a letter to the Yankee general, who will feed them, which is more than we can do. With this arrangement we can live, if we husband well what we have. Will you not arouse to this duty, dear father? And will you not take comfort in your children?" " I will try, my child." Mr. Kline followed this advice ; and the heroic, noble girl hushed the sor row for her great loss deep within her motherless heart, and arose to cheer fulness and labor for the sake of the dear ones left to her care, and the laud s. B. cox. 629 of her birth, her love, and her pride. Industrious hands and a cheerful spirit accomplish wonders, and there was soon an air of neatness and com fort about the two rooms embowered in trees and wild vines, which refreshed and comforted the weary spirit of her almost broken-hearted father, and the little ones declared that it was nicer than the great fine house. The piano was gone, but little Eddie had run away with her guitar and hid it, and each evening, after her father had retired to bed, she played and sang, until, soothed and comforted, he dropped to sleep, as gently as a babe listening to its mother's lullaby. The catastrophe has come. The war is ended. Fathers, sons, brothers, and lovers flock home, as the chased deer, famishing for the cooling draught, rushes to the clear, bubbling water. Two brothers out of four are welcomed back to the desolate home-spot of the Klines. They resolved to restore to. the family something of their former prosperity, and with active energy they entered upon a life of labor ; God blessed almost their every eifort ; but, strange enough to her father, Laura for the first time drooped ; a shade of sadness often flitted across the lovely face, and, as days and nights passed by, deepened until it became habitual ; the birdlike motion departed from the hour her mother was laid beneath the dark earth ; now the regular, bright movement of the cheerful girl was gone, and every step flagged wearily, and every effort seemed a burden : yet she ceased not in her daily labor. Mr. Kline looks on in heaviness of heart, and feels that if she too goes, he will not long survive her, nor does he wish to. He knows the glorious powers of self-reliance which have so peculiarly marked the last four years of her life, and forbears to question her, only growing tenderer and more caressing each day in his efforts to woo back light and life to her soul, knowing well what a blast and blight the fall of her loved country has cast upon a nature like hers. It has been a cool, rosy-tinted Fall day ; all animal existence seems instinct with renewed strength and life. The dogs run, frisk, and leap ; the poultry crow, sing, and cackle ; the horses toss their heads, bound, and frolic like country children turned out of school ; the birds flit from bough to bough, and once more renew their glad spring songs ; yet Laura changes not, except to look more spiritual, and wear a sweet, sad smile as she casts her eyes oftener to heaven ; but the spirit of beauty, if not of life, seems to have entered her sad, quiet soul, and she has arranged her toilet for the evening with unusual care and taste : a purely white apron contrasts beautifully with the little brown figured muslin, which sits so nicely to the dainty little form, while soft, white ruffles relieve the neck and hands, and the pretty feet, laced closely in a pair of well-fitting boots, peep from beneath the short dress with every step ; an exquisite blush-rose trembles in her auburn curls, while a bud and a geranium-leaf are clasped at her throat with a bright coral pin. She has just finished milking. The cows are looking lazily contented, crunching their cuds, with their calves beside them. The little white cedar 630 'SOUTHLAND WRITERS. pail, filled with the snowy froth of the smoking milk, which smoke curls gracefully in thin wreaths above the frosted pile, is poised in her hands, as she pauses beneath an umbrageous oak to observe a man slowly advancing toward her on a worn-looking horse. He was thin and pale, and looked like a war-broken veteran, with the empty sleeve dangling by his side: as her eye rests upon him, she never dreams that he is a young man of only twenty- eight. A shade of pink flushes into the wan, pale face, and the dim eyes brighten as he pauses before her ; the next instant a dark shade of sadnr-s deepens in its bloodless lines, and he tries in vain to speak. " Sir, you look weak and faint ; take a cup of this warm fresh milk ; it will revive your strength. Now let me hold your horse while you alight ; you must tarry with us until you are strong enough to continue your journey." The soldier was very feeble, but he was soon by her side. "Surely my senses do not deceive me : you must be the Laura Kline I left on yonder burned hill four years ago." "I am she, sir ; but it cannot be that you are Robert Dillingham?" Now the blood rushes in a full torrent over face and neck, while the sweet voice trembles and quivers, and the fragile form shakes like a wind-tossed leaf. " Oh, Laura, can it be that your heart yet warms to the maimed, broken soldier?" Now the weary, worn man flushed scarlet, and the eyes eagerly sparkled with joyous expectancy, as he clasped the little hand and looked quest ion- ingly down into the girlish face. " Robert, can you doubt it ? Did I not love you a thousand times better for these very honors, I would be unworthy the land of our birth, unworthy a noble soldier's love. I will be an arm unto you through life, as well as your devoted wife. For the first moment since our country fell, I now feel that I have something to live for, something to give me happiness even amid our great loss." The soldier clasped her to his war-scarred breast, and tears of bliss too full for smiles fell upon her flushed face, as he pressed a fervent kiss upon the upturned brow. Disengaging herself from his embrace, the old light of life and fun broke over her smiling face, as she said : "Come, Robert, let us go in; father will be so pleased to know that you are alive, and to see you home once more. He and the boys are doulul. -s wondering what has become of me and if they are to have any milk for supper to-night. I will carry in the pail now ; but in a few days I shall rail you into service. But, for the world, you are not to come among my oows until the milking is over, for they have a belligerent antipathy to you lords of creation." .... Mr. Kline soon divined the cause of Laura's drooping, when he saw tln> old light coming back to her eye and the old life to her soul, as the soldier- guest improved in health and strength day by day ; and silently thanked God that she would be spared to his old age. ELIZA POITEVENT. PEARL RIVERS, as by her pseudonym is the " sweet singer " best known, takes her name from that beautiful stream, Pearl River, near the banks of which she was born. Miss Poitevent is a maiden, hardly of adult years ; the daughter of Captain \V. J. Poitevent, a builder and owner of steamboats, and a manufacturer of lumber at Gainesville, on that river, about twenty- five miles across the plain from the Bay of St. Louis, which is now, as Gainesville formerly was, the seat of justice of Hancock County, Mis sissippi. On her father's side, Miss Poitevent is of French descent ; on the mother's, she is connected with the Russ family of the Florida par ishes of Louisiana and Southeastern Mississippi. Shortly after the birth of Eliza, her mother's health was so delicate that she was advised by her physician to travel, and it was decided that the " babe " should be left with her aunt, Mrs. Leonard Kimball. When Mrs. Poitevent returned, she found her babe, a healthy, rosy little girl, taking her first steps who did not want to leave her aunt for her mother. Mrs. Kimball was childless, and had become so much attached to " little Pearl," that she earnestly entreated that she might be left with her. It was finally decided that " Pearl " should remain with her aunt. And on the banks of the Hobolochitto, with her aunt and uncle, " Pearl Rivers " spent her pure and happy childhood. She had no playmates, and roamed the meadows and fields in search of com panions. There was not a narrow path that trailed its way through the dense forest of pines that she did not know; and flowers, birds, and insects were more than flowers, birds, and insects to her. They were her friends and companions, and she talked to them and sang with them through many a happy day. This poem is a true picture of her childhood, more beautifully expressed in her own " sweet language " than could possibly be told in my sober prose : 631 632 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. M-Y-S-E-I^-F. " Tell mo something of yourself." Letter from a Stranger E. E. C., of Ohio. Well, once I was a little girl, A-dwelling in the wood, Beside a laughter-loving stream, With aunt and uncle good: Within a rambling old log-house, That thought it was no sin Through other places than the door To let the sunshine in: With quaint old chimneys at each end, Where swallows used to come And twitter low, " How glad are we To find a summer home ! " With windows low and narrow too, Where birds came peeping in To wake me up at early morn; Arid oft I used to win The Cherokees to climb the sill; The gossip-loving bee To come so near that he would pause And buzz a word with me. No other child grew on the place; A merry, roguish elf, I played " keep house " in shady nooks, All by my little self. I leaped the brook, I climbed the bars; I rode upon the hay; To swing upon the old barn-gate To me was merry play. I waded in the shallow stream To break the lilies sweet, And laughed to see the minnows swim So near my rosy feet. ELIZA POITEVENT. 633 I rode the pony down to drink, He played some pranks with me; But I had learned to hold on tight, And was as wild as he. I could not keep my bonnet on ; The briers tore the frill ; The winds untied the knotted strings, And tossed it at their will. The sun grew friendly with me then, And still the signs I trace Of many a merry trick he played Upon my neck and face. My dress and apron bore the sign Of frolic wild and free ; The brambles caught my yellow hair, And braided it for me. My teacher was a dear old man, Who took me on his knee; And better far than vexing books He held a kiss from me. I could not learn geography; The "States"! could not "bound;" But many a city built by ants And daisy towers I found. Arithmetic and grammar Were never in my line ; No measured rule was made to chain A spirit free as mine. But I was quick to learn some things, As all the rills could tell; I knew just where the waters bright With softest music fell. I knew the names of all the birds, And which could sing the best; I knew just where the speckled hen Had made her latest nest. 634 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. I knew how many drops of rain . The pitcher-plant could hold, And on the butterfly's bright wing How many spots of gold. And how the spider's curious web Was jewelled by the dew, And where the largest chincapins And whortleberries grew. For I, though but a simple child, In Nature's ways was wise ; I followed her day after day With wonder-loving eyes. I knew the track the ground-mole made, And followed it to see Where all the windings strange would end. I knew the hollow tree Where hid the sly fox-squirrel, And the hole where slept the hare; But at their open, humble door I never set a snare. I was a wild, but loving child ; My little feet ne'er trod Upon the weakest, meanest thing That crawls upon the sod. They were my playmates and my friends : And, more than all, I knew That if I loved his creatures well The Lord would love me too. And sometimes I would lonely be, And so I learned to talk To all the insects and the birds; And once I took a walk To ask the sweet white violets, That grew down by the creek, To learn me how to speak the tongues That all the flowers speak. ELIZA POITEVEXT. 635 I thought it best to go to them ; They are so meek, you know, And teachers like these humble ones Can best God's wisdom show. They seemed to think I was too young To learn their language well : I thought I heard them ask the stream, Quite low, if it could tell How many years the little maid Had laughed with it; for when I guessed what all their whispers meant, And softly answered, "Ten," They smiled as though they thought it time The little maid should turn From all her harum-scarum ways, And sit by them, and learn The gentle words and modest grace That maidens all should wear ; That guards the heart and makes the face, Though homely, sweet and fair. And so I softly laid my head Down close beside their own Upon the fragrant mossy bed : And in the softest tone, So that the zephyr could not hear And spread it to the breeze, Or rustle it with laughter light To all the listening trees, They taught me my first lesson through, And said some other day, When they were strengthened by the dew, That I might leave my play, And they would talk to me again. I kissed them o'er and o'er, And deep within my heart I hid My wealth of flower-lore. l>36 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. For something seemed to tell me then That I, perhaps, sonic day Could tell to others what I learned From violets that May, That God would give my heart a voice, And send me forth to sing Of all the honor and the love That nature bears her King. So I was never lonely more ; For flower, bird, and bee, Though each spake different languages, Were understood by me. Well, now I am a woman grown, And I have learned to braid My yellow hair quite prettily Without the brambles* aid. I do not climb the plum-trees now, Nor swing upon the gate, For fear among the " proper " ones " A talk " it might create. But though I have more quiet grown, 1 still am Nature's child, And oft she leads me to the haunts And sports of childhood wild. A new house sits upon the hill, Close by the river's side, With chimneys straight and windows bold, And galleries long and wide, Close-shingled roof and plastered wall ; But dearer far would be That old log-cabin, where the sun Peeped through the cracks at me. I do not shine in Fashion's court; My name is scarcely known Among the throng of worshippers That kneel around her throne. ELIZA POITEVENT. 637 But deep within the woods, amid A wilderness of pines, I dwell with aunt and uncle still, And on my brow there shines The happy light contentment gives; And in my heart I wear This blessed truth, that God is love, And beauty everywhere. When thirteen years of age, Pearl was sent to the Amite Female Seminary, in Amite County, Miss., where her many merry pranks soon won for her the name of "the wildest girl in school." She gradu ated at the age of "sweet sixteen," excelling in composition. A stanch " little rebel," her first attempt at verse was to write patriotic words to several patriotic airs, which she sang to a circle of not critical, but admiring friends. It was not until the " first year of the war " that any of her pro ductions appeared in print. Seeing a copy of "The South," a weekly paper published in New Orleans by John W. Overall, Esq., she was much pleased with the bold, dashing editorials, and sent several of her poems to him, trem bling at the boldness of the step. Her poems were not only published, but were favorably noticed, and a friendly, encouraging letter from Mr. Overall followed. She received little or no encouragement from the members of her own family, and she considers that she owes much to her first literary friend and patient critic, John "W. Overall, who introduced her to the public. Since that time, her gift of song has won her many appreciative friends among the literati of our country, but she looks back with grateful remembrance to the one who caught the first, faint, trembling notes of her lyre. After the discontinuance of "The South," " Pearl Rivers" contrib uted to the " New Orleans Sunday Times," and now contributes to the " Picayune," " New York Home Journal," and other journals. A lady who knows her, says, " She always carries her scrap-book and pencil with her, and writes at all times." She is one of Nature's sweetest poets, and as pure-hearted as the blue river from which she takes her name a wild-wood warbler, knowing how to sing of birds and flowers and flowing brooks, and all things beautiful. 638 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. If "Pearl Rivers" lives, her poetical talent must increase in lustre and value as the years roll by. A CHIRP FROM MOTHER ROBIN. See yon little Mother Robin, Sitting on her humble nest : Learn from her my poem-lesson ; Nature's teachers are the best. Other nests are lined more softly Larger nests than hers she sees ; Other nests are swinging higher In the summer's gentle breeze; But the Robin is contented ; Mine is warm enough, she says Large enough to hold my birdies Through their tender nesting-days. Smaller cradle, warmer cover ! For my little ones, she sings ; Four there are, but see how snugly They are tucked beneath my wings. And I envy not my neighbors, Redbird, Bluebird, Lark, or Thrush ; For the breeze that rocks the tree-tops Rocks my cradle in the bush. And the same bright sunshine warms me- By the same kind hand I 'm fed ; With the same green earth around me, And the same sky overhead. Though my dress is something plainer Than my cousin's, Madame Red ; Though I have no vest of crimson, And no gay hood on my head ; Still, my robe of graver colors Suits my station and my nest; And the Master knows what costume Would become a Robin best. ELIZA POITEVENT. 639 THE EOYAL CAVALCADE. Spring is coming, Spring is coming, Through the arch of Pleasant Days, With the harps of all her minstrels Tuned to warble forth lier praise. In her rosy car of Pleasure, Drawn by nimble-footed Hours, With a royal guard of Sunbeams, And a host of white-plumed Flowers, From the busy Court of Nature Rides the fair young Queen in state, O'er the road of Perfect Weather, Leading down to Summer Gate. Brave old March rides proudly forward, With her heralds, Wind and Rain ; He will plant her standard firmly On King Winter's bleak domain. Young Lord Zephyr fans her gently, And Sir Dewdrop's diamonds shine ; Lady May and Lady April By her Majesty recline. Lady April's face is tearful, And she pouts and frets the while ; But her lips will part with laughter Ere she rides another mile. Lady May is blushing deeply, As she fits her rosy gloves ; She is dreaming of the meeting With her waiting Poet-loves. Over meadow, hill and valley Winds the Royal Cavalcade, And, behind, green leaves are springing In the tracks the car-wheels made. And her Majesty rides slowly Through the humble State of Grass, G40 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. Speaking kindly to the Peasants As they crowd to see her pass. In the corners of the fences Hide the little Daisy-spies, Peeping shyly through the bushes, Full of childish, glad surprise ; And her gentle Maids of Honor, Modest Violets, are seen In their gala-dresses waiting, By the road-side, for their Queen. By her own bright light of Beauty Does she travel through the day ; And at night her Glowworm Footmen With their lanterns guide the way. She is coming, nearer ! nearer I Hark the sound of chariot-wheels ! Fly to welcome her, young minstrel, Sing the joy your spirit feels. The " Royal Funeral," which has never been printed, is a fitting companion to the " Royal Cavalcade." THE EOYAL FUNERAL. THE BODY OP THE QUEEN LYING IN STATE. There is mourning through the valleys, There is mourning on the hills, And I hear a broken music In the voice of all the rills. Spring, the fairest of the seasons Spring, the Virgin Queen, is dead, And a younger, browner sister Reigns upon her throne instead. Royal June, with rosy fingers, Softly closed her violet eyes, And within the Court of Nature Now in costly state she lies. ELIZA POITEVENT. 641 And the young Lord Zephyr, sighing, Yields his life upon her bier, And the diamonds of Sir Dewdrop Melt away into a tear. Brave old March, her veteran soldier, Covered with a tattered fold Of the banner borne so proudly, Lies beside her, dead and cold. And October, bold usurper ! (Now his arm has feeble grown;) On Her Majesty's dominion Reaps the harvest he has sown. Fair, capricious Lady April Sleepeth deep and calmly nigh ; Bound her lip a smile still lingers, Still a tear within her eye. On a bier of withered roses Lies the tender Lady May, While her constant loves, the Poets, Royal honors to her pay. Low and reverently kneeling, Bound her lovely form they throng, And embalm her precious beauty With the costly myrrh of song. Unto each she left a token, As a dying pledge of love : One she gave her azure girdle; One she gave her rosy glove ; One she gave her silver sandals, Bich with shining gems of dew ; O'er the shoulders of another She her precious mantle threw. But to me, the humble singer, Leaning on my harp, apart From the crowd of Boyal Poets, She has left a broken heart. 9 642 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. THE PROCESSION. Hark ! I hear a Voice proclaiming, Mournfully, Bring forth your dead ! And through Nature's holy Temple Has the solemn summons sped. With the incense of her Glory Burning low and sweet and dim, And the harps of all her minstrels Tuned to chant a funeral hymn: In a robe of fragrance shrouded By the spirits of the Flowers ; In a sable hearse of sorrow, Drawn by weary-footed Hours : From the silent Court of Nature Comes the fair, dead Queen in state, O'er the road of Gloomy Weather, Leading down to Winter Gate. Through the Summer Land they bear her, By a quiet, sunny way Through the golden Autumn Country To the Regions of Decay. Over meadow, hill, and valley Winds the Royal Funeral, And my spirit hears the pealing Of a' solemn funeral knell. She is coming nearer, nearer; Hark ! that mournful, mournful strain ; Fly to honor her, young minstrel, Joining in the funeral train. FLORIDA. 643 MARY E. BRYAN. HERE is not a name among the literary stars of the " South land " that fills a warmer place in every heart than that of Mary E. Bryan. Tastes differ about literature as about everything else; but there are somethings which challenge the universal admiration of mankind: some faces some forms as the "Venus de Medicis"and the "Apollo Belvidere" and some books, although the latter are most rare. Mrs. Bryan comes as near filling this exclusive niche in the gallery of letters as any woman of her age who ever wrote. She does not dazzle, like the fitful light of the "Borealis race," nor sparkle like sunset on a summer sea neither does she charm us by the smoothness and polish of her style ; but she manages to creep into the hearts of her readers, as few young writers have ever done. This comes of her own earnestness that deep, thrilling earnestness which marks all her writings, and especially her poetry. There her thoughts well up fresh and warm from the depths of a passionate heart, and never fail to meet a responsive throb in the hearts of her readers. " Bryan hers the words that glisten, Opal gems of sunlit rain ! So much the woman, you may listen Heart-beats pulsing in her brain ! She upon her songs has won Hybla's honey undistilled ; And ' from wine-vats of the sun,' With bright nectar overrun, Her urns of eloquence are filled!"* She is a poetess by nature. Largely endowed with that sense of the beautiful, which Poe called " an immortal instinct deep within the * Mrs. L. Virginia French. 645 646 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. spirit of man," she gives us glimpses of the loveliness which lies beyond the common sight, and " whose very elements, perhaps, apper tain to eternity alone." Mrs. Bryan has taken no care of her literary fame; she has been at no pains whatever to extend it. She has scattered the brilliant pro ductions of her intellect hither and thither among the periodicals of the South, as a tree flings its superabundant blossoms to the breeze ; and she has taken no thought of them afterward. Whatever she writes, she finishes with care, being led to do so out of respect and love for her profession ; but when written and sent to the press, it is forgotten scarcely even being read over by her after its publication. To one who has studied her closely, the reason of this is obvious. Mrs. Bryan possesses true genius hers is the real artist-feeling, which judges of the attained by the attempted ; and nobly as she writes, she has written nothing to satisfy her own high-placed ideal nothing that seems "worthy of her hope and aim more highly mated." Mrs. Bryan is a native of Florida daughter of Major John D. Edwards, an early settler of that State, and among the first and most" honored members of its Legislature. Both on the paternal and mater nal sides, she belongs to excellent and honorable families. Her mother, whose maiden name was Houghton, was herself an accomplished and talented lady. She lived in retirement, devoting her time principally to the education of her daughter. Mrs. Edwards was a charming woman and model mother. She made herself the companion of her daughters, (three in number,) won their confidence by her forbearing gentleness, and sympathy with their little cares, thoughts, and aspira tions. She was never too much engaged to answer their inquiries, or give them any information they desired. Mary's mind opened early too early, perhaps, for a cheerful and healthy youth. While other children played with their dolls, she roamed through the beautiful solitudes around her home, or wandered alone on the shores of the beautiful Gulf, where her parents were accustomed to spend their summers her mind filled with dreams and yearnings that bewildered her by their vagueness. She discovered in part what these yearnings meant, when, at the age of ten years, she was sent on a visit to her aunt, Mrs. Julia McBride, so well known in Florida for her piety and philanthropy. The family of this aunt (her husband and a noble group of grown-up sons and daughters) lay at rest in the church-yard MARY E. BRYAN. 647 on a neighboring hill ; and but for the occasional companionship of her brother, the lady lived alone. Mary could wander at will in her poetic reveries through the groves of orange and crape myrtle that embowered " Salubrity," and through the wide old gardens, scattered over with half ruined summer-houses, and enclosed by palings hung with the Multiflora and Cherokee Rose. She was never lonely; for, as she has written since : "The poet never is alone; The stars, the breeze, the flowers, All lovely things, his kindred are And charm his loneliest hours." But this insensate companionship did not satisfy. She longed for more intelligent teachers, with a vague yearning, which she did not comprehend, until one day she chanced to gain access to the library of her uncle Col. R. B. Houghton who was absent on professional duties. It was the opening of a fairy world to the imaginative mind of the child. In that shadowy, green-curtained library-room, with the orange-branches brushing against the window-panes, she entered upon a new life. Her reading had been hitherto confined to her text books, and now she revelled in the poetry of the masters, and in ro mances of another age. Much of what she read she understood through her mind's early development, no less than through the intuition of genius ; and what her young reason could not fathom was absorbed by feeling and imagination, as one catches the tune of a song, though it is sung too far off for the words to be understood. She read as a gifted child would do losing her own personality in that of the characters delineated, feeling every emotion as though it were a personal experience, thrilling over deeds of heroism, shuddering over those of crime, burning with indignation as she read of cruelty and injustice, and weeping passionately over the pictures of wrong and suffering and undeserved doom. She mused and dreamed con tinually over the revelations thus suddenly opened to her. None guessed what influences were moulding the mind of the precocious child. Could they not read the secret in her dreamy eyes and abstracted manner? Her uncle did so when he returned home, and he closed his library- doors resolutely against the little, pale, wistful face. 648 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. Years after, in the prime of her womanhood, she declared to him* that those hours of stolen communion with the " spirits of the libra ry " were more a blessing than a bane. Perhaps they were perhaps it was to these she owed the early maturity of her mind and the vari ety of her style. At eleven years old, she was sent to a boarding-school in Thomas- ville, Georgia. Here the shy little recluse, who had been at home among the "stately-stepping fancies" conjured up from the pages of romance and history, experienced a shrinking timidity when brought into intimate contact with girls of her own age. To her surprise she found herself far in advance of these in her studies so efficient had been her mother's teaching, so ready her own receptive powers. She was placed in a class of young ladies, and, says Col. Houghton: "I remember to have seen her during an examination of the school a slender little figure at the head of the class of grown-up girls, her pale face lit up resplendently by dark, earnest eyes, as she repeated page after pairc of intellectual philosophy, or musically rendered the Eclogues of Virgil. She was a special object of interest and curiosity to most of the audience there assembled, for she was known to be a religious enthusiast. A ' revi val ' had not long before ' converted ' a majority of the girls of the boarding- school: many of them had 'backslided,' some still held to the faith in a quiet, commonplace way; only this one, prone to extremes through her ardent, impulsive nature, became a fanatic, refraining from joining in the sports and pastimes of her playmates, refusing to answer a question posi tively lest there might be room for a doubt, giving all her pocket-money to the poor children of the school, and (greatest sacrifice of all, to one whose love for the beautiful made her delight in bright colors and lovely apparel) rejecting the pretty garments sent her from home, and appearing, in the midst of her gayly-dressed class, in a plain, faded frock. "Her composition upon this occasion had for its theme, 'The Shadow^ and Sunshine of Life.' I have before me, now, a mental picture of that rapt, young face so child-like in its contour, so old in the expression of the large thoughtful eyes, that were lighted with enthusiasm as she concluded with, a brief but glowing vision of the 'land beyond the vale of shadows and fleeting sunshine.' " This fanatical tendency, peculiarly strange in so young a child, * We are indebted for many facts in this sketch to Col. R. B. Houghton, of Florida, formerly well known as an accomplished writer and eloquent public speaker. He has known Mrs. Bryan from her earliest youth, and by his example first gave a literary turn to her mind, that, in fertility of imagination and ease of expression, bears a con siderable resemblance to his own. MAEY E. BRYAN. 649 greatly troubled Mary's parents, who were proud of her brilliant tal ents. It must have been a deep impression, for, gentle and yielding as her nature was, easily influenced by those she loved, and most sensitive to ridicule, it yet resisted entreaties, expostulation, and ridicule. In time it wore away. " Only once," says Col. Houghton, " did she speak to me of this period of her life. ' It contained,' she said, ' agonies, that I could not again hear and live. For the least venial sin real or imagined I was visited by pangs of remorse. Often have I passed whole nights on my knees in prayer, unconscious of cold or fatigue in the more acute mental anguish I endured. Yet, after the long wrestle, the agonizing doubt and despair, there would corr.e a wonderful reaction, and I would experience moments of ecstasy in describable. I cannot understand it. It is a mystery to my maturer years.' " Mary was then only twelve years old. A short time afterward her parents removed to Thomasville, for the purpose of educating their daughters, and made for themselves a suburban home, beautiful with vineyards, gardens, and orchards. In the years that followed, Mary wrote, and published in a Thomasville paper, poems, and a story that ran through several numbers of the paper. She was still a school girl, iardly sixteen, when her friends were surprised to hear that she was married married to 'the son of a Louisiana planter. Her mar riage vas as unexpected to her as it was to her friends and relatives. An hoar before she took upon herself the irrevocable vows, she was sitting, school-girl fashion, on the rug before the fire in her own room, quietly studying her Latin lesson. Two hours afterward, she had bid den acliai to her girlish pursuits, to her parents, sisters, and friends, and was n her way to her husband's home on the banks of Red River. During tl.e first year of her marriage she passed through some bitter experiences experiences which one so young, so sensitive, and so ignorant 01 life, was illy prepared to meet. At the end 1 of a year, she was visited by her father, who thought best that she should accompany him back to her old home. Of the partial separation that ensued, (partial, beciuse she was constantly visited by her husband, who was devoted to her, and no^estrangement ever existed between them,) it is not necessaly to say any more than that it was deemed advisable by her father, a jast man as well as an affectionate parent. There were peculiar circumstances which, in his opinion and that of her friends, made it judicious for her to postpone a return to her husband's home in Louisiana. 650 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. To divert her mind from painful thought, her father advised a re newal of her studies, with a view to completing her education ; and she turned to her old text-books sadly and listlessly at first, after ward with new energy and zeal for knowledge. She now resumed her writing for the press, and became a regular contributor to several periodicals. Among these was the " Literary Crusader," published by Mr. John Seals, at Penfield, Georgia. After writing for this paper for two years, it was removed to Atlanta, greatly enlarged and improved, and she was solicited to take part in its editorial management. She accepted the offer, went to Atlanta, and entered upon her new duties with the ardor and energy which are her distinguishing traits. She succeeded in giving to the " Crusader " an individuality it had not before possessed, and in making it widely and popularly known, not only throughout the South, but in the Middle and Northern States. During the year in which she edited the " Crusader " in Atlanta, I believe that Mrs. Bryan performed more literary work and of a more varied character than any female of her age (twenty years) ever ac complished in the same length of time. The expenses of removing the " Crusader " to Atlanta, of purchasing new type and press, etc., were so great that the proprietor did not consider that his finances jus tified his paying for contributions; still he wished to make his paper interesting and to have it contain a variety of original reading-natter. Mrs. Bryan was equal to this emergency. She determined to me best of her ability to supply the place of contributors. She called in play for the first time her remarkable versatility, her power of changing her style " from grave to gay, from lively to severe," and she filled a page of the " Crusader " every week with the required viriety of original reading-matter from her own pen. Every number contained one or more columns of "editorial" upon subjects of presert interest. Then a group, of sparkling paragraphs, local or critical essays, thoughtful or humorous, and sometimes scintillating wLh wit a poem a sketch or story, and often one or more chapters of a serial tale. In addition to the weekly task of filling so many columns of a large literary paper, and also to the trouble of proof-reating, selecting, and other duties connected with her office, Mrs. Bryan :bund time to pursue, at intervals, the course of reading and study sl:e had marked out for herself. But she did so by encroaching largely upon the hours allotted to rest. Even the Sabbath was no day of relaxation, since it MAEY E. BEYAN. 651 brought its own duties, in the care of her Bible class, of her younger band of Sunday-school scholars, and in an unfailing attendance upon divine service in the Methodist church, of which she was a faithful member. In November of this year, she was invited to read a poem at the Commencement of College Temple, Newnan, Georgia. Her poem was an eloquent delineation of true womanhood its sphere, its mis sion, and its aspirations; and it was read in her own rich, magnetic voice. After she had taken her seat, she was recalled and compli mented with a diploma from the president of the college. Before the close of the year, Mrs. Bryan felt that the unremitting toil was telling upon her health. She needed rest, and returned home, determined to write less than she had been doing. Several proposi tions were made for her services the next year. She accepted the offer of Col. James Gardner, proprietor of the " Field and Fireside," as being not only most liberal in salary, but most generous in its privi leges. He expressly insisted that she should rest, should write at her leisure, and write with care and correction. How well she followed the latter suggestion, was shown in her first contributions to the " Field and Fireside," the noble essay, " How should Women Write," the pathetic sketch, " Cutting Kobbie's Hair," and the fine poem, " The Hour when we shall Meet." (The sketch and poem are to be found in Mary Forrest's " Distinguished Women of the South.") She contrib uted novelettes, stories, essays, and poems. About this time she de cided to return with her husband to Louisiana, and we next find her in her own quiet home, isolated from literary society, from the stimulus of applause and encouragement, and from those influences which quicken the energies and sharpen the mental faculties. Notwithstand ing this, she completed her engagement with the "Field and Fire side," and entered upon a new year, beginning it with the initial chap ters of " Haywood Lodge." This is a beau-ideal of a novel "a striking fiction/' The characters are as distinctly and as graphically drawn as any in " Adam Bede," or " Mill on the Floss." The scenes are sprightly and lifelike, and the plot one of intense interest. Mrs. Bryan promised a sequel to this novel a second volume, so to speak which has been from time to time demanded by the public, but is not yet forthcoming. When she commenced her second engagement with the " Field and Fireside," it was at the commencement of the late war. Her husband 652 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. enlisted in the service of his country, and to Mrs. Bryan was left the super intendence of the household and plantation. With these domestic duties she had little leisure for writing, yet she wrote a series of articles, vig orous in style and caustic in their satire, denouncing and exposing the system of extortion, speculation, and fraud which was undermining the Southern interest. These articles appeared in the parish paper, having a local circulation only. When the war ended, Mr. Bryan had only honorable scars and com parative poverty. In order to contribute her mite toward rebuilding their fallen fortunes, Mrs. Bryan accepted the editorship of the "Semi- weekly Times," published in Natchitoches. She removed temporarily to Natchitoches for the purpose of superintending the paper in person, and entered upon the work with her accustomed energy and earnest ness. She was now required to try her versatile powers in a direction in which they had never essayed. The " Times " was a political paper, and Mrs. Bryan's leading articles were required by its proprietor to be discussions of the grave political questions agitating the public mind. This was by no means a congenial task, but none would have guessed it from reading the bold and vigorous " leaders " which appeared twice a week in the columns of the " Times," or the pungent paragraphs, the witty and satirical comments upon contemporary opinions, or upon the ludicrous aspect Qf " African sovereignty." Her work was attended by the most disheartening drawbacks. She wrote under the disadvantages of ill health, of sickness in her family, and of the necessity of devoting much of her time to the care of three young children the eldest only five years old. In spite of these adverse circumstances, she furnished to the " Times," twice a week, not only the required columns of "editorial" and editorial para graphs, but one or more essays, and usually a sketch, a story, or a poem. Mrs. Bryan's stay in Natchitoches was one of misfortune, and it was terminated by an affliction the most bitter she had ever been called upon to endure the long, painful illness and death of her youngest child her baby, her darling. The little sufferer (who had been a bright and beautiful boy) was suddenly and mysteriously afflicted, and lay for many weeks in the "death in life" of paraly-is. It was during one of her anguished watches by that bed of silent suf fering that Mrs. Bryan wrote the poem which she has called " Mise rere." During the illness of her child, Mrs. Bryan exerted herself to MARY E. BRYAN. 653 continue her editorial duties writing while the little one slept in her lap, or upon the bed, beside which she kept her unremitting watch ; but when the little coffin was carried out from the room, and she sat down with aching heart to supply the remorseless demand for " copy," she found it impossible to collect her thoughts. The reaction had come; the long strain upon her feelings and energies showed its effects, and all she wrote was a brief adieu to the patrons of the paper'. She returned to her plantation home, but continued to contribute to the " Times." In 1868, she went on a visit to her relatives in Florida, and while there formed an engagement with " Scott's Magazine," (Atlanta.) In this magazine she published a novel, entitled " The Mystery of Cedar Bay," which will appear probably in book-form. This serial is original and thrillingly interesting. It is difficult to convey an adequate idea of Mrs. Bryan's powers by means of extracts, owing to the variety of style. Ease and grace characterize her lighter compositions, force and vigor distinguish her graver productions. Mrs. Bryan has -frequently been called "the most gifted female writer which the South has produced." She is certainly the most versatile. It is in her power to make herself the most widely known. To do this, she must show more appreciation of her own powers she must concentrate her energies upon some one work. ANACKEON. Yon sea-like slope of darkening pines Is surging with the tempest's power, And not one star of promise shines Upon the twilight hour; With wailing sounds the blast is rife, And wilder yet the echoes roll Up from the scenes where want and strife Convulse the human soul. 'Tis madness rules the fateful hour; Let me forget its fearful power; Drop low the curtains of my room, And in the green and purple gloom Lose sight of angry men and stormy skies, Gazing, Anacreon, on thy splendid eyes. 654 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. My grand old Greek I far back in time Thy glorious birth-hour lies ; Thy shade has heard the tread sublime Of passing centuries. And yet the soul that thrilled thy lyre Has power to charm us still, And with its vivid light and fire Our duller spirits fill. Breathe on me, spirit rare and fine, Buoyant with energy divine : The light and joy of other days Live in those blue eyes' dazzling rays ; They lift my soul from its confining cage, The barriers of this dull and sordid age. I dream I am a girl of Greece, With pliant shape and foam-white arms, And locks that fall in bright release To veil my bosom's charms. The skies of Greece above me bend The ^Egean winds are in my hair ; I hear gay songs, and shoutings send Their music on the air. I see a bright procession pass The girls throw garlands on the grass And, crowned with myrtle and with bay, I see thee pass that flowery way, While swim before me smiling fields and skies, Dimmed by a glance of thy resplendent eyes. Prince of the Lyre ! thy locks are white As Blanc's untrodden snow; But, quenchless in their fire and light, Thy blue eye beams below, And well the myrtle gleams among Thy bays, like stars of truth ; The poet's soul is ever young His is immortal youth. He dwells within that border-land Where innocence and passion stand Ardent, yet pure, clasped hand in hand And years but add a richer grace, A higher charm to mind and face, While youth and beauty that his dreams eclipse, Bend to the magic of his eyes and lips. MARY E. BRYAN. 655 Oh ! heart of love and soul of fire I My spirit bows to thee ; Type of the ideals that inspire My dreams eternally, I 'd be a slave to such as thou, And deem myself a queen, If sometimes to my kneeling brow Those perfect lips might lean. High hopes and aims within my breast Would spring from their despairing rest, And the wild energies that sleep Like prisoned genii might out leap, And bid my name among th' immortal shine, If fame, to me, could mean such love as thine. MISEEEEE. Alone with night and silence, and those strange, Those bright, unseeing, sleepless eyes, whose depth I have searched vainly, weary days and nights, For some sweet gleam of consciousness, some ray Of tender recognition to break forth Sudden and starlike from the vacant cloud. It does not come; the sweet soul that looked forth From those deep eyes wanders mysteriously In some dim land that borders upon death, And I sit watching, after many days. With the tears dried upon my pallid cheeks, Their fountains dried within my hopeless heart, Waiting for death to make me desolate. The roses of a lovely May breathe out Their souls of fragrance underneath the moon ; The wind comes down from the wild grove of pines, Vocal with wordless mysteries ; I see Its fingers toying with yon delicate leaves, Touched with faint silver by the midnight moon ; I see the dew-gleam on the tender grass, The thousand starry sentinels that watch Upon the battlements of heaven ; I see All these, as if I saw not ; for those eyes Haunt me forever, turn upon me still, Through the blank darkness made by clasping hands, 056 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. By blinding tears, and clouds of falling hair, A- with bowed head I strive to shut the sight From the o'ertortured sense. Oh ! what to me Is it how many flowers the TMay shall blow Into young bloom with her sweet breath, since I Must lay mine low beneath the chilly sod, And watch the grass grow green between my heart And the sweet face I cradled on my breast? What is it to me how many singing larks The morn may send to gild their soaring wings With the unrisen sun? the voice that was The sweetest under heaven to me is still ! I would not turn from the pale lips, whereon Cruel paralysis that death in life Has laid his numbing seal, to list the strains The sirens sang across the classic seas. My child, my child ! my beautiful, bright boy I In whose large eyes I dreamed that genius slept; For whose broad brow my fancy twined the bays That I had ceased to strive for ; my fair flower, That came when life seemed the most desolate, And shed a brightness round its lonely waste, And weaned the heart from the wild love of death, And rest, and deep forgetfulness ; thy lip, Ere it could speak, quivered in sympathy With my hot tears that fell upon thy face ; Thy baby hand lay softly on my heart Like a charmed flower, and soothed its wild unrest. What hopes have I not built for thee? what dreams Of future greatness has my fancy reared, Kneeling beside thy cradle, stroking back The locks from thy broad temples? Well I knew That my own life had failed ; that the bright hopes And untamed aspirations of my youth, Met by the storm of fate, had drooped their wing, And fallen back, cold and dying, to the heart That was their nest. Alas! I felt the cord Of iron circumstance upon my life, And knew that woman's sorrowful fate was mine; That the wild energies that thrilled my being MARY E. BRYAN. 657 Must throb themselves to silence; that with me Ambition must mean only grief; but thou, No robes of womanhood could trip thy steps Upon the mountain-paths of fame, my child ; Thou couldst be free and fearless ; thou mightst win The goal I could not touch ; mightst boldly speak The truths I dared not utter. Ay, I dreamed Thy voice might thrill the great soul of the world ; And strong for truth, and brave for truth, might lead, With clarion peal, the march of Eight, and bid Hoary Oppression tremble on his throne And Wrong, and Bigotry, and Hatred quail Before its fearless utterance; that should drown The hiss of malice, and the carping cry Of Envy and weak Fear. So I have dreamed, When hope and love beat time within my breast, And ideal visions passed with prophecies In their deep eyes. Yet more; when I beheld The fair land of my love laid low, and made A land of graves and woful memories A slaved and conquered land, that scarcely dares To quiver underneath th' oppressor's heel I did not weep ; for what avail were tears, E'en from the depths of a " divine despair," Before such wrong, such woe, such wretchedness, Such desolation? So I did not weep. A woman's tears fit only to keep warm And moist the sod of graves ; I only knelt, With beating heart and burning cheek, above The fair child of my hopes, and thought to breathe And mould into his unformed being my own Deep love, and pity, and devotedness, And passionate sense of wrong. In time, they might Produce the fruits I should not see: the soul That looked forth radiantly from the clear eyes, The hand that lay so flower-like within mine, Might aid to win his land's deliverance, And break the thraldom his free soul would scorn. Alas! to-night how vain and wild they seem Those earthly visions those proud hopes and dreams ; 10 658 SOUTHLAND W RITER8. For thcc, my darling, lying like a flower, The flames have scathed in passing, and have left Blighted and dying, vain and wild they seem, As kneeling thus, I hold in mine that hand My fancy clothed with manhood's strength and grace, Now pale and paralyzed, while the bright mind That was my joy and pride, alas ! they say, It will not shine again in the sweet face, And give its radiance to the eyes I loved ; That e'en if life creeps back, and the fell fiend Of fever quits his victim, that the mind Will never more leap from the eyes in light, But stay within its cell, the brain, a dim Aud dreaming prisoner. Oh! I dare not dwell Upon the thought ; better for thee and me Were death, my darling ; better this dear head Were lain beneath the shadows of the pines That oversweep yon City of the Dead. And thus I give thee up, my child, my life, To the great God who lent thee. Go, and be Tended by angels in the land where pain Comes not to rack the brain ; from angel lips Of loveliest music, angel eyes and brows, Divinely calm with love, and bright with thought, Learn the deep lore of heaven, and forget The brief and pain-fraught life that only saw The roses of one summer fade away. BY THE SEA. Once more, once more Beneath the golden skies I loved so well, Listening once more to the blue billows' swell Upon the sandy shore The blue, bright waves, that in the sunlight shine Through vistas of the feathery palm and pine. Land of my love, once more Thy beauty is around me : on my brow Thy pine-trees fling their shifting shadows now, And when the day-beams pour MARY E. BRYAN. 659 Across the cloud,. my steed's swift gallop shakes The scarlet berries in thy lonely brakes. And when the noon is high, I see the yellowing lime and orange swinging On branches where the wild bird's notes are ringing, While all neglected lie The purple figs dropped in the plumy grass, The wild grapes hanging where cool waters pass. And when the planets burn, The fairest of the long-haired Naiad daughters Holds upward, through her lake's pellucid waters, The water-lily's urn, And floats its broad, green leaf upon the tide, To form an isle, where fairies might abide. Yet strange to me they seem These glories of my native tropic clime; No more its silver-flowing waters rhyme With my own spirit's dream. The charm has vanished, broken is the spell ; And in the woods and in the hollow dell Strange echoes seem to shape the word farewell. I would rebind the spell About my brow ; fling off the chain of years. Say, what should check me ? Why should time and tears The spirit sear or quell ? Snatch me a wreath from yonder blooming vine ! Here let me lie, where morning-glories twine, And round me call my olden dreams divine. Vain ! vain ! the broken spell Can never be renewed ; the vanished charm I 've vainly sought in jessamines breathing warm ; In the magnolia's bell ; In deep ravines, where mystic waters pour Through the cleft earth, and reappear no more. But yesternight I stole Dow r n to the sea down to the lonely sea, W T here but the starlight shone mysteriously ; And there, my listening soul Heard, through the silence, every solemn wave Speak, in deep, mournful whispers of a grave. 660 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. And now I know that here, Even here across the glory and the bloom There falls the shadow of that little tomb The grave they made last year, Hiding beneath the sodden earth forlorn The flower of love, my desolate life had borne. Oh ! not for me, for me, Does the pale Naiad hold her lily-urn, And not for me the starry jessamines burn ; Only the dreary sea Brings me a message on each solemn wave Bearing the mournful story of a grave. THE FATAL BRACELET. It wanted a half-hour to midnight. The marriage ceremony had long been over, and the bride had been gayest among her guests. There was a pause in the dance just now. Vane had gone below called down upon some business that would not wait even for bridal festivities. Flushed and sparkling, Coralyn stood at a retired window beside her partner, resting from the exercise of the dance. The night was warm, and her companion prof fered to go for a glass of iced water. When he had quitted her side, she leaned from the window, drinking in the fresh air, whose balm cooled the hot glow upon her cheeks, and quieted the feverish unrest of her heart. She did not hear a stealthy step approach her ; she had no warning of the prox imity of danger, until a voice said in her ear : " I am late with my congratu lations for such an old friend." She turned instantly, and confronted him face to face. It was he ! He was not dead. It was the dark, handsome face of the picture darker and more sinister than ever. Had the earth opened at her feet, she could not have been more stunned, more stupefied could not have grown whiter, or felt her brain reel with more deadly sickness. " Do not faint ! " he whispered, with a scornful smile half denned on his full lips. " What would be thought ? " The necessity for self-control brought back consciousness and strength. She glanced around she was not observed. " I thought " she faltered. " That I was dead. Very distressing thought, no doubt, to you. Happy to relieve your mind by affording you ocular proof of my existence. Prob ably, you thought that death alone should have kept me away from your arms. Really, you must blame the importunities of friends, which it wu* out of my power to resist. They kindly obliged me to accept the privilege MARY E. BRYAN. 661 of their residence and the society of their select guests, and insisted so stren uously upon my partaking of their hospitality for the term of my natural life, that it was only by stratagem and the devil's help that I at last got rid of the burden of their excessive kindness. See ; I have brought away a token of their affection." And the escaped convict unfastened his jewelled sleeve-button, and rolling back his sleeve a little way, showed the deep scars of handcuffs on his wrist. He smiled as he saw her shudder. Then, as he quietly buttoned his cuff again, the partner of Coralyn returned with the glass of water. She would have sprung forward eagerly to his side, but a glance from the eyes she feared, restrained her. The dark stranger stepped gracefully forward. " Permit me," he said, taking the glass from the gentleman with bland politeness, and placing it in her hand. It would have fallen from her cold fingers, but he held it, while she drained the last crystal drop. The glass was returned to the gentleman. He was her husband's dearest friend. He would have remained by her side, had he seen or interpreted the mute, imploring look she cast upon him. He did not see it. He turned away, and left her with the man, whose easy familiarity seemed to betoken him an old friend. She cast her eyes over the crowd fearing and yet blindly wishing to see her husband's tall figure, and meet his eyes in search of her. Yet how could he help her ? What would she dare to say to him ? If he knew all, would he not fling her from him in horror ? Oh ! what should she do ? what would become of her ? Why had she ever deceived him and yielded to the temptation of securing herself within the safe, sweet shelter of home and love? What right had she to home or love? she she she dared not whisper it to herself. It was horrible horrible ! True, she had been so young, so utterly ignorant ; and then -that cruel, terrible Margery and her son the fiendish being who stood now gloating upon her beauty and her terror. Could it be she had ever loved him had trembled and blushed when he spoke to her had watched him (the first young man she had ever seen) with a fearful, fascinated gaze, and a feeling of mingled abhorrence and admiration ? Why had he come here to-night? What would he dare to tell of her past life, when it must involve an exposure of himself he, the escaped felon, doubtless with a price upon his head ? Did he read the rapid thoughts that rushed through her brain ? He stood there, watching her with folded arms, and a smile on his lips. His eyes drank in her beauty, and burned upon her with the blended fire of love and hate. The band began playing a waltz the dancers gathered upon the floor. "Let us waltz," he said suddenly, proffering his hand. She made an involuntary gesture of loathing, and her lips syllabled a refusal. His dark brow grew blacker as he saw the abhor rence she could not conceal. His eyes flashed luridly ; he bent down and whispered a word in her ear. She grew livid to the lips ; her eyes fell, her 662 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. hands dropped at her side. He watched her with his shining, serpent eyes and half-formed smile. "Shall we waltz now? " he asked gayly ; and passing his arm around her waist, they floated into the centre of the room among the dancers. The music was at first slow and soft. As they swam through its languid mazes, he kept his basilisk eyes fixed upon her. " You wear my gift," he said, tightening his grasp upon her wrist that was circled by the coiled serpent. " Yours ? " she uttered. " Nurse Margery's " " No ; mine. The note was only a ruse to make sure of your wearing the bracelet. Margery is dead." "Dead?" " Dead starved to death in a gutter, thanks to the gratitude of her fos ter-child." He hissed out the words between his teeth. His lips parted, and the white, carnivorous teeth shone beneath the black moustache like the teeth of a wild beast. " Her foster-child," he continued, " that she fed when a pauper, and who, when her heirship was discovered, drove her off to starve." " Not I, not I it was my aunt. God forgive me, I had not courage " " Hush speaking of God. What is God to us? My mother will not for give. She will torture you for it in the regions of the damned." She cowered under the dark words and the threatening brow and eyes. What a mockery it was to be whirling round to the quickening music, flower- crowned and festally arrayed, while her spirit shrank within her through terrible shame, and her brain reeled with dizzy torture. " And you ? " she found voice to say ; " why are you here to-night ? " " To crush a worm that has dared to sting me. Ha ! did you think I could be deceived and trifled with, without my revenge? " As he spoke, bending his lips so close to hers that the fiery breath was on her cheek, he grasped the serpent-bound arm so tightly, that she uttered a faint exclamation. It was drowned by the music, that now rose wilder and faster, while the dancers whirled in rapid circles over the floor, that shook witli the beating of their feet. " Scream," he whispered ; " draw the crowd around you. I will then have a fine opportunity of explaining old matters." " Have mercy," she moaned, as he whirled her relentlessly around. " Loose your grasp upon my arm. The bracelet is piercing my flesh. I am suffering intensely." " It is the cobra's tooth," he answered, with the malignant smile of a fiend. " The bracelet is bewitched. My touch endues it with life and venom. Its head is lifted no longer ; the blow is struck ; the fangs are in your flesh." " O God ! I am ill. I am in terrible pain ! in mercy let me stop ! " But round and round -he whirled her supporting her slender figure almost wholly by his muscular arm. MARY E. BRYAN. 663 " Spare me ! spare me ! " she groaned. " In mercy, in mercy ! " " Did you think of mercy when you broke your faith with me ? taught yourself to scorn and hate me ; drove my old mother, who had nursed you, from your presence, and deceived an honorable man into taking you as his wife you, a wife! ha! ha! impostor! I would have found my sweetest revenge by exposing all Holding you up to his scorn and the contempt of the world you love so well ; but I look to my own safety. I am not ready to swing just yet, or to go back to that devil's hole of punishment. I have taken a safer mode to secure my revenge." " O God ! I suffer, I suffer ! " Her head fell back heavily against him. " Water ! " he cried, "a lady has fainted." " She has fainted ! the bride has fainted ! " repeated a score of voices, and the throng pressed around her in helpless bewilderment. Vane heard the words, as he came bounding up the steps. He strode into the room. The crowd made way as he came. He took her into his arms. He flung back the rich hair until it swept rippling to the floor. He called her by all the sweet, endearing names of love, as ho applied one restorative after another. But there came no sign of life. The lips were closely crushed together, and lurid circles were darkening under the eyes. " A physician ! " he cried huskily. One stood beside him now holding the slender wrist, which the serpent bracelet no longer clasped. He knelt down and examined her attentively. He was a man of science and experi ence long a sojourner in Eastern lands. " It is death," he said solemnly. Vane was speechless. They took her from him to another room, and he followed like a child. As the body was borne past the physician, he pointed to the livid spots gathering upon the marble of the breast, arms, and fore head, and said : " If this were in the East, I should swear that she died from the bite of the cobra da Capelli."' And where was the murderer ? where was he with that fatal bracelet, with its concealed spring and its slender, poisoned blade dipped in the poison of the cobra the speediest and deadliest ? No one knew. He had disappeared in the confusion of the crowd. Only one suspected him of being a murderer. The next day the civil authorities searched the neighborhood for an es caped convict a desperate felon, committed for life. They went away without finding him ; but some days afterward, a party of hunters in the mountains saw the vultures gathered around something at the foot of the precipice. They reached the place by a circuitous path, and found the body of a human being : the wrists and ankles were scarred as if by heavy irons, the clothing was rich, and in the pocket of the^coat was found a curious bracelet of gold in semblance a cobra serpent, in the attitude of striking, 664 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. with eyes of emeralds and hood studded with rubies ; on touching a secret spring, it was found that the cobra's head sprang suddenly forward, and a tiny blade leaped out from its jaws ! " Do not touch it," said the physician. " It has been dipped in the poison of the cobra." HOW SHOULD WOMEN WRITE? The idea of women writing books I There were no prophets in the days of King John to predict an event so far removed from probability. The women of the household sat by their distaffs, or toiled in the fields, or busied themselves in roasting and brewing for their guzzling lords. If ever a poetic vision or a half-defined thought floated through their minds, they sang it out to their busy wheels, or murmured it in rude sentences to lull the babies upon their bosoms, or silently wove it into their lives to manifest itself in patient love and gentleness. And it was all as it should have been ; there was need for nothing more. Physical labor was then all that was required of woman ; and to " act well her part," meant but to perform the domestic duties which were given her. Life was less complex then than now the intellectual part of man's twofold nature being but unequally developed, while the absence of labor-saving implements demanded a greater amount of manual toil from men as well as from women. It is different now. Modern ingenuity and Protean appliances of ma chinery have lessened the necessity of actual physical labor ; and, in the constant progress of the human race, new fields have been opened, and new social needs and requirements are calling for workers in other and higher departments. There is a cry now for intellectual food through the length and breadth of the land. The old oracles of the past, the mummied literary remains of a dead age, will not satisfy a generation that is pressing so vigorously forward. They want books imbued with the strong vitality and energy of the present. And as it is a moving, hurrying, changing time, with new influences and opinions constantly rising like stars above the horizon, men want books to keep pace with their progress nay, to go before and guide them, as the pillar of fire and cloud did the Israelites in the desert. So they want books for every year, for every month mirrors to "catch the manners living as they rise," lenses to concentrate the rays of the new stars that dawn upon them. There is a call for workers ; and woman, true to her mission as the help meet for man, steps forward to take her part in the intellectual labor, as she did when only manual toil was required :it her hands. The pen has become the mighty instrument of reform and rebuke ; the press is the teacher and the preacher of the world ; and it is not only the privilege, but the duty of MARY E. BRYAN. 665 woman to aid in extending this influence of letters, and in supplying the intellectual demands of society, when she has been endowed with the power. Let her assure herself that she has been called to the task, and then grasp her pen firmly, with the stimulating consciousness that she is performing the work assigned to her. Thus is apparent what has been gradually admitted, that it is woman's duty to write but how and what? This is yet a mooted question. Men, after much demur and hesitation, have given women liberty to write ; but they cannot yet consent to allow them full freedom. They may flutter out of the cage, but it must be with clipped wings ; they may hop about the smooth-shaven lawn, but must, on no account, fly. With metaphysics they have nothing to do ; it is too deep a sea for their lead to sound ; nor must they grapple with those great social and moral problems with which every strong soul is now wrestling. They must not go beyond the surface of life, lest they should stir the impure sediment that lurks beneath. They may whiten the outside of the sepulchre, but must not soil their kidded hands by essaying to cleanse the inside of its rottenness and dead men's bones. Nature, indeed, is given them to fustianize over, and religion allowed them as their chief capital the orthodox religion, that says its prayers out of a prayer-book, and goes to church on Sabbaths ; but on no account the higher, truer religion, that, despising cant and hypocrisy, and scorning forms and conventionalisms, seeks to cure, not to cloak the plague-spots of society the self-forgetting, self-abnegating religion that shrinks not from following in the steps of Christ, that curls not its lip at the touch of poverty and shame, nor fears to call crime by its right name, though it wear a gilded mask, nor to cry out earnestly and bravely, "Away with it! away with it!" No! not such religion as this. It is unfeminine ; women have no business with it whatever, though they may ring changes as often as they please upon the "crowns of gold," the "jasper walls," and "seraph harps." Having prescribed these bounds to the female pen, men are the first to condemn her efforts as tame and commonplace, because they lack earnest ness and strength. If she writes of birds, of flowers, sunshine, and id omne genus, as did Amelia \Velby, noses are elevated superbly, and the effusions are said to smack of bread and butter. If love, religion, and domestic obligations are her theme, as with Mrs. Hentz, " namby-pamby " is the word contemptuously applied to her produc tions. If, like Mrs. Southworth, she reproduces Mrs. KadclifFe in her possi bility scorning romances, her nonsensical clap- trap is said to be "beneath criticism ; " and if, with Patty Pepper, she gossips harmlessly of fashions and fashionables, of the opera and Laura Keene's, of watering-places, lec tures, and a railroad trip, she is "pish"-ed aside as silly and childish ; while those who seek to go beyond the boundary-line are put down with the stigma 6G6 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. of " strong-minded" Fanny Fern, who, though actuated by no fixed pur pose, was yet more earnest than the majority of her sisterhood, heard tin- word hissed in her ears whenever she essayed to strike a blow at the root of social sin and inconsistency, and had whatever there was of noble and phi lanthropic impulse in her nature annihilated by the epithets of " bold " and " indelicate," which were hurled at her like poisoned arrows. It will not do. Such dallying with surface-bubbles, as we find in much of our periodical literature, might have sufficed for another age, but not for this. We want a deeper troubling of the waters, that we may go down into the pool and be healed. It is an earnest age we live in. Life means more than it did in other days ; it is an intense reality, crowded thick with eager, questioning thoughts and passionate resolves ; with burning aspirations and agonized doubts. There are active influences at work, all tending to one grand object moral, social, and physical advancement. The pen is the compass-needle that points to this pole. Shall woman dream on violet banks, while this great work of reformation is needing her talents and her energies? Shall she prate prettily of moonlight, music, love, and flowers, while the world of stern, staring, pressing realities of wrong and woe, of shame and toil, surrounds her? Shall she stifle the voice in her soul for fear of being sneered at as strong-minded, and shall her great heart throb and heave as did the mountain of ^Esop, only to bring forth such insignifi cant mice such productions more paltry in purpose than in style and conception which she gives to the world as the offspring of her brain ? It will not long be so. Women are already forming higher standards for themselves, learning that genius has no sex, and that, so the truth be told, it matters not whether the pen is wielded by a masculine or a female hand. The active, earnest, fearless spirit of the age, which sends the blood thrilling through the veins of women, will flow out through their pens, and give color to the pictures they delineate, to the principles they affirm. Lit erature must embody the prominent feeling of the age on which it is engrafted. It is only an isolated, excepted spirit, like Keats's, which can close its eyes to outward influences, and, amid the roar of gathering political storms, and the distant thunderings of the French Revolution, lie down among the sweet, wild English flowers, and dream out its dream of the old Greek beauty. How should a woman write ? I answer, as men, as all should write to whom the power of expression has been given honestly and without fear. Let them write what they feel and think, even if there be errors in the thought and the feeling better that than the lifeless inanities of which lit erature, and especially periodical literature, furnishes so many deplorable samples. Our opinions on ethical and social questions change continually as the mind develops, and the light of knowledge shines more broadly through the far-off opening in the labyrinth of inquiry through which we wander, MARY E. BRYAN. 667 seeking for truth. Thus, even when writers are most honest, their opinions, written at different times, often appear contradictory. This the discerning reader will readily understand. He will know that in ascending the ladder, upon whose top the angels stand, the prospect widens and changes contin ually as newer heights are won. Emerson, indeed, tells us that " a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. With consistency, a great soul has simply nothing to do. Speak what you think now in hard words ; and to-morrow, speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict everything you said to-day." This is strong perhaps too unqualified ; but even inconsistency is better than the dull, donkey-like obstinacy which refuses to move from one posi tion, though the wooing spirit of inquiry beckon it onward, and winged speculation tempt it to scale the clouds. Still, there should be in writing, as in acting, a fixed and distinct purpose to which everything should tend. If this be to elevate and refine the human race, the purpose will gradually and unconsciously work out its own accom plishment. Not, indeed, through didactic homilies only ; every image of beauty or sublimity crystallized in words, every philosophic truth, and every thought that has a tendency to expand the mind or enlarge the range of spiritual vision, will aid in advancing this purpose, will be as oil to the lamp we carry to light the footsteps of others. As to the subjects that should be written upon, they are many and varied ; there is no exhausting them while nature teems with beauty while men live, and act, and love, and suffer while the murmurs of the great ocean of the Infinite come to us in times when the soul is stillest, like music that is played too far off for us to catch the tune. Broad fields of thought lie before us, traversed, indeed, by many feet, but each season brings fresh fruits to gather and new flowers to crop. Genius, like light, shines upon all things upon the muck-heap as upon the gilded cupola. As to the wrong and wretchedness which the novelist lays bare it will not be denied that such really exists in this sin-beleaguered world. Where fore shrink and cover our eyes when these social ulcers are probed ? Better earnestly endeavor to eradicate the evil, than seek to conceal or ignore its existence. Be sure this will not prevent it eating deeper and deeper into the heart. Genius, when true and earnest, will not be circumscribed. No power shall say to it : " Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther." Its province is, in part, to daguerreotype the shifting influences, feelings, and tendencies at work in the age in which it exists and sin, and grief, and suffering, as well as hope, and love, and joy, and star-eyed aspiration, pass across its pages as phantoms across the charmed mirror of the magician. Genius thrills along " the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound," from the highest to the lowest link of the social ligature ; for true genius is Christ- 668 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. like; if scorns nothing; calls nothing that God made common or unclean, boMtiM' <>f it - uTc.it yearning over mankind, its longing to lift them up from the sordid things of sense in which they grovel to its own higher and pure.- intellectual or spiritual atmosphere. The noblest woman of us all, Mrs. Elizabeth Browning, whom I hold to have written, in "Aurora Leigh," the greatest book of this century, the greatest, not from the wealth of its imagery, or the vigor of its thoughts, but because of the moral grandeur of its purpose, Mrs. Browning, I say, has not shrunk from going down, with her purity encircling her, like the halo around the Saviour's head, to the abodes of shame and degradation for materials to aid in elucidating the serious truths she seeks to impress for sorrowful examples of the evils for which she endeavors to find some remedy. She is led to this through that love which is inseparable from the higher order of genius. That noblest form of genius which generates the truest poetry the poetry of feeling rather than of imagination warm with human life, but uncolored by voluptuous passion is strongly connected with love. Not the sentiment which dances through the world to the music of marriage-bells ; but that divine, self-ignoring, universal love of which the inspired apostle wrote so burningly, when, caught up in the fiery chariot of the Holy Ghost, he looked down upon the selfish considerations of common humanity: the love (or charity) "which beareth all things, endureth all things, which suffereth long and is kind," the love which, looking to heaven, stretches its arms to enfold the whole human brotherhood. This is the love which, hand in hand with genius, is yet to work out the redemption of society. I have faith to believe it ; and sometimes, when the . tide of hope and enthusiasm is high, I have thought that woman, with the patience and the long-suffering of her love, the purity of her intellect, her instinctive sympathy and her soul of poetry, might be God's chosen instru ment in this work of gradual reformation, this reconciling of the harsh con trasts in society that jar so upon our sense of harmony, this righting of the grievous wrongs and evils over which we weep and pray, this final uniting of men into one common brotherhood by the bonds of sympathy and affection. It may be but a Utopian dream; but the faith is better than hopelessness ; it is elevating and cheering to believe it. It is well to aspire, though the aspiration be unfulfilled. It is better to look up at the stars, though they dazzle, than down at the vermin beneath our feet. FANNY E. HERRON. MISS HERRON'S publications have been few, and yet we rank her among the "promising writers of the sunny South." In Febru ary, 1867, a poem of four hundred lines appeared in the " Mobile Sun day Times," entitled " The Siege of Murany," which was Miss Herron's first contribution to that journal. "Glenelglen," a romance of other days, and an excellent tale, her first attempt in prose, was written to compete for the prize offered by the " Times ; " and, after appearing in that journal, was published in book-form. Though originally a resident of Virginia, the father of Miss Herron, the late James Herron, civil engineer, was for a number of years in charge of the public works at the Pensacola Navy Yard. Miss Her ron is a graduate of the Academy of the Visitation, Mount de Sales, in Baltimore County, Maryland, taking first premiums and gold medal. The family residence of Miss Herron was burned during the war, and by the fortunes of war she became a sojouruer at the Capital of Alabama although still considering Florida, the land of flowers, as her home. EXTRACTS FROM THE SIEGE OF MUKANY. But see, on yonder neighboring plains, Where lingers still the day, Each silvered helm, each burnished shield Has caught its latest ray, And flashes back in mimic light The glory Sol had given, Before the spangled flag of night Had draped the dome of heaven. Whence came yon band in martial gear? What daring chieftain led Yon royal host where Muran's guns Rain vengeance on his head? 669 670 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. *T is he ! 't is he, with eagle glance, And forehead bold and fair, With cheek sun-kissed to olive hue, And waving, midnight hair; 'T is he, with martial step and mien, Whose deep-toned voice's sound Might vie with lyre by Orpheus touched T' enchant the groves around ; 'Tis he, whose mouth of stern resolve Can melt in smiles so rare, So soft, so sweet, his men forget Their months of toil and care, And rush to death in countless forms Whene'er he leads the way: 'T is Wesselengi he who sits In tent at close of day. Though young in years, in deeds of arms Full many score is he, As foe hath never yet beheld Him dastard turn to flee. Yet when yon dark, stupendous pile Upon his vision rose, The evil fortune he deplored That peopled it with foes. By nature it was rendered strong, Impregnable by art; Yet felt he, never from those walls With honor he'd depart, Until time-hallowed Murany Had owned the kingly power, Until his monarch's standard waved Triumphant o'er each tower. In sullen floods these sombre thoughts Fast o'er his spirit roll, Till thus he vented to the night, The anguish of his soul : "Oh! must the laurels hardly earned, Which long have wreathed my brow, Be tarnished by defeat or flight? Yield to a woman now? I 've led my hosts o'er mountain snow, By prestige of my name; Was't but to watch in darkness set The day-star of my fame? FANNY E. HEBRON. 671 No ! brighter yet that star shall glow, And laurels fresh I '11 reap ; Again shall fortune greet her son, Or with my dead I '11 sleep." O Wesselengi, was it pride, And loyalty alone, To keep undi named thy martial fame, And stay thy monarch's throne, That made thee hazard freedom sweet Nay, tempt a darker fate By venturing unattended thus Within that massive gate? Or had the charms of her who dwelt In yonder turret old Been whispered in thy midnight dreams, To make thee rashly bold? AUGUSTA DE MILLY. IN Confederate literature, the signature of "Ethel Deen" and the initials " A. D." were pleasant sights ; for the article to which they were attached, whether prose or verse, was always readable. Augusta De Milly is a native of New York city, but having many Southern connections, and the greater portion of her life having been passed in the State of Florida, she claims to be a Southern woman by residence, as she is by feeling. During the war, Mrs. De Milly contributed to the literary journals of " Dixie," principally the " Southern Field and Fireside," (Augusta,) and " Magnolia Weekly," (Kichmond,) under signatures alluded to, and many of her articles, written in a careless and desultory manner, were excellent and much praised. Since the close of the war, her attempts in the writing line have been few: as she expresses it, "a sehool-teacher has little time to gossip with the Muses." The prose productions of Mrs. De Milly are short sketches, well written and interesting ; but, as she says in a note to the writer, " Never having made any sustained effort, I can point to no effort which would at all afford a foundation for a literary reputation." Her home is in the " land of flowers," where the " fount of perpet ual youth " was said to be in ancient days, and indeed where sunshine and beautiful blooms are perennial. " Jacksonville, Florida," is her address. "IMPLORA PACE." The most frequent inscription on the tombs in Italy is the above petition. The spring-time died so would I gladly die And be at rest ; for life brings but remorse : I 'd welcome thee, dread Azrael, fearlessly, Nor once bewail my yet unfinished course. Come, dreamless sleep ; no phosphorescent spark Can lure me then to wander in the dark. 67:2 AUGUSTA DE MILLY. 673 Germs wither, buds pale at their birth, The chilling winds stab blossoms without ruth, The grain must lie among the tares of earth, And scudding vapors hide the heaven of truth. Must I, whose soon maturity was vain, Take up the burden of my life again ? The summer died and fain would I too rest Within thy pitying arms ; quick tempests drown Me with their tears fierce lightnings scathe my breast, And the rich treasures of my heart go down. Oh, be not thou inexorable, Death ! Kiss on my lips thine all-availing breath. Come thou ! the orchid's eyes are calm That look from the greensward the shade Of feathery cedars woos me with its balm, And the eternal stars smile ever overhead. How can I hush my heart that moans its pain ? How take the burden of my life again ? See ! even the autumn lies beneath his pall Heraldic. O ye winds that round him sweep, Could ye, like his, my spirit disenthrall, Then would I calmly lie and calmly sleep. Dews of the mocking vine but parch my lips ; I 'd quaff, O Death ! thy cup's nepenthean deeps. Must I, pale king ! so weary of the strife For fame, for wealth, for fruits that ever cloy, I, who had sown the affluence of my life, And built wide barns for harvestings of joy, Must I, who garner blight, not laughing grain, Take up the burden of such life again ? Between white hills, within his nest of snows Plucked from the bosom of the brooding cloud, Dead winter lies so peaceful his repose, No royal robes could lure me like his shroud ; My blooms like his are fettered for all time, Prisoned in bars of ice, and frost, and rime. Why should I live? My heart is stark and dead To all sweet influence. Never love-bird's lays 11 674 SOUTHLAND \V 11 I T I Wake tuneful carols there such songs have fled To where are verdant boughs and blossoming sprays. Hold out thy sceptre, Death ! if thou dost rei^n, Nor bid ine bear life's burden yet again. FLORIDA CAPTA, Leaning her fair head against the pines, Like some faint lily resting on the waves, In the clear waters where a white moon shines Idle and dreaming, either hand she laves. Her listless cheek the green palmetto fans ; The blue-eyed vine her sighing lips has kissed ; The pitying rivers, from their reedy bands Loosening their tresses, fold her in the mist. And over her the sobbing roses bend, Dropping their fragrant tears upon her face ; For her wan temples, with a trembling hand, The jasmine breaks her alabaster vase. In vain, from every sprouting screen around, A sweet-voiced bird her plaintive love-song sings ; With the soft moonlight linked and interwound, Kippling the air in bright harmonic rings. A tender memory haunts her where she lies The beauteous Florida! the queen uncrowned! And dims the light in her sweet, mournful eyes, That see not wave, nor moon, nor aught around. She feels again upon her bosom bare The milky teeth of the young laughing corn ; Her fingers stray among the tangled hair, Silken and white, of one yet later born. No more ! no more on any summer night They '11 draw their nurture from her crescive breast ; No more the breathings of their soft delight Shall lull their mother into blissful rest. Above her, O ye fauns ! bend branch and bough ; Shield her fair form 'gainst the chill, blighting dew ; AUGUSTA DE MILLY. 675 Pity her dolor, and on her pale brow Bind your gray pearls of beaded mistletoe. For from the dusk in her sweet, mournful eyes, That see not moon, nor wave, nor aught around, Never again shall full-orbed hope arise To shine on her on Florida uncrowned. BLUE AND GOLD. Grizzly-bearded, swarthy and keen, Sits a jeweller, cunning and cold; Spectral-eyed, like a Bedouin, Counting his gems and gold: Counting his chaplets of Syrian jet, And odorous amber steeped in the sun, The golden circlets, turquoise set, A dowry every one ; Blood-red rubies, pearls like grapes, In clusters of purple, black, and white ; Cameo girdles for exquisite shapes ; Diamond drops of light ; Jewelled masks and filigree fans In carved cases of tropical wood ; Aspic bracelets, ouches, and hands, . Clasps for mantle and hood. Dreaming a dream of sordid gain, The merchant, keen-eyed, cunning, and cold, Smiles in thought of a yellow rain, Ducats and sequins of gold. Trailing her robes of velvet and lace, Through the luminous dimness glows Viola's form of girlish grace, And face like an Alpine rose. She comes to look at the baubles new, To look at the rubies and strings of pearls, With light in her eyes of turquoise blue, And light in her golden curls. 676 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. She fans herself with the filigree fans, Opal-handled with flame and dusk Giving the palms of her slender hands The scent of attar and musk. She tosses the chaplets of Syrian jet And amber by with a careless air, And looks in vain for a jewelled net For her beautiful golden hair. Grizzly-bearded, with spectral gleams In the merchant's keen eyes, cunning and bold, Through the long day he sits and dreams Of mingled blue and gold, Counting his wealth of baubles and toys, Of the hoarded coin which his coffers hold, A snare for the eyes of blue turquoise, A net for the hair of gold. MRS. M. LOUISE CROSSLEY. A THENS, Georgia, was the birthplace of Mrs. Crossley, n6e Miss -ij- M. Louise Rogers. On the maternal side, she is descended from an ancient English family, who trace their blood back to a ducal reservoir. Her mother, a famous belle and beauty in her youth, early exchanged her maiden name of Houghton for that of Rogers, and was blessed (according to patriarchal manner of thinking) with a "goodly number of offspring." Perhaps it is to the circumstance of her having been one of a large family of children, that Mrs. Crossley owes, in a measure, her sympathetic, self-sacrificing disposition, and her admirable faculty of self-help. The necessity of sometimes play ing the mother's part of comforter or adviser to younger brothers or sisters the interchange of little confidences and services among each other nurtured the kindly affections; while the attrition of different characters with her own, quickened and stimulated her mind, without detracting from its individuality. It is not the purpose of this slight sketch to follow our authoress through all the vicissitudes of her life : enough for us to note the circumstances tending to the development of her intellectual tastes. In her childhood, she was left much to herself left to puzzle out her own conclusions from the phenomena of life she saw around her. In the stereotyped " young lady's education " she was not deficient, but her best teachers were nature and experience, and the poets, with whom she communed in sweet, stolen hours. The faculty of her mind which was first to mature was a delicate sensibility to beauty. Every phase and mood of nature was dear to the heart that loved her. The stirring of a dew-shining leaf in the April air ; the sailing of a snowy cloud ; the voice of a bird ; the perfume of a hidden flower; the gur gle of a brook every beautiful sight or sound of nature awoke a thrill in her heart. But, as yet, she only felt the harmonies of nature, she had not essayed to combine and express them in the immortal music of language. Sweet and stolen fancies had visited the soul of the thoughtful girl, but they had been sacred to herself. The first years of her young girlhood had passed, and the future bas bleu had 677 678 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. given to the public no token -of her literary proclivities. The first published production of her pen was written while she was in South western Georgia, an inmate of the beautiful home of Major Edwards. Mrs. Edwards, her aunt on the maternal side, was also the mother of Mrs. Mary E. Bryan, whose star of fame was then rising. The cousins met there for the first time, and it is possible that, in the year of close intercourse which followed, they mutually influenced, in some degree, each other's character. There are critical times in almost every life, when the slightest cir cumstance may serve to change the current of destiny ; and it was probably owing to this pleasant summer visit that Miss Rogers turned her attention to authorship so soon; for, like' Miss Edgeworth, her "great respect for the public" would have made her timid about pub lishing, unless stimulated by the example of one her opposite in this particular. Such a one, she found in her cousin. Although so young, Mrs. Bryan had already sounded nearly the whole gamut of feeling, and now she was reproducing her experiences through the medium of her pen. Passionate, impetuous, and bold, she was rapidly throwing off her daring opinions and sentiments, more from the fever ish unrest and turbulent fulness of her mind than from any fixed purpose or reverent devotion to art (such as may have afterward come to be her motive), and publishing with the indifference of one not troubled with any overpowering " respect for the public." The contagious quality of the cacoethes scribendi is proverbial. The daily sight of manuscript, the indifference with which scribbled sheets were dispatched to various editors, had their influence upon the more timid cousin. The long walks through bay-blossoming humniocks, and pine-fragrant hills, under the open skies, was another source of inspiration. The sweet fancies and lovely thoughts that had so long been singing to themselves in the brain of the young poetess, now awoke to audible music. Under the shade of the long-leaved pines, a prose poem, whose theme was " Beauty," was written, read aloud to the admiring cousin, and published. The ice was broken ; the elo quent rhapsody, instinct with true poetic enthusiasm, was favorably received by the public, and the fair writer essayed again and again, modestly publishing in newspapers only, and sheltering herself under the nom de guerre of "Rena." In 1859, she was engaged as a regular contributor to the " Bainbridge Argus," and her graceful essays, and sprightly sketches of life and character, aided in no slight degree the M. "LOUISE CROSS LEY. 679 popularity of that journal. Afterward she wrote some excellent pieces for a short-lived periodical, published in Atlanta; and, later still, under the pseudonym of " Currer Lyle," she contributed some of her most finished articles to the " Literary Companion," a journal of considerable ability, published in Newnan, Georgia. For a short time, during the war, she contributed regularly to the " Southern Illustrated News," under her own name ; and in 1866 we find her name among the talented contributors to "Scott's Monthly Magaziue." Her nature is very sympathetic, and most tenderly human ; and many of her pieces in newspapers, during the war, were replete with a womanly but fervid patriotism, and the tenderest sympathy for the soldier wearing the Confederate gray. We were told by an ex-officer that many were the blessings he had heard breathed upon her name by the Southern soldier, as he read her poems and essays by the light of his camp-fire. We understand that she is now engaged in collecting and composing materials for a volume destined to contain, not only her best productions that have appeared in print, but others, especially two novelettes that have never been published. I have already too far transgressed the limits allowed me to attempt any analysis of Mrs. Crossley's writings. Her talent is poetical, not philosophical. She mirrors truly and beautifully the more apparent aspects and phenomena of nature and art, of life and character ; but the more intricate and less thankful task of portraying the hidden meanings and relations that underlie these she leaves to more analytic minds. She holds that there is, in life and in nature, enough of plainly apparent sunshine and shadow, of joy and sorrow, of good and evil, out of which to weave her mingled web. Her style is elegantly pure and simple; her diction musical, and not unfrequently energetic. In her poetry, she reminds me more of the Ettrick Shepherd than of any other writer whom I can now call to mind. If I were restricted to a single word with which to describe the per sonal appearance of Mrs. Crossley, that word should be " noble." It most fully embodies my impression of her gracious presence. It con veys an idea of the sweet dignity, the excellence of mind and heart apparent in her countenance and in her manner. In her presence, one involuntarily acknowledges the power of a pure and serene woman hood. It is no ordinary face that which rises before me as I write the sweet, peculiar smile, one of the chief charms of the changeful counte- 680 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. nance ; the dark blue, deep eyes, full of vivid expression, and mellowed by long, brown lashes ; the white forehead, high and broad, and for ever suggesting that noble line : " The dome of thought, the palace of the soul." No portrait could do her justice ; for it could catch only one of the many phases and flitting expressions of her face. As a friend and admirer remarked : " Her face is an enigma to me ever so changing in its expression. At times it is pale, passionless, listless ; and again it beams with a brilliancy that makes her almost beautiful." Her social talent I consider of the highest order, because it is not positive ; it does not lead her to overpower others by her own individ uality to create discord by antagonism ; but rather to diffuse a har monizing influence through the social elements with which she comes in contact. It has the rare quality which existed in perfection with Madame Recamier, and exists in our own age and country with Madame Le Vert that sympathetic and assimilating faculty that magnetism by which one mind may put itself en rapport with another, call out its best qualities, win its confidence, and arouse its self-respect ; in brief, put it in a genial humor with itself and others. Give me one such harmonious power in society, and I will gladly relinquish to you a De Stael or a Sand, who, however brilliant, are too positively elec trical in their natures to be productive of social concord. I cannot but look forward to a bright future for Mrs. Crossley. She has energy and perseverance, and lately she has attained to a belief in herself in her own capabilities. She has also that "noble discontent " (intellectually) which prevents her from being satisfied with her attainments, and keeps her ever striving to reach her own high-placed ideal. Examining what she has written, I can see that her range of thought continually widens ; her conceptions of life and nature grow constantly more clear ; she is perceiving the deep soul of truth which exists in all things, and is bodying it forth with a bolder and more certain hand. She does not allow the flatteries which the well-meaning press of the South showers upon its writers with such a lavish, and, unfortunately, such an indiscriminate hand, to render her self-complacent; but, keeping her own ideal in view, she presses ear nestly forward, destined, I believe, to take an enviable rank in the world of letters. In May,. 1866, the subject of our sketch was married to J. T. Cross- M. LOUISE CROSSLEY. 681 ley, Esq., a gentleman of great worth and respectability a union, we are told, not only of hands, but also of hearts ; and she is now a residen^ of Columbus, Florida. MEMOEIA IN ETERNA. Dead in his beauty, young manhood, and pride, Torn from our hearts and home fireside ; Dead to the honors he could nobly have won, In the world's great battle he just had begun ; Dead to all friends who loved him so well, Dead to all foes if one, none can tell; Gone from the earth into the unknown, To solve the great MYSTEEY lying beyond All the tinsel and glare, the pomp and the show, The care, and the grief and sin that we know ; The soul's grand soarings in this world of ours, The bliss and the woe, the thorns and the flowers, That make up this thing we vainly call life, With all of its death, its sorrow, and strife. my brother ! my brother, lost, loved one ! Canst thou hear me now call thee, far beyond" In thy unseen home ? canst thou see the tears, That flow from my eyes as the night appears, And I bow my head low down in the dust, And wail for thy love, its sweetness and trust? O pitiless Death ! You 've taken from one, from an old man's heart, His fondest hope and pride A mother's dear and noblest one, That in his beauty died. You 've torn from the arms of sisters so dear, From all their fond caressing, The darling one of all the loved band Their proud, sweet, earthly blessing ! Oh, cruel ! most cruel I you took him from me Without one word of warning : 1 thought he still lived, hoped, and loved, Until that woful morning They came and told me he was dead, And left my heart a-breaking, 682 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. With the sunlight gayly streaming in, To mock my sad awaking. Dead ! O kind Saviour, and not one sweet word To bless my fond ears, if I only had heard ; No look of dear love to comfort my heart, No clasp of the hand, so loth here to part ; Without one kiss on the broad, noble brow, Where death had set his pale signet now, And darkened the light of the peerless mind, With its truth, bright honor, and heart ever kind. Dead ! sweet Jesus, and all loved ones away With but one of the band 'round his death-bed to stay, And wipe the cold drops from the dear, loved face, And catch the last words the pale lips traced, Before the freed spirit took its swift flight To God's bowers of bliss, eternally bright. Death, most dainty old epicure, On the fairest, the dearest, the lovely and pure Thou lovest to gorge, and greedily taste Of flesh as priceless to us as the feast Of fabled ambrosia the gods supped upon In their cloud-palace homes ; while thou passest on, And leavest the idiot, the lout, and the clown, The corrupt, and the bad, with sin bound around, To live here on earth unscathed, as they stand 'Midst all its bright beauty of sky, sea, and laud. My brother, my darling brother, my pride, In this clime near tropical skies We '11 cull the fairest and" sweetest of blooms, With the softest and purest dyes, And twine them above thy silent, dark tomb : We '11 water them with our tears, And fervently kiss each fragrant, bright flower, When twilight softly appears, And wraps its robe of royal-bright hue About thy lowly resting-place, While humming-birds fairily float on the air, Or kiss some flower's pure, sweet face. White lilies we '11 bring thee, For purity's token, And roses the loveliest, For love unbroken ; M. LOUISE CROSSLEY. 683 Violets blue, and orange blooms too, . Sweet as the home of a dainty fay Slumbering all the livelong day In a water-lily, upon some stream Murmuring ever a happy dream: Jasmines white, fragrant and pure, We too will sadly bring, To mingle with the rose's hue These dear, sweet flowers of spring ; And the queenly magnolia, Fair as the flowers That grow in the gardens of Gul, 'Neath Orient bowers, Perfume and pearly showers. Blow, blow, ye sweetest blooms, Above our darling's grave ! Oh, die not in some upas blast, But let the dewdrops lave Your fragrant lips and glowing hearts, And keep them pure and bright, While from the skies the stars drop down Their dreamy, silvery light ! And winds oh, sigh soft and sweet, Come with lightest, hallowed feet, And make low music round that spot, Sweet as in some fairy grot .ZEolian harps were sighing Sighing, and dying, In the completeness Of their own sweetness. My brother ! my brother ! loved and lost, My heart's own idol I confess it the most ! Father, forgive! our idol, dream, and hope, From youth's bright years all up the sunny slope To manhood's princely prime. Thou, the Great Builder Of the human frame, didst make him in all The completeness of mortal mould, and gavest Him to us to love ; then, in Thy compassion, Oh, forgive our worship of the creature Thou didst make ! Father in heaven, I loved Him so ! I know Thou doest all things well, 684 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. Then, oh ! upbraid me not that I miss his step, And his presence ever near me, at morning's Radiant birth, at noontide glow, and evening's Bridal of the sea and sky that the world, Which Thou didst make and fling into wide space, A globe of glowing, Eden beauty, is now all A blank to my tearful eyes, as I bow My weary head beneath the bending blue Of these star-gemmed skies, and seem still to hear His dear, loved voice in song, or the melody Of poesy's written sweetness, which we have So loved and often read each to the other ; And the rare, sweet music, sparkling or dreamy, His dear fingers were wont to wake, to still My spirit, tempest-tossed, in sad, sweet dreams Of Elysian's fair and ever-happy fields. My Father ! upbraid me not that I mourn As Kachel mourned in Rama ; but let me Bring my bleeding heart, my shattered dreams, And lay them on Thy sacrificial altars ; Let me keep the glittering crown, the harp Of gold, the paradisial fruit in view, And thus lose sight of my broken idols here Not in some loathsome charnel-house, but robed And crowned before Thy throne, where angels bow- A glittering, starry throng ! TENNESSEE, 685 MKS. L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. RS. FRENCH'S birth and education are the best the country affords. Poeta nascitur, and Mrs. French, aside from being a " born " poet, is a " born " lady. She knows it as well. Her family, early incidents of her life, and romantic mar riage are piquantly spoken of in "Mary Forrest's" elegant work, "Women of the South." Born on the fair shores of Virginia, educated in Pennsylvania, and married in Tennessee, her life has been like her self, varied and cosmopolitan. She is, nevertheless, a true daughter of the Old Dominion ; a fair representative of its gay grace, its cordial hospitality, its love of luxury, and its indomitable pride. The personal appearance of Mrs. French is highly prepossessing, and her manner so gifted with repose as to be unusually tranquillizing in its social influence. Yet there are seasons when the blue eyes flash, and the lips are wreathed in smiles so vivid and genial, that one can scarcely understand how the quiet lady, a moment before sitting so restfully, and listening so patiently, can be the same as she, so sud denly stirred to interest and emotion. That rarest of all American gifts wit has been conferred upon her, in conjunction with poetic genius of no common order; and it is delightful to hear her low, rich laugh rippling out in ready recognition of some point of humor, obtuse to most listeners, and to find her arrow of repartee always on the string, though its point is never envenomed by the poison of bitterness. Mrs. French possesses a noble nature; full of generous emotions and fine impulses ; turning away from all wrong ; not so much, perhaps, because of the wickedness of wrong ; but because wrong implies some thing low and mean ; and to do wrong, therefore, would be too deep a condescension; large-hearted and liberal-minded; taking broad views of life and humanity ; possessed of a catholic charity which " circles all the human race," and a nature with but one "prejudice," i. e., a 687 688 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. healthy and well-developed hatred of all Puritanism Puritanism, as she understands it, viz., the embodiment of hypocrisy and cant; radically independent in all things ; doing each day " whatever duty lies next to her," leaving the results with God. " In 1848," says ' Mary Forrest,' * " Virginia Smith and her sister returned from school to their father's house. But a new spirit was rife in the old home; its lares and penates had been displaced, and the two sisters, ever united by the tenderest ties of sympathy, deter mined to go forth into the world and shape their own destinies. Before the close of the year, they were established in Memphis, Ten nessee, as teachers. " Strangers in a strange city, they put themselves bravely to their self-appointed work, and by their energetic perseverance, no less than their personal and intellectual charms, soon won the confidence of all. " Having achieved a social and tutorial position, the elder sister began to turn her attention to literary pursuits, contributing occasional articles to the journals' and magazines of that region under the name of ' L'Inconnue.' " In 1852, she became associated with some gentlemen of New Orleans in the publication of the ' Southern Ladies' Book.' "On the 12th of January, 1853, she was married to Mr. John H. French, of McMinnville, Tennessee." Mrs. French has published one volume a collection of her poems, under the title of "Wind Whispers" in 1856; and a tragedy, in five acts, under the title of " Iztalilxo, the Lady of Tula." She has written enough for half a dozen volumes, or more. She takes all criticism in the proper spirit, having no fear of the " small snarlers," but little reverence for the great ones, and no ambition to become a " serf of the booksellers." But few ladies whom " we read about " have any deficiencies. Mrs. French is the exception which proves the rule. A serious defect in her organization is want of application. Had she never married, but devoted herself to literature and art, she would assuredly have been emi nently successful. But her life is too full of other attractions home, and home happiness. She entirely repudiates the name of " littera teur;" loves books, but cares no more for being put into them than the lark cares for seeing his morning hymn written out on a musical score. A great deficiency this want of ambition ; this lack of interest * " Women of the South," page 440. L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 689 in her own reputation. She has no consideration for any work that is done. An article completed, the excitement of writing it over, is thought of no more. Literature, which with her should occupy the front rank, does not even take a secondary place in her life and esti mation ; it is merely a kind of little by-play while the real drama of life goes on. She scatters here and there the efi'ervescence of an afflu ent intellect, the deeps of which are still clear, calm, and undrawn upon. What the public sees of her writings as yet are merely "gold- blossoms," sparkling quartz, which indicate the precious ore that lies below; the mine itself is unworked, almost untouched. Emphatically a child of the sun, her fancies, bright and beautiful as foam-bells on the deep, never suggest to you the thought of effort or exhaustion, any more than the sigh of an JEolian lyre when " the breeze is spent, inti mates that the mighty billows of the air shall surge no more." Her weakness, therefore, so to speak, lies not in any lack of power ; but in a lamentable want of exertion. There is no deficiency of nerve to grasp a subject, or of power to discuss, or of keen acumen to analyze it ; but there is indifference ; and I think it reprehensible to give us merely the spicy fragrance flung off from the cinnamon-tree of genius, while the principle of sweetness in concentrated strength still lies hidden in the heart. Yet if you should undertake to impress upon her the wrong she does herself by trifling away gifts so precious, she would probably laugh archly in your face, and say, with the philoso phy of a nature rather Sybaritic in its composition, " It is pleasanter to enjoy than to labor, more especially when both amount to the same thing at last." As a litterateur f If (to borrow the simile of a famous critic) the gifts of others resemble wealth, hers " is an alchemy. If others, so to speak, go out into the mind's Australia, and collect its ores, lying thick as morning dews, she remains at home, transmitting all she touches into gold." Her language, in its elegance and rhythmic flow, is clear and lucid as the pleasant rush of a summer stream ; and it has been said that her absolute command of comprehensible words is such, that many might, with advantage, employ her to translate their Pedantese into plain English. I have seriously objected to her want of study ; yet I must confess that what she writes, most of us can com prehend. We are not compelled to sit down over any poem of hers, gazing with portentous visage and a critic's eye at its obscurity; whis pering at last under our breath : " There are sunbeams in this cucum- 12 090 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. her, if we could but extract them." But she does not put her sun beams into the cucumber form. No ; by all means let us take our cucumbers and our sunshine separately. " Lady Tranquilla's" chief characteristic in literature is a wonder ful versatility, to which scarce any vein of writing comes amiss, as is shown by poems, tales, sketches, letters, etc., written not only at her desk " en c/rande tenue," but scribbled in pencil under some wide- spreading tree, by garden-bound or riverside; in short, anywhere and everywhere, as the spirit moves her. This versatility is acknowledged by our people in the calls they make upon her powers. It fits her also to supply that large and constant drain made upon her time and talents, of which the world knows nothing. You might be in her house for months, and never know she wrote a line, for aught you heard or saw ; yet she seems to be a species of perennial fountain, from which hundreds of people who never saw her draw supplies of strength and comfort ; never dreaming, doubtless, of the drain they make upon this " sweet water spring," which gives out its supplies freshly and freely ; which asks no return, and thinks of no replenish- ' ing, save what it draws from heaven. A lady, a thousand miles away, wants a May-day speech for some young favorite; an agricultural edi tor wants an essay on a given topic ; a political friend wants a letter written which shall " bring out all the points ; " a stranger widow wants five dollars; a young lady wants a situation as teacher; a novel ist wants a book noticed; and so on, almost ad in fin it um; yet all these applications are answered with a tranquillity equal to the fountain's, and a patience enduring as Job's. I have expected ere this to see her grow rather blase; and she has sufficient knowledge of the world to make her so. I have expected to see her grow weary of its " Dust and decay, Weary of throwing her soul-wealth away, . Weary of sowing for others to reap;" but that time seems as yet to linger by the way. In this connection, it may be well to say that "Lady Tranquilla" is accused of being a great favorite with contemporary litterateurs. She has probably been more be-rhymed and be-sonneted than any other poetess. Her popu larity arises from the fact that she claims no especial literary honors, and thus arouses no jealousies. Then, too, she is ever ready to extend favors, but asks none in return. She receives innumerable confidences. L. VIRGINIA FEENCH. 691 but never confides. N. P. Willis says that " to listen to the confi dences of others, without ever thinking it worth while to burden them with yours, is a very good basis for a friendship. Nothing bores peo ple more than to return their secrets with your own." Yes, versatility is the " Lady Tranquilla's " forte. It makes her a general favorite. It renders her par excellence the journalist. It causes her critics to take each a different view. As for instance, Mrs. C. A. Warfield regards poetry as Mrs. French's strong point, and says of that stinging tribute, " Shermanized : " " Never sprang cooler and keener sarcasm from more tranquil lips. It is the flash of the yata ghan from a velvet sheath the cold, clear gleam of the sword from a silver scabbard." Mrs. Julia Pleasants Creswell takes the opposite view, and insists that "Mrs. French writes the best prose, with the strongest sense in it, of any Southern writer." That enchanting poetess, Amelia Welby, for years previous to her death, ceased to write. It is affirmed that she gave as a reason, that she had lost the power, the " faculty divine." It is more than probable that as her mind matured and expanded, she felt that she had not the power to express what she had keen ability to feel, and I have imag ined that Mrs. French too has grown away from the past. A revolu tion has changed us as a people, and she feels that our present needs can scarce be " bodied forth in song." She feels also that she has power to write for a purpose, and the fact that those seem to succeed best who write for no purpose, keeps her comparatively silent. Her broad views and catholicity of character fit her to grapple strongly with many moral and social evils. This breadth and cosmopolitanism fits her for "shooting her soul" into a score of contradictory charac ters at once, and a novel from her pen would be unique. During the late war, by which she in common with all of her South ern sisters was a sufferer and a loser, she wrote many poems and pieces of choice prose on the subjects of common interest distinguished from most of contemporaneous writing by their tone of graceful and scornful satire, and entire freedom from harshness and vituperation. Mrs. French has in MS. a valuable addition to Southern literature, in the shape of a novel written during and about the war. Still in the prime of life, and happy in her domestic relations, as well as comparatively prosperous for she retains her delightful " Forest Home " and landed possessions, it is sincerely hoped that she 692 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. may put forth her wing once more, and cleave new heights of unex plored atmosphere. We confidently believe that Mrs. French is capable, in her maturity of mind, of higher successes than she has yet achieved ; and that her imagination, like Burke's, grows and strengthens with her years. This gradual culmination of powers belongs only to strong natures, which grow like the oak-tree, slowly and surely, and remain vigorous and green when their frailer companions of the forest lie in ruins. THE ELOQUENCE OF RUINS. High on a desert, desolated plain In the far Orient, a stately band Of giant columns rise. Above the sleep Of devastated cities, mouldering, Yet haughtily they stand; grim sentinels, Calling the watches of a vanished race, And guarding still from Ruin's felt-shod tread The mutilated chronicles of Eld. Heavy with melodies all vast and vague, Lifts up a solemn voice where Ages lie Entombed with empires, in the crumbled pride Of old Byzantium. Dark Egypt's lore Lies in her catacombs ; her histories In fallen temples; while her Pyramids, Like ponderous old tomes upon the sands, Teem with the hidden records of the Past. Amid their gloomy mysteries, the Sphinx, A gaunt-eyed oracle, essays to speak, And the weird whisper of her stony lip Sounds o'er the tumult of the rushing years. Greece! how her shattered domes reverberate The thunders of a thousand gods, that dwelt On Ida and Olympus ! Porticos That droop above their portals, like to brows Of meditative marble over eyes Dim with the haze of revery, still speak Of ancient sages; and her pillars tell Of heroes who have sought the Lethean wave, And shores of Asphodel. Then, rising where L. VIRGINIA TRENCH. 693 The yellow Tiber flows, some stately shaft, Like a proud Koman noble in the halls Of the great Forum, stands the orator Of nations gone to dust. The obelisk, Girt with resistance, gladiator-like, From his arena challenges a host Of stealthy-footed centuries ! The lone, Dark circle of the Druid, with its stones Rugged and nameless, hath a monotone Wild as the runes of Sagas at the shrine Of Thor and Odin. Slow and silently The pallid moonlight creeps along the walls In the old abbey shadow. Timidly It creepeth up, to list the tales they tell Of beauty and of valor, laid to sleep In the low, vaulted chancel. Ivy-crowned, And crumbling to decay, IIOAV loftily Rise the old castle towers! Its corridors Resound with elfin echoes as the bell, Wind-rocked upon its turret, sends a knell From cornice to cavazion. The owl, A dim-eyed warder, watches in his tower; And zephyr, like a wandering troubadour, Sports on the ruined battlement, and sings To broken bastion, shattered oriel, And fallen architrave. The western wild Spreads out before us, and her voice of might Shakes the old wilderness. Alone it swells, Where tropic bloom, and gray corrosion strive To crush the deep and restless mutterings Of hoary-headed ages. Dim and strange, The priest, the vestal, and the dark cazique Rise on the Teocallis ; and below Flit the swart shadows of the nameless tribes That peopled Iximaya. Ruins all Yet mighty in their magic eloquence ! O " land we love ! " O mother, with the dust And ashes on thy robe and regal brow Deeper, and wilder, more melodious far, The voice of melancholy, wailing o'er Thy desolated homesteads! That awakes 694 SOUTHLAND W R I T E U S. Its echo in the memory ; it brings (Alas! that it should be but memory!) The carol of the robin and the hum Of the returning bee the winds at eve, And the low, bell-like tinkle of the brook That rippled round the garden. Then we see The great elm-shadow, with the threshold stone That garnered up the sunshine; and the vine That crept around the colonnade, and bloomed, Close-clinging as a love unchangeable. We dream of gay boy-brothers, sleeping now 'Neath grasses rank on lonely battle-fields And seem to feel, perchance, the blessed light Of our sweet mother's smile the holy breath Of a good father's benison. We think Of the white marbles where their hearts are laid Down to a dreamless slumbering; ah! then Rush the thick, blinding tears und we can aee No more! "MAMMY." A Home Picture of 1860. Where the broad mulberry branches hang a canopy of leaves, Like an avalanche of verdure, drooping o'er the kitchen eaves ; And the sunshine and the shadow dainty arabesques have made On the quaint, old oak settle, standing in the pleasant shade; Sits good " Mammy," with the child'un," while the summer afternoon Wears the dewy veil of April o'er the brilliancy of June. Smooth and snowy is the kerchief, lying folded with an air Of matron dignity above her silver-sprinkled hair; Blue and white the beaded necklace, used " of Sundays " to bedeck (A dearly cherished amulet) her plump and dusky neck ; Dark her neatly-ironed apron, of a broad and ample size, Spreading o'er the dress of " homespun," with its many-colored dyes. True, her lips are all untutored ; yet how genially they smile, And how eloquent their fervor, praying, " Jesus bless de chile ! " True, her voice is hoarse and broken ; but how tender its replies ! True, her hands are brown and withered ; yet how loving are her eyes I L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. G95 She has thoughts both high and holy, though her brow is dark and low, And her face is dusk and wrinkled, but her soul as white as suuw. ->J An " aristocrat " is " Mammy," in her dignity sedate ; " Haught as Lucifer " to " white trash," whom she cannot tolerate ; Patronizing, too, to " Master," for she " nussed 'im when a boy ; " Familiar, yet respectful to the " Mistis ; " but the joy Of her bosom is " de child'un," and delightedly she '11 boast Of the "born blood" of her darlings "good as kings and queens a'inost." There she sits beneath the shadow, crooning o'er some olden hymn, Watching earnestly and willingly, although her eyes are dim ; Laughing in her heart sincerely, yet with countenance demure, Holding out before " her babies " every tempting little lure Noting all their merry frolics with a quiet, loving gaze, Telling o'er at night to " Mistis " all their " cunnin' little ways." Now and then her glance will wander o'er the pastures far away, Where the tasselled corn-fields waving, to the breezes rock and sway, To the river's gleaming silver, and the hazy distance where Giant mountain-peaks are peering through an azure veil of air ; But the thrill of baby voices baby laughter, low and sweet, Recall her in a moment to the treasures at her feet. So " rascally," so rollicking, our bold and sturdy boy, In all his tricksy waywardness, is still her boast and joy ; She'll chase him through the shrubberies his mischief mood to cure; " Hi ! whar dat little rascal now? de b'ars will git 'im shure ! " When caught, she '11 stoutly swing him to her shoulder, and in pride Go marching round the pathways "jus' to see how gran' he ride." And the " Birdie " of our bosoms ah ! how soft and tenderly Bows good " Mammy's " mother-spirit to her baby witchery ! (All to her is dear devotion whom the angels bend to bless, All our thoughts of her are btended with a holy tenderness ;) Coaxing now, and now caressing saying, with a smile and kiss, " Jus' for Mammy dat 's a lady will it now ? " do that or this. On the sweet, white-tufted clover, worn and weary with their play, Toying with the creamy blossoms, now my little children lay ; Harnessed up with crimson ribbons, wooden horses, side by side, " Make believe " to eat their " fodder " (blossoms to their noses tied.) Near them stands the willow wagon in it " Birdie's " mammoth doll, And our faithful " Brave " beside them, noble guardian over all. 696 SOUTHLAND WHITER 8. Above them float the butterflies, around them hum the bees, And birdlings warble, darting in and out among the trees ; The kitten sleeps at " Mammy's " side, and two grown rabbits pass, Hopping close along the paling, stealing through the waving grass ; Gladsome tears blue eyes are filling, and a watching mother prays, bless ' Mammy ' and my children in these happy, halcyon days." SHERMANIZED ! This poem was written for, and read by Miss Lucy Powell Harris, at a concert given by the pupils of the Houston Street Female High School, in Atlanta, Georgia, May 1st, 1866. In this city of Atlanta, on a dire and dreadful day, 'Mid the raging of the conflict, 'mid the thunder of the fray In the blaze of burning roof-trees under clouds of smoke and flame Sprang a new WORD into being, from a stern and dreaded name : Gaunt, and grim, and like a spectre rose that WORD before the world, From a land of bloom and beauty into ruin rudely hurled From a people scourged by exile from a city ostracized Pallas-like it sprang to being, and that WORD is Shermanized ! And forevermore hereafter, where the fierce destroyer reigns, Where destruction pours her lava over cultivated plains Where want and woe hold carnival where bitter blight and blood Sweep over prosperous nations in a strong, relentless flood ; Where the golden crown of harvest trodden into ashes lies, And desolation stares abroad with famine-frenzied eyes Where the wrong with iron sceptre crushes every right we prized, Shall the people groan in anguish " God ! the right is Shermanized ! " MAN may rule the raids of ruin lead the legions that despoil From the lips of honest labor dash the guerdon of its toil " Sow with salt " the smiling valleys, and on every breezy height Kindle balefires of destruction, lurid in the solemn night ; He may sacrifice the aged, and exult when woman stands 'Mid the sunken, sodden ashes of her home, with palsied hands Droopiag over hungered children man may thus immortalize His name with haggard infamy his watchword, " Shermanize ! " Nobler deeds are WOMAN'S province she must not destroy, but build; She must bring the urns of plenty with the wine of pleasure filled ; She must be the " sweet restorer" of this sunny Southern land ; Fill our schools, rebuild our churches, take the feeble by the hand, L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 697 Aid the press, befriend the teacher, give to want its daily bread ; And never, never fail to weave above our " noble dead " The laurel-garland due to deeds of valor's high emprize, And won by men whom, failure could not sink, or Shermanize ! With her wakened love of labor let her labor on in love ; Still, in softnetes and in stillness, as the starry circles move Bearing light and bringing gladness from the leaden clouds unfurled, As the soft rise of the sunlight bringeth morning to the world ; Grandly urging on endeavor, as the gates of day unclose, Till the " solitary place again shall blossom as the rose ; " And woman THE KEBUILDER shall be freely eulogized By the triumph of her people then no longer Shermanized. God bless our noble Georgia ! Though her soil was overrun, And her lands in desolation laid beneath an autumn sun ; With the signal shout " To action ! " like the boom of signal guns, She has roused the iron mettle of her strong and stalwart sons. May her daughters aid that effort to rebuild and to restore, Working on for Southern freedom as they never worked before ! May our Georgia as a laggard never once be stigmatized, And her PEOPLE, PRESS, or PULPIT never more be Shermanized ! THE AUCTIONEER. Up with the red flag! wave it wide Over the gay and fair ; O'er things of love and things of pride It flaunteth everywhere. Bring the hammer the t auction-block, Gather ye hearts of stone "Here's excellent bargains, and premium stock Going going gone ! " Wrecks of a ruined household band Cast on a silent shore; Heart-breaks scattered along the sand, Where the tide comes up no more. Amid the relics the auctioneer Standeth a wrecker lone ; Bidding them off with a jest and jeer " Going going gone ! " 698 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. Here's a mirror a faithful friend For, without a shade of guile, It tells when passions the dark brow bend, And it gives you smile for smile. No more no more will it counsels lend Hal hark to that flippant tone "How much f how much for this faithful friend t Going going gone I " Here is a purple divan soft, And circled with silken fringe; Here the lord of the manor slumbered oft, And the couch's richest tinge Was dull and cold to the golden shower Which over his visions shone: " Who bidsf ivho bids for the dreams of power t Going going gone ! " A pendule strikes with a dreamy chime, Like that which the spirit hears In the notes of a curious, quaint old rhyme, That telleth of bygone years. But the owner's passed to another clime, His last sad sands are run : "How much f how much for the wings of time f Going going gone ! " Costly lamps : when the golden spire Rose o'er the festal board, How dim it shone to the eyes of fire, Where Love's sweet light was stored ! But those eyes grew dark like stars that roam Afar from the "great white throne:" "Who bids? who* bids for the lights of hornet Going going gone ! " Statues, too : here 's an angel band Just parting a curtain's fold, While a cherub places a flowery band In the fair young sleeper's hold ; Then a laughing boy, with his two white doves, Carved in the Parian stone : "How much? hoir much for the household loves f Going going gone ! " L. VIRGINIA F R E X C H. 699 A dainty volume, clasped with gold, Its links still bright and new ; It whispered a love that could ne'er be told, And it bound the giver true : On the first blank leaf it is written now "Thine thine alone!" " Who bids f who bids for the broken vow ? Going going gone ! " And here is a picture pale and fair, What a soul looks from its eyes Through shadowy clouds of golden hair, Like a peri from the skies! So like to her in the church-yard laid When the autumn rains came on : " How much for a beauty that cannot fade f Going going gone ! " Here is the carpet, with flowers dense, Her fairy feet once trod, And the little cradle-bed from whence Her baby went up to God. Here is the harp with its broken strings Her white hand moved upon : " Who bids f who bids for this lot of things f Going going gone ! " Thank God, he cannot sell the heart We bury our treasures there ; Warm tears that up to the eyelids start, And the baby's lisping prayer; Songs that we loved in a bygone day Sweet words, many a one; We bury them deep where none may say, " Going going gone ! " THE BEOKEN SENTENCE. A. Tribute to the late Lieutenant Herndon. " A ship went out upon the sea, A noble bark, with a gallant crew " And in herself a richly-freighted argosy of life and love the ill-fated "Central America." That dark and terrible picture of her going down 700 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. amid surging, midnight sens, which has been painted by inexorable fate, and himu r upon the walls of time's proud temple, is one upon which our whole country has looked with "hated breath " and tear-dimuied eyes. Then, afar over the ocean waves, "sailed the corsair, death," and, gathered in that dread night-picture, there is the armada of the storm-king the wrathful sky above, and the black goal of doom "a hundred fathoms down." Hut, notwithstanding all their terrific grandeur, how small, comparatively, is the meed of attention given to those dread details! Columbia's eagle eye is upon her noble son ; the brave commander, the gallant seaman, the humble Christian, the immortal HERNDON. It is as though that great picture con tained but one solitary human figure one single object of interest whereon the soul may centre her intensest gaze. We see him, as, with that heroic de votion to woman, which was one of his first characteristics, he provides for their safety, until every woman and child has left his shattered vessel ; we see him don his uniform, the garb in which he so long had served his coun try, and take his last stand at the wheel-house ; we see him uncover to the kinir of terrors, as the doomed ship fetches her last lurch; with tearful, straining gaze, we see him signal an approaching boat, and order her to keep off and be saved, while he himself went down ; to the last, mindful of others and forgetful of self the soul of a warrior, and the heart of a wo man! Beautiful, heroic, and self-sacrificing are such scenes; but there is, in this connection, another still more beautiful and sublime ; it is thus related by his kinsman, Lieutenant Maury : " As one of the last boats was about to leave the ship, her commander gave his watch to a passenger, with the request that it might be delivered to his wife. He wished to charge him with a message to her also, but his utterance was choked. ' Tell her ' he said : unable to proceed, he bent down his head, and buried his face in his hands for a moment, as if in prayer, for he was a devout man, and a true Christian. In that mo ment, brief as it was, he endured the greatest agony. But it was over now. His crowd ing thoughts no doubt had been of friends and home; its desolation; a beloved wife and lovely daughter, dependent alone for support upon him. God and his country would care for them now. Honor and duty required him to stick to his ship, and he saw that she must go down." " Tell her " he began, but the thousand waves of an overflowing heart came rushing over him, like " high, fierce tides trampling in upon low, lee shores," and the last cry of his great soul was drowned amid the tumult. Then and there he had " tasted of the bitterness of death," and it was past. As we look upon him now, we pause in actual awe before the picture imaged in the mind. " Tell her " said he, but human language had no words to body forth the love, the aspiration, the anguish of that noble soul in this, its hour of terrible trial. And so the strong man bowed his head upon his hands, and bent like a reed before the tempest, feeling only how, in such an L. VIRGINIA FRENCH. 701 hour, heart-throbs scorn the mockery of words. Undaunted by the dread danger undismayed when all hearts were failing gazing unblenching in the very face of destruction ready to take death by the hand and disarm him of his terrors, he bowed down unmanned, and overwhelmed by one simple, loving memory of her. And now what remains to be said ? What could be said, which in pathos and in power would not fall far, far below the single and simple reality of that broken and forever unfinished sentence " Tell her "? " Tell her " what f Ah ! in vain we speculate. In vain we strive through blinding tears to read his heart, and say for him what he could not say for himself. And it is best as it is. Let us leave it so, nor dare to dese crate with our poor surmises the broken column which the master artist was unable to complete. But, do we say forever unfinished f Will he never tell her? Far away in some sun-bright " Isle of Balm," more beautiful and more radiant than the Amazonian forests through which he once wandered, will not the language of the immortal give him power to utter all that which the mortal had essayed in vain ? Or in that better land will there be a " fulness of joy " so soul-absorbing, so complete and perfect, that no remembrance of a troubled past, no memory of an unfinished mission, no shadow of our imperfect life shall ever dare intrude? Who of us can tell? Said his wife, upon the first tidings of the shipwreck : " I know he has perished. He will, stand by his ship to the last, and save others by the sac rifice of himself !" A noble trust and right nobly redeemed ! She knew he could not be among the rescued, and still be " himself." And what must be her feelings now, as she gazes upon that parting memento, as she thinks of the last time he held it in his hand the wild, terrific scene around him, and those two solitary syllables which constitute his dying words ! To her, now it is as silent as the loved lips of him who sent it from that scene of death ; and justly so for why should it mark time to her whose eternity began with his, who was the life of her life, and soul of her soul ? We leave her with her treasures a broken sentence and a silent keep sake the first sounding ever in her heart like the murmur of an ocean- shell cast forth upon a lonely shore, while the slender hands of the last, having ceased to chronicle the flight of time, are ever pointing her away into the opening ages of eternity. And have we yet no word to say for him ? The " heart grows full to weeping" as we linger above his honored memory but a nation's acclaim is his proudest eulogium, and woman's t^ars his most fitting epitaph. As Nelson fell, he exclaimed : " Thank God ! I have done my duty ! " As Webster passed the dread portal which opens into the valley of shadows, he murmured : " I still live ! " As Napoleon gathered up life's failing forces to battle with the last enemy, he shouted feebly: " Tete d'armeef" But what said the heroic Herndon of himself f Nothing. He neither encourages him- 702 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. self with tlit> knowledge of duties well performed no, he leaves his deeds to speak for him ; nor solaces himself with the idea that he will hereafter live in tin- hearts of his countrymen no, he leaves that for them to say; nor does he proudly assume his province of command, and go forth to meet death as kinjr meets king in battle; nay, he uncovers to the last conqueror, acknowledging him the vicegerent of God, and with a brave heart and firm faith goes down with him silently, and grandly too, into the dark abyss of ocean, and the darker abyss of an unknown eternity. Silent silent all! And if we say to the great sea, and the wild winds, and the overlooking skies, "Where is he now? " they are silent also. Per haps, like drifting sea-weed, cast upon some distant strand, his bones bleach beneath the fiery sun of the tropics; perhaps laid softly down by gently bearing waters, where "coral reefs lie bare, And the cold sea-maids sit to sun their streaming hair ; " perhaps carried away by the impetuous surge to regions where "night and death" have built their thrones where giant icebergs go thundering down the deep where Euroclydon rolls forth its "stern triumphant psalms," and beneath shattered mast and mouldering sail sleep the old Vikings of the Northern Sea. In our cemeteries, "stone spells to stone its weary tale" we read records of the loved and lost as the long funeral train is passing by, and the dirge is wailing for the dead; but who dares follow him to the grave, who went down to death amid the battle of the elements ; whose funeral train was long lines of marching billows, and whose burial psalm was the volleying thunder and the sounding storm? We may enter the city's splen did mausoleums, and read engraven on brass and marble the virtues of the dead ; we may sit down by some lone grave in the forest, whose only monu ment is. a cluster of snowy lilies, on which the morning dewdrops write their transient epitaph ; but who shall venture down, even in thought, to the " dark, unfathomed caves of ocean," where now sleeps the heart which bore up bravely against terror, and danger, and death, but broke in the struggle to utter one little sentence in loving guise, and so left it forever unsaid? The winds and the waves will bring no answer to the questioning voice: "Where i< he now?" but we may lay our hands upon our hearts, and answer softly, and truly too: "He is here! he dwells forever in the great heart of his country ; " and while we answer thus, we also murmur meekly : " Our God has taken that noble spirit into his eternal rest ! " MRS. ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM* IF genuine admiration for Mrs. Ketchum's genius, and the same admiration mingled with warm personal regard for herself as a Christian gentlewoman and ardent friend, could constitute fitness for the labor of love through courtesy assigned me, then this sketch would be among the most interesting of all these narratives of " Southland Writers." It has never been the present writer's good fortune to meet in person the lady whose name stands at the head of the -present article, but several years of familiar correspondence originating in a business way, when Mrs. Ketchum was at the head of the " Lotus," (an enter taining magazine established at Memphis in 1858 or '59,) has afforded more than a passing glimpse of that earnest, fervent nature which ap pears in everything that emanates from her pen, and constitutes her, according to my ability of criticism, the first poetess of the South unless we may place Miss Crean in the same rank with her. Of Mrs. Ketchum's prose- writings, I am not qualified to speak in detail. The " Ladies' Home," edited jointly by Mrs. French and Dr. Powell, gave us, indeed, extracts from " Nelly Bracken," her only pub lished prose volume, unless I mistake, containing specimens of a style simple, terse, vigorous, and devoid of mannerism ; the " Lotus " edito rials were, oftentimes, tender and touching imbued with a delicate pathos, whatever the theme ; and of her letters enchanting, artless, soul-breathing I can only say that they seem to me the perfection of epistolary writing. Poetry, however, seems to be Mrs. Ketchum's natural element, and it is in rhythm that her peculiar bent of mind and feeling seeks its outlet. My first acquaintance with her name and writings was through a poem which appeared in the "Richmond Enquirer" copied into that paper from the " New York Churchman," to which it was origin ally contributed. The lines struck me as breathing the very soul of poetry and fervent prayer; and, by the way, this religious element pervades almost every- * Contributed by Miss Mary J. S. Upshur, of Virginia. 703 704 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. thing she has written, exerting, as I have cause to believe, a wide in fluence upon her daily life. The article alluded to is copied entire, thus: THE MOTHER'S PRAYER. They sleep. Athwart my white Moon-marhh'd casement, with her solemn mien Silently watching o'er their rest serene, Gazeth the star-eyed night. My girl sedate, or wild, By turns as playful as a summer breeze, Or grave as night on starlit Southern seas, Serene, strange woman-child. My boy, my trembling star! The whitest lamb in April's tenderest fold, The bluest flower-bell in the shadiest wold, His fitting emblems are. They are but two, and all My lonely heart's arithmetic is done When these are counted. High and holy One, Oh, hear my trembling call ! I ask not wealth nor fame For these my jewels. Diadem and wreath Soothe not the aching brow that throbs beneath, Nor cool its fever-flame. I ask not length of life Nor earthly honors. Weary are the ways The gifted tread, unsafe the world's best praise, And keen its strife. I ask not that to me Thou spare them, though they dearer, dearer be Than rain to deserts, spring-flowers to the bee, Or sunshine to the sea. But kneeling at their feet, While smiles like summer-light on shaded streams Are gleaming from their glad and sinless dreams, I would my prayer repeat. ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM. 705 In that alluring land, The future where, amid green, stately bowers, Ornate with proud and crimson-flushing flowers, Pleasure, with smooth white hand, Beckons the young away From glen and hill-side to her banquet fair Sin, the grim she-wolf, coucheth in her lair, Eeady to seize her prey. The bright and purpling bloom Of nightshade and acanthus cannot hide The charred and bleaching bones that are denied Taper, and chrism, and tomb. Lord, in this midnight hour I bring my lambs to thee. Oh ! by thy truth, Thy mercy, save them from th' envenomed tooth And tempting poison -flower! . O Crucified and Crowned, Keep us ! We have no shield, no guide but thee. Let sorrows come let Hope's last blossom be By Griefs dark tempest drowned ; But lead us by thy hand, O gentlest Shepherd, till we rest beside The still, clear waters, in the pastures wide Of thine own sinless land ! The " Home Journal " published Mrs. Ketchum's " Christmas Bal lad," of which her beloved " Benny " was the infant hero Benny, whose pious youth gave such high promise of future usefulness and parental satisfaction in his career through life, whose last Christmas (of 1857) found him keeping the great birthday in his Father's house of "many mansions." While he sang the angel's song there, was there not one on earth whose heart-throbs kept time to the beat of that Christmas carol in its concluding lines ? "He is sleeping brown and silken Lie the lashes, long and meek, Like caressing, clinging shadows, On his plump and peachy cheek ; 13 706 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. And I bend above him, weeping Thankful tears, oh, undefiled! For a woman's crown of glory, For the blessing of a child ! " An autograph copy lies before me as I write, bearing far back to the days when it was penned at peaceful "Dunrobin," Mrs. Ketchum's war-ruined home, near Memphis. I am sorely tempted to quote largely from one and another of the valued letters that also came from thence, especially those relating to the war time, and her views of the South and its cause, in which her whole soul was merged ; nor can I, indeed, wholly resist inaugurating my transgressions (for which I hope to be pardoned) by an extract from one bearing date in May, '61. Accompanying it carne the MS. of a stirring battle-song, copied below, which appeared in the " Norfolk Argus " a short time after. One of the principal inducements to make the extract is to indicate somewhat of the inspiration prompting many kindred pro ductions to that I shall presently copy, which authorship induced the Federal commandant at Memphis to refuse Mrs. Ketchum, later, a pass beyond the lines she in a state of health vacillating between life and death, and withal in deep affliction " because of her being a rebel song-writer." " We had yesterday a frightful storm. Four hours preceding it, there liung a thick, gray mist along the horizon, and the air was so still that the nervous aspen-leaves hung motionless. I looked from my window into the stagnant sky. " I thought of the stillness in our political atmosphere just now the sure precursor of coming peril ; and when the elements opened their batteries at length, and the tall, stout trees in the wood bowed and broke before their fury, I shuddered to think of the brave and noble that must yield up their lives in the coming conflict. I do not say these things to , my pride ! I will gird on his sword, God bless him ! I will show him I too am worthy of the name we inherit alike from the hero who died in the far-off bygone. But to you, a woman, brave-hearted but tender, I may say that I can some times scarcely see for tears. " He is appointed to the artillery service of the State, our Governor being dt-irous to have the artillery commanded by West Point gentlemen entirely. His regiment, commanded by Colonel McCown, will march the 1st of June. The City of Memphis seizes every vessel bound North. Yesterday we cap tured three prizes. '* Yesterday, when came home with so much war news I allude ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM. 707 to the seizures, and local and State preparations I could not resist the temptation to blow my individual bugle just a little, to the extent of the war-song I enclose you." BATTLE-CALL. Nee temere nee timide. Dedicated to her brave countrymen, the Cavaliers of the South. Gentlemen of the South, Gird, on your flashing swords ! Darkly along your borders fair Gather the ruffian hordes. Ruthless and fierce they come, Even at the cannon's mouth, To blast the glory of your land, Gentlemen of the South 1 Eide forth in your stately pride, Each bearing on his shield Ensigns your fathers won of yore On many a well-fought field. Let this be your battle-cry, Even to the cannon's mouth, Cor unum, via una ! Onward 1 Gentlemen of the South ! Brave knights of a knightly race, Gordon and Chambers and Grey, Teach the base minions of the North How valor dares the fray ! Let them read on each spotless shield, Even at the cannon's mouth, Decori decus addit avito, Gentlemen of the South I Morrison, Douglas, Stuart, .Erskine and Bradford and West, Your gauntlets on many a hill and plain Have stood the battle's test. Animo non astutia! March to the cannon's mouth, Heirs of the brave dead centuries, Gentlemen of the South ! 708 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. Call out y<>ur stalwart men, Workers in brass and steel, Bid the s\v;irt :irti-aiis come forth At sound of the trumpet's peal. Give thorn your war-cry, Erskine ! ri'thtf to the cannon's mouth; Bid the men Forward, Douglas ! Forward I Yeomanry of the South! Brave hunters! ye have met The fierce black bear in the fray, Ye have trailed the panther night by night, Ye have chased the fox by day! Your prancing chargers pant To dash at the gray wolf's mouth; Your arms are sure of their quarry. Onward! Gentlemen of the South! Fight that the lowly serf And the high-born lady still May bide in their proud dependency, Free subjects of your will ! Teach the base North how ill At the belching cannon's mouth He fares who touches your household gods, Gentlemen of the South ! From mother and wife and child, From faithful and happy slave, Prayers for your sake ascend to Him Whose arm is strong to save. We check the gathering tears, Though ye go to the cannon's mouth ; Dominm provldebit ! Onward ! Gentlemen of the South ! I think it will be perceived by the specimens already quoted, and others which I shall proceed to quote, that Mrs. Ketch um ignores mere verbiage in expression ; that each word has its corresponding idea, and that to use a homely, but it seems to me expressive phrase her writings contain no words or phrases thrown in for stuffing. She is exceedingly accurate, saying all she means, and no more a style impossible of acquisition to a writer less thoroughly imbued with the spirit of his subject. Those who give us sentiment at second-hand ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM. 709 always betray themselves, if in no other way, by the employment of some vehicle of speech a little the worse for long use some pet phrase in demand of poetasters since time, or at least rhyme began. Mrs. Ketchum does not dally to adapt these to her thoughts, seeming to feel that fresh, strong conception is best expressed in the language it originally inspires, and that it confers its own picturesqueness and acceptability on its peculiar spontaneous forms of speech. In " Avord-painting," I have thought she rivalled Ruskin at times .in his peculiar gift. Who beyond sympathy with the pathetic beauty of this "Requiem" but can see therein the chameleon-tinted forests, the "setting" to this central object the new-made grave? Who but breathes the breath of the autumn flowers, and sees their tantalizing, brilliant beauty witnesses the white-winged spirit sweep through the " valley's " expanse and later, the warder-stars come out to guard the battlements she has passed, and passed forever? Leaves of the autumn time, Crimson and golden, opalesque and brown, To this new grave-heap slowly nestling down, Come with your low, low chime And sing of her, who, spring and summer past, In her calm autumn went to heaven at last, Where there is no more rime. Flowers of the autumn days, Bright lingering roses, asters white as snow, And purple violets on the winds that go Sighing their sad, sad lays, Tell with your sweet breath how her spirit fair Through life's declining kept its fragrance rare, Fresher amid decays. Birds of the autumn eves, Warbling your last song ere ye plume your wing For milder climes, stay yet awhile and sing Where the lone willow grieves; Tell of a nest secure from storm and blast, Where her white wing the shadowy valley past Rests under heavenly eaves. Stars of the autumn night Crowned warders on the rampart of the skies, With your bright lances holy mysteries Upon the gravestone write; 710 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. Tell of the new name given to the free In that fair land beyond the silent sea, Where Christ is Lord and Light. i God of the wind and rain, Seed-time and harvest, summer-time and sleet I Stricken and woful, at Thy kingly feet We bow amid our pain ! Help us to find her where no falling leaf Nor parting bird doth tell of death and grief, Where Thou alone dost reign. I shall copy two others of Mrs. Ketchum's poems into this sketch, prefacing them by extracts from Borne of her letters: these will lead to a better appreciation of them, especially when I add that her brave husband fell a sacrifice to the dear South 's and his own sense of honor and justice, in consequence of wounds received at Shiloh. " Our conflict is, in the words of your most apt quotation from our holy Bible, between God and Baal. I may lose my , my pride and my bul wark, but I shall none the less willingly buckle on his armor and bid God speed him on. . . . Sunshine and fragrance, and sweetest wild-bird music are all around my Dunrobin home. I listen, then look out, and up at the golden, crystal sky, and my tears will not be repressed as I think how de generate, self-sufficient man refuses the daily lessons taught by everything in nature. Yet I weep not from timorous fear, if I know myself at all. I believe Southern women all are ready to say with Archedamia : " ' We are brave men's mothers and brave men's wives ; We are ready to do and dare, We are ready to man your walls with our lives, And string your bows with our hair!' "You have read this matchless battle-song from 'Chambers' Journal.' It has been ringing through my brain the entire winter, and I find myself often, as I go about my duties, stopping suddenly to listen, as it were, to the stir ring lines "'Shame to the coward heart that springs To the faint, soft arms of peace ! If the Roman eagle shook his wings At the very gates of Greece, Ask not the mothers who gave you birth To bid you turn and flee ! When Sparta it trampled from the earth, Her women can die and be free ! ' " ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM. 711 The italics are hers. Again she says (January, 1862) : " I have been out with my little hoe all this glorious afternoon, among my flowers, and I found hidden away from the frost, under a dainty coverlet of leaves, this precious violet, which I gathered for you. The long, green spears of the Kinnikinnick are peering out from their russet, mail-clad buds ; the turkey-berry, its friendly comrade of the woods, now a denizen with it of the Dunrobin grounds, is swelling in every branch with emulative sap ; and across the North Biding, as we call the avenue leading to our home, the dog-wood and Judas-tree are making ready for their fair spring favors. There is a threat of winter yet, early in the mornings, but I feel in my veins and my heart that the blessed spring-time is coming, and for the last week I have literally lived out of doors now feeding the pigs or hunting hens' nests with Nora and Benny, or lying on the porch in the sunshine, our fa mous yellow cat General Braxton Bragg at my feet. The children talk to him, and he answers as intelligently as any other soldier, only in not as good English as some others. . . . " A letter from my brave soldier yesterday, brings tidings of his continued health and safety. ... He says it is likely his command will be ordered to Bowling Green shortly, as most of the Western forces are congregating there. All I love best are in that onward march to the Dark and Bloody Ground, that beautiful Eden, won inch by inch from the savage in the bygone time, that hallowed land where all my dead are sleeping." Again : " 1 do not fear for the safety of our city, but the flower of our land are gathering to the rescue at Decatur, and my head swims to think how soon our homes may be desolated of our sunshine. The history of bat tles proves the truth of Abb6 Fen61on's words: 'La cruelle guerre! Elle moisonne les bans, et epargne les mechants ! ' and how dare I hope I shall be blessed above others ? . . . Yet I would not have the South retreat one step from the position she has taken. I believe her cause is altogether just, and that history will accord her a degree of forbearance unexampled in the annals of nations." The subjoined poem, written in 1866, tells its own story: APEIL TWENTY-SIXTH. Written in Elmwood Cemetery, upon the occasion of the solemn Floral Festival, com memorative of the Confederate Dead. Dreams of a stately land Where rose and lotus open to the sun, Where green savane and misty mountain stand By lordly valor won. 712 son- ii i. A x D w UITERS. Dreams of the earnest-l-rnw, -.1 And eagle-eyed, who late with banner bright Rode forth in knightly errantry to do 1>, \,,ir fur Cuil :ind Right. Shoulder to shoulder, see '1 lie crowding columns file through pass and glen ! Jl.ar tin- shrill bugle I List the turbulent drum the gallant men! Resolute, year by year, They keep at bay the cohorts of the world : Hemmed in, yet trusting to the Lord of Hosts, The Cross is still unfurled. Patient, heroic, true, And counting tens where hundreds stood at first, Dauntless for Truth they dare the sabre's edge, The bombshell's deadly burst. While we, with hearts made brave By their proud manhood, work and watch and pray, Till, conquering fate, we greet with smiles and tears The conquering ranks of gray I O God of dreams and sleep ! Dreamless they sleep; 'tis we, the sleepless, dream ! Defend us while our vigil dark we keep, Which knows no .morning beam. Bloom, gentle springtide flowers, Sing, gentle winds, above each holy grave 1 While we, the women of a desolate land, Weep for the true and brave I From the " Sunday Appeal " is copied MEHORIA IN STERNA. JUSTUS TRANSLATES MDCCCLXV. Unto thy golden sands Bright tropic country of my love ! once more I come with exiled feet how travel-sore! From cold and distant lands. ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM. 713 Brightly the sun still shines ; Amid their leaves white blow the magnol flowers ; The mocking-bird throughout the circling hours Sings in the bamboo- vines : Fair as Damascus gleam Thex city's gardens, 'mid their opulence Of rose and myrtle flooding sight and sense, And hill and glen and stream Glint in meridian light, Or smile beneath the full and silvery moon, As if no black eclipse could blot the noon, No tempest blight the night. O gentlest friend ! we sit Beneath these drooping elms ; the wind blows sweet Among our Psestum roses; bright and fleet The finches sing and flit: Yet wearily we turn From their soft wooings to this precious ground, Along whose silent, consecrated mound The fires of sunset burn. What shall I say to thee Of him, the patriot just how stammering tell The virtues of that heart, now resting well Beneath the myrtle-tree? From blue Atlantic's bound To the deep Bravo's mango-bordered shore, His trumpet, 'mid the battle's shifting roar, Gave no uncertain sound: But, firm, and true, and clear, Cautioned the rash, inspirited the weak, Rebuked the venal, nor forgot to speak Bare, noble words of cheer To brave men, fainting, white, In hospital wards ; to children in their tears ; To women strong in faith and strange to fears, Toiling by day and night. 714 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. A ml \\lini ilisaster dire Fiirlnl the n-d crews, whose light had dazed the world, lli*. \nirr was first to blunt the arrows hurled 13y a flushed conqueror's ire. Dark day of overthrow ! Vitlinix imincdic.ab'de ! for thee, If in the future's Gilead there be A balsam yet to grow, Its healing shoot will spring From holy lives laid down for freedom's sake l-'roin bold emprise, whose clashing truth will make The echoing ages ring: i Its blessing will distil From haunts made classic by heroic deeds From Shiloh's plain, from Chiekamauga's reeds, From Malvern's bloody hill. How proud these memories vast! Giving us each a dignity and strength Not born of earth. They make us one, at length, With the dim, fabulous past. Ay! vanquished though we be, O heart! beat rhythmic with my sorrow! we Are of the Heraclidae ! mount and sea Attest our high degree! Another golden age Dawns from Potomac to the Mexique strand With Hector and Andromache we stand On history's blazoned page: And from the sulphurous rim Of black defeat, we join the deathless crowds Whose shapes, like mountain-peaks above the clouds, Loom through the centuries dim. Let bloated, vain success Be worshipped by the millions of to-day ; Eighteous defeat, uncrowned, hath silent sway To-morrow will confess. ANNIE CHAMBERS K E T C H U M. 715 Strike deep, though silently, O Southern oaks, your roots in Southern ground j And lift, O palm and laurel, victor-crowned, Your branches to the sky ! The river's heaving floods, The mountain-tops, the steadfast stars will say Unto the cycling ages : IN THAT DAY, LO ! THERE WERE DEMI-GODS ! So finish our selections from Mrs. Ketchum's poems, which, one and all, with all the strong faith they shadow forth in the ultimate triumph of right and truth, will exclude her from the rank of successful poets, so far as popularity is the test of success. Beside her being emphati cally the poet of a "lost cause," as it is often called, her style is char acterized by a degree of refinement, an elevation both of conception and expression intelligible to the cultivated few, but which the people, so named, will never appreciate ; and then that air of mournfulness that touches all she writes, whether of poetry or prose, though here and there stirring a heart to sympathy with its requiem-like, chastened beauty, is not the characteristic most in demand of those who read for relief from the too true tragedies that life sets gratuitously before us all. Mrs. Ketchurn was born and her early life passed in that pictu resque portion of her State among the crags of the old Elkhorn River. But I must let her tell something of herself: " We were three, we fatherless sisters three little ones in the old Kentucky home, watched over by three older grown-up sisters, to whom we were seve rally awarded by our dear widowed mother, when our father was called home to heaven. Day by day, when dismissed from the study where our elder sis ters taught us, we shouted among the hills, we plashed in the flashing streams. Night after night, in the long, snowy winters, we knotted ourselves in the chimney corner, and listened with wide-open eyes to our dear black nurse's marvellous tales, or, covered up in the warm nursery bed, whispered together of Sinbad the Sailor, with half-closed, sleepy eyes, and at last went off from the fairy world of child romance into the fantastic realm of dreams." The above prefaced a sad narration of domestic affliction, the loss of one of the devoted trio of sisters above spoken of; and in connec tion with it, I copy one of the " Lotus " editorials, " Under the Leaves," which I think (without any authority whatever) had for its subject the lamented one just mentioned. " We have a pleasant shade now, children, under the leaves. There are delicate buds peering out from the leaves of the rose, and glistening emerald 716 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. ..n the jasmin.' sprays, almost bursting to display their golden cups. it on tin- slop.-*, ami umlor the budding tree*, tin- fresh young gra-> lies like a velvet carpet. The weeping-willows that Iran over tin- high, white wall of tho cemetery are fringed with tender leaves; and yollow jon- quils, growing on the graves, arc tolling tlicir golden bells in every hree/c that whi-pers among tho cedars. It is spring-time, and you know all the world is gay in the spring; but the Lotus cannot dance with Laeta now, when the March wind blows his merry, boisterous life, and the hyacinths, awakened from their sleep, nod and swing in the gamesome frolic. " There is a gentle river far away, where the rock-moss clings to the tall, gray dill's, where the wild rose climbs like a fearless child, and over whose elear. murmuring waters the sycamore- trees stretch out their long, white arms in silent benediction. Its waters flow into the Kentucky, the Kentucky bears them to the Ohio, and the Ohio leads them at last to join the annied waves of this grand old river marching to the sea, on whose banks our leafy bower is built. The waters of that far-oil' stream are singing a death-son- now: they have murmured it all the way from the far Kentucky hills i'a-i cities and towns and plantations, where light-hearted children were playing. but none of them understood its meaning its story was not for them. It tells to the trembling Lotus, as she leans to the solemn water, how the tall. red mountain-pinks will lift their heads on those distant crags, watching in vain for the pleasant eyes that sought them every spring ; how the sycamore leaves will stop their whisperings to listen for the light footfall that will rustle the dead leaves at their hoary roots no more ; and day and night the Lotus will kiss the blessed waves that a little while ago bathed fair and dainty feet that were whiter than her petals, and mirrored a face that is hid be neath the violets now. " Laeta, joyful Laeta, has an elder sister, with soft, brown eyes and sweet, majestic manners. Her name is Lucia. She is wise and thoughtful. Through deepest darkness of sorrow she opens a path of light, and where there are only thorny thickets, she can show us safe and pleasant pa. She has sung with the night-wind in the ear of the sorrowing Lotus the story of One who taught the whole world patience in the garden of Gethsemane ; she has written on the morning clouds the wondrous legend of the King's Daughter, whose raiment is of wrought gold, and on whose forehead shines the morning-star. Laeta is singing with the mocking-birds; we can hear them in the wood. It is her office to rejoice with even- joyful thing. She is good and innocent, and always lovely and unselfish ; but Lueia is wiser and knows better what to say when the white rabbit strays away, and the rain washes up the newly-planted flower-seeds, and the black crape haiigs at the silent door." I cannot better conclude this imperfect narration than by adding that the fortunes of our late civil contest left this lady bereft of most her worldly goods, if not all; and that, with true courage, and zeal, ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM. 717 ami faith, she set herself to the practical work of earning her own living. Her fine mind found employment in the duties of a teacher in the large female school or college conducted in Memphis by a brother of General J. E. B. Stuart; and until an almost ruined state of health incapacitated her for the exertion, she remained in the insti tution, illustrating the worthtessness of the doctrine that literary women are an incubus upon the body social, separate from their pens and ink; and, moreover, substantiating the fact that Southern women are worthy of all that has been ascribed to them in high heroism true adaptation of themselves to the changed circumstances their mother-land's misfortunes have brought peculiarly home to them. AMABAEE ME. When the white snow left the mountains, When the spring unsealed the fountains; When her eye the violet lifted Where the autumn leaves had drifted, 'Neath the budding maple-tree, Amabare Me. Now the summer flowers are dying; Now the rippling streams are drying; Yet I cry, though lone I linger, Where the autumn's crimson finger Burns along the maple-tree, Amabare Me. As the wild bird, faint and dying, Follows summer, foithless, flying, So my heart, doubts blank are beating, Broken-winged, is' still repeating, While it follows, follows thee, Amabare Me. Soon will winter, gaunt and haggard, Shroud a new grave, sodless, beggar'd ! Still, though not a flower be planted, Not a requiem be chanted, Not an eye with tears be laven, On a gray stone will be graven, 'Neath the leafless maple-tree, Amabare Me. MRS. CLARA COLES. IN 1861, J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia, published a beautiful volume, entitled " Clara's Poems." " Clara " is Mrs. Coles, at that time and now residing in the city of Nashville. "These poems are in many respects well worthy the mechanical labor expended upon their proper presentation; for though they cannot claim, and never were meant to claim a place amid the standard po etry of the language, they are worth, well worth perusal and preserv ation. Classic in structure, thought, or imagery, they are far from being ; elaborateness of verbal finish has not been bestowed upon them ; they neither paint nor awaken any of those undeveloped passions, or even sentiments, the revelation of which entitles the poet to the proud title of " original ; " but they deal simply and chastely, yet often warm ly, with those tender sorrows and feminine fancies felt and nursed by most cultured females, especially by those who have passed much of life far from the frivolities of good society, and dreamed, amid crowds, of heart experiences never realized save to those whose solitariness of sentiment is by circumstances wedded to solitariness of life. The conclusion is forced on the reader of these poems, that the writer had a vague consciousness of possessing a fund of poesy, but had never developed it. " The very simplicity attained, seems to arise from a dread of using powers, thoughts, and imagery of whose real worth and meaning she was timidly dubious. She is a pleasing versifier, possessed of poetic instincts, but lacking poetic power. She might have been a poet and a good one : her book reveals this pleasingly and clearly, but it does no more. This is one side of the verdict of strict impartiality, and were we to stop here it were partiality itself, for we should omit the better features of the poems music, morality, and a prevailing tone of religious effect, unobtruded, yet, unconsciously to the writer herself, pervading the whole book, and fitting it admirably for the parlor- table, or what-not a book that may ever safely and profitably be placed within easy reach of young lovers of poesy, in the certainty of 718 CLAKA COLES. 719 yielding pleasure, inflicting no pain and teaching no error. Would \ve could say the same of greater poets ! " Thus said a critic in the "Southern Monthly," 1861. John T. Edgar, D. D., in an " introductory " to " Clara's Poems," says : " ' Clara ' is truly retiring, and as delicate in her claims to attention, as she is in the sweet images which are so meekly and touchingly conspicuous in many of the more tenderly pathetic of her pieces. It will be seen that the great charm of her verse is found, not in their classical allusions or ro mantic imagery, but in the simple appeals which they so winningly make to all that is unartificial, uncorrupted, truthful, and responsive in the more pure and gentle emotions of every unsophisticated heart. She has had no learned resources from which to draw her inspirations. To such fountains, no for mer familiarity or more recent acquaintance could have enabled her to re sort. The school in which many of her most impressive lessons have been taught has been that of disappointment and sorrow ; and to such lessons we are indebted for many of the finest and most thrilling stanzas of her often plaintive and pensive muse." SABBATH MORN. Bathed in the orient flush of morn, How lovely earth appears ! New tints the opening rose adorn, Gemm'd with night's dewy tears. Soft, whispering breezes sigh around, And snowy cloudlets lie Like angel watchers, floating through The calm, pure, azure sky. The mountain-tops reflect the rays That usher in the day -god's beams; The birds trill forth their songs of praise; The wave in gold and crimson gleams: Oh, beautiful ! My spirit drinks In copious draughts of love divine, While gazing on this glorious scene, And worships at a holier shrine Than mortal hands could ever rear, Or mortal language e'er portray ; For angel voices, murmuring near, Seem wafting my glad soul away. 720 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. Sweet, tranquil morn ! so clear, so calm ; What soft emotions fill my breast! Uright rmblriii of that glorious dawn A Sabbath of eternal rest ! SONNET TO SLEEP. Come, thou white-winged angel, gentle sleep, Press thy cool fingers on my tear-stained lids, Each wearied sense in soft oblivion steep, Oh, give the rest my sorrow still forbids ! Come, with thy crimson poppy juice, and bathe My throbbing, care-worn brow ; Ope the rose-tinted, pearly gate of dreams, And let my weary spirit enter now. Come, fold thy pinions softly round my soul, And waft it to some bright and happier sphere, To meet and mingle for a moment with Its kindred, who are blest and smiling there, Waiting with song and harp to welcome me When death shall close my simple history here. "WHO IS CLARA?" She 's a queer little woman, that dwells in a cot, So lowly and simple, the world knows her not ; Where the birds sing all day, and the sweet flowers bloom, Filling the air with song and perfume ; And peace seems to brood on her halcyon wings, O'er the dear little nest where unnoticed she sings. She 's a sad little woman, though appearing as gay As the lark, soaring high at the dawning of day Far up the blue heavens, to gaze on the sun ; Yet, folding her wings ere his bright course is run, All drooping and weary she sinks to her nest, To hide the keen arrow still deep in her breast. Yes, she's lonely and sad, for death has bereft Her home of its jewels not one now is left CLAKA COLES. 721 To wake its lone echoes with music and mirth ; Like sunbeams they 've passed from the beautiful earth, Shrouding her spirit in darkness and gloom, That the sunlight of heaven alone can illume. And she sits in her bower and dreams of the past ; When twilight's pale shadows around her are cast, And zephyrs kiss softly the whispering leaves, Sweet visions of beauty and gladness she weaves In low, thrilling numbers, that flow from a heart, Where the world and its follies have never a part. 14 ADELIA C. GRAVES. THE stone on which it is written that such a one was born, lived so many years, and died, often furnishes the only record of a long and useful life, of patient suffering and unrequited toil ; yet even this is frequently more than the great world cares to read. The life that has in it no thrilling incident, no wonderful event, no startling tragedy, or mirth-exciting comedy, but which is spent in the quiet performance of every-day duties, has little in it to attract atten tion from those outside the circle of personal friends. Such a life is that of Mrs. Adelia C. Graves, the devoted wife, the self-sacrificing mother, the accomplished teacher, and the gifted poet. Had she persisted in following the impulses of her early years, and devoted her life entirely to the pursuits of literature, something would doubtless have been accomplished which would have caused the world to feel much interest in her biography. She was born March 17th, 1821, at Kingsville, Ashtabula County, in the State of Ohio, and. spent her early life upon the romantic shores of Lake Erie. Her father, Dr. D. M. Spencer, was a physician of ability and reputation. He was a man of uncommon mental power, and at one time exerted no small influence in the political circles of his State. But his friends having been defeated in their endeavors to secure his nomination to Congress by the wire-working of his anti- slavery opponent, the noted Joshua R. Giddings, he withdrew from further participation in a conflict where success could be gained only by the use of such means as neither he nor his friends were willing to employ. When Mr. Giddings was elected, Dr. Spencer declared that the ultimate result would be the dissolution of the Union, and a fratri cidal war between the North and South. About a quarter of a cen tury has elapsed since that prediction, then denounced as the insane ravings of disappointed ambition. The children of Dr. Spencer, one by one, as they were free to do so, came and united their destinies with the South. Three of them are buried in Southern soil, and the subject of this sketch is the only one left. 722 ADELIA C. GRAVES. 723 Miss Spencer had iii her early girlhood resolved to devote her life to literature. The Muses had been the companions of her childhood. Stanzas written before she was nine years old are models of correct versification, and exhibit the beautiful simplicity of expression and happy choice of words which characterize the productions of her more mature years. She wrote because she could not restrain the flow of bright and beautiful thoughts that were forever welling up from her young heart, and taking shape in simple, child-like rhymes. She loved to be alone passing her time on the pebbly beach, or in the grand old forests that had stood a thousand years near where she had been born. There she could commune with the invisible. There, with no mortal ear to heed, and no tongue to criticize or blame, she could warble out the extemporized lays which would be ever coming to her tongue. Her love of nature was a passion, the record of which is beautifully given in some of her earliest unpublished poems. Miss Spencer married a teacher, Z. C. Graves, President at that time of Kingsville Academy, since founder and President of Mary Sharpe College, Winchester, Tenn. To Mr. Graves, the highest of all employments, save one, the Gospel ministry, was that of training the minds of the young. The goal of his ambition was to become the greatest of living teachers : not great est in the amount of money he might amass by teaching, nor yet in the reputation he might gain as the manager of a school; but greatest in his capacity to communicate knowledge, and secure the very high est possible development of the moral and intellectual powers of those who should be objects of his care. In this he was at once seconded by his wife with all the energy of her soul. So long as health and strength permitted, she was with him in the school-room, sharing fully with her husband, not only in its labors, but in all its responsibilities. A few years after her marriage, Mrs. Graves received a sad injury, which has crippled her physical energies ever since. For five years, at first, she could not walk across her room ; and oftentimes now, she is unable to walk a short distance. In 1850, Mr. Graves, as President, laid the foundation of the Mary Sharpe College, at Winchester. It was designed to be an institution in which the daughters of the South could secure, not merely the fash ionable accomplishments of an ordinary boarding-school education, but the same mental discipline and extensive knowledge of ancient 724 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. and modern languages, the higher mathematics, and the natural sci ences which our eons could gain at the very best colleges or universi ties of the land. The wonderful success of this institution depended, for the first few years, very much upon the patient labor, the indefati gable energy, and the judicious counsels of Mrs. Graves. That characteristic of Mrs. Graves's poetry which most commends it to our taste, is its extreme naturalness and simplicity of expression. They are beautiful word-paintings, in which every line of light and shade is distinct upon the mental canvas ; yet there is no labor for effect, no straining after rhymes, no far-fetched similes; but the verse is in simple Anglo-Saxon words, with a predominance of monosylla bles, singing its music as it goes. The rhyming words are there simply because no other words would so well express the thought. Yet while it is thus unstudied and simple, thus devoid of all artistic display, it is full of " Thoughts not thought before," full of the beautiful and the grand. Mrs. Graves's first-born the child of hope and promise fills a soldier's grave ! The war and its consequences nearly ruined them pecuniarily. Mrs. Graves at the present time occupies the position of Matron and Professor of Rhetoric in the College. She was formerly Professor of Latin and Belles-lettres. The Baptist Sunday School Union have published eight little vol umes for Sunday-school children, mostly selected from the " Children's Book," which Mrs. Graves edited for several years, and for which she wrote a great deal. These books, at the request of the " committee of the Union," she compiled from her sketches therein published. She has contributed to different periodicals, mostly fugitive poems, and two prose tales, one a prize tale ; and " Ruined Lives," published in the "Southern Repository," Memphis, constitute, with the drama of " Jephthah's Daughter," her published works. She has a quantity of MSS. on hand, written as a pleasure and a solace; in fact, because she could not help writing. She is engaged now on a work, entitled "Seclusaval; or, The Arts of Romanism," several chapters of which have been published in the " Baptist," at Memphis. Mrs. Graves's aim is to instruct and to do good with her pen ; con sequently, she has tried rather to repress a somewhat exuberant youth ful fancy. If Mrs. Graves's health will admit, she hopes to publish several volumes, and also to collect her published and unpublished A DELI A C. GRAVES. 725 poems. She has a work on "Woman: Her Education, Aims, Sphere, Influence, and Destiny," (which has been delivered as lectures to the pupils qf the college;) "A Guide and Assistant to Composition;" and a poem, entitled "Alma Grey" all of which we hope to see in print. HUMAN SOVEREIGNTY; OR, EVERY MAN A KING. To the young men of our beloved Southland, who, repining not at the past, or despond- ingly brooding over what might have been, have yet the courage to accept their situ ation as it is, and the energetic exercise of whose wisdom, goodness, and virtue is yet to constitute the true wealth and freedom of a fallen people, the following poem is most respectfully dedicated, with the assurance that gold, bank-stock, lands, cotton- bales, and negroes make no man rich or great; but the real wealth of any country is to be estimated by the amount of the active intelligence and virtue of its sons and daughters. RESTJRSAMIJS. ^ Victoria sitteth on a throne, with thronging nobles round, And with a rich and jewelled crown her queenly brow is bound, While thousand hands, at her behest, perform her slightest will, And only wait a wish to know, with pleasure to fulfil. Her kingdom is the sea-girt isles, and far-off India's shore, And stretches from the northern snows to great Niagara's roar ; While ocean-gems are crouching low her lion arms to greet, And strong Gibraltar humbly kneels a subject at her feet. Queen of a mighty realm, she rules o'er lands so widely spread, And fearful weight of royalty resteth upon her head ; Millions of beings yield to her their life-career to guide, While Wisdom, with its hoary hairs, must her decrees abide. But thou, young man, with sun-browned cheek, a tiller of the soil, Which, with the fruits it yieldeth thee, rewardeth all thy toil The labor-gems that gird thy brow have value rich and great As diadems of jewels rare that burden by their weight. Thy God hath given to thee a realm, and made thee, too, a king ; And willing subjects unto thee their votive offerings bring ; While thou must reign a sovereign lord, with undisputed sway, Or yield the master-spirit's rule the subject to obey. " My mind to me a kingdom is," * wrote one who suffered long Within the Bastile's gloomy walls, 'mid gratings high and strong ; * Madame Guyon, confined on account of her religion. 726 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. And, like a bird, she sat and sang to liim who placed her there ; Although a bird shut from the fields of sunlight and of air. Well was that inborn realm subdued, thus faithfully to bring The fruits of joy and sweet content, and pleasant memories fling Among the hopes that budded thick within that grated room, Where yet the sunlight of the heart in gushing floods could come. Youth, with the generous impulses that crowd thy opening way, Thou 'rt each a king monarch supreme an empire owns thy sway : 'T is true thou wear'st no purple robe, no glittering, golden crown, Nor bear'st a jewelled sceptre's wand t' enforce thy haughty frown : Thy kingdom is no wide-spread land, girt by the heaving wave ; But of thyself thou 'rt ruler all, from childhood to the grave ; And he who hath a high-born soul, a true and kindly heart, Addeth to " human sovereignty " its most distinguished part. ^ No princely dome is thine to boast, no costly marble walls Reared by the sweat of toiling men, who must obey thy calls ; No pictures of proud artists' skill, no tessellated floors That echo to the courtly tread of those within thy doors. Thy palace is the wide-spread earth, its dome the arching sky ; And far more bright than gorgeous lamps the light that meets thy eye - The glorious sun at morning's hour, the flashing stars at eve, Among whose rays the moonbeams too their silver tissue weave. The Architect who built for thee hath fashioned for thy view Full many a scene of beauty rare, bright flowers of Eden hue, The greenwood shade, the waterfall, the mountain tipped with mist, Whose sunny heights and dusky grots the amber clouds have kissed. What though earth trumpet not thy fame across her lafces and seas, Nor silken banner waft it forth upon the floating breeze? If in thy peaceful breast there lives the consciousness of right, Thou 'rt happier than a CONQUEROR returning from the fight. What though no herald's blazonry trace back thy ancient name, And find unmixed with vulgar blood thy royal lineage came? Man's acts proclaim nobility, and not the kingly crest ; For he 's the noblest who performs life's trying duties best. And should men scorn thy mean attire, and dare to call thee "slave" Hold up thy head, king of thyself, and be thou truly brave ; For God hath given thee sovereignty of soul, and mind, and heart, And absolute thy power must be till life itself depart. A DEL I A C. GRAVES. 727 Then arm that soul with heaven-born truth, with justice, and with love ; And fill thy mind with knowledge too, foul error to remove ; Stir well the ground of thy young heart, that it produce no weeds, But precious fruits of charity, and treasures of good deeds. Ay, let thy bosom wear the robe of high-born honesty, And truth gird e'en thy secret acts with its pure panoply ; Then, knowledge-crowned, thy brow serene with holy light shall glow, And rays of living radiance o'er a darkened world shall throw. And thou 'It so rule this precious realm bestowed, fair youth, on thee, That when is asked thy last account thou 'It give it joyfully ; Nor fear abash thy pallid cheek, nor tremble on thy tongue, To meet the Universal King and mingle with his throng. Prince of humanity ! self s rightful, heaven-born lord ! Virtue and goodness bring their own exceeding great reward : Be free from passion's rule, from ignorance and pride, And there 's no nobler work than man, the Godhead's self beside. MRS. MARY E. POPE. MRS. POPE'S maiden name was Mary E. Foote. She is a native of Huntsville, Ala. She married, when young, Mr. Leroy Pope, a member of a branch of the distinguished " Walker" family, of Ala bama. As a young lady, Miss Foote possessed a beautiful, dreamy face, and her form of aerial grace personified the ideal of poesy. Mr. and Mrs. Pope made their home in Memphis, where she has resided since. Her life has been chequered by misfortune and sorrow, which have only seemed to give occasion for the development of the lofty and noble qualities of her nature. Mrs. Pope is the mother of Lieutenant W. S. Pope, killed at Tishemingo Creek, and mentioned in the life of General Bedford Forrest. Mrs. Pope has grappled with adversity with a bold, unquailing spirit, and ridden triumphant over the storms of life. She has charge of a flourishing school for young ladies in Memphis, which sufficiently attests the indomitable energy dwelling in her slender and fragile figure. The sweet murmurings of her muse may be frequently heard float ing on the breeze, in the Memphis journals. THE GIFT OF SONG. If, when bright visions o'er thee throng, They clothe themselves in words of song, And strengthen and refresh thy soul; Though weak and faint the numbers roll, Yet fear not thou to sing. If common life to thee keep tune Unto thy spirit's chaunting rune, And all the actual grows bright 'Neath fancy's soft ideal light, Thou hast the power to sing. 728 MARY E. POPE. 729 If in each living, human face, Thy unsealed eye doth love to trace, Through sin's dark, loathsome, outward form, God's image, ever pure and warm, Thou art a poet ; sing. When sorrow bows thy burdened head, And lurid clouds thy path o'erspread, If in thy grief, on radiant wing, The muse doth woo thee to her spring, Fear not to sip and sing. When life blooms like a new-made bride, With hope and love and grateful pride, And earth to thy illumined eye With Aiden seems in sheen to vie; If joy is tuneful, sing. When morning blushes o'er the earth With rosy softness, bloom, and mirth, And birdlings from each jewelled spray Woo thee to hail the new-born day; If music haunt thee, sing. If, when thy glances seek the sky, Where sunset hues its pavement dye, Thy fettered spirit clank its chain, Struggling to make its utterance plain ; Unbind the links and 'sing. It may be that thy lyre's faint tone No magic master-key may own ; Thy falt'ring steps may fail to reach In fame's great temple-shrine a niche; But yet fear not to sing. As well the twitt'ring wren might fear With his soft strain the day to cheer Because the nightingale's rich note More proudly sweet at eve doth float, And thus refuse to sing, As thou, because on stronger wing Thy brothers scale fame's height and sing Their grand, immortal harps will wake A thousand lesser shells to take Part in creation's hymn. The heaven-descended, god-like power To mortals is a priceless dower. Some hearts in silent grief may ache ; But some, if mute, e'en joy would break, And, sad or glad, must sing. 730 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. But if to thee no radiant sheen Light up the roughest human mien; If life wear not a glorious light, Beyond what beams on common sight, Be still, nor dare to sing. If human faith and human love In thee no sacred worship move; If in bright nature's open eye No great, eternal beauty lie, Be sure thou canst not sing. If thy calm pulse and even blood Course not at times a lava flood, With suffocating rush of thought, By noble deeds or evil brought, Such cool blood cannot sing. Touch not with hand profane the lyre, Unbaptized with the sacred fire. Study may give the tricks of art, But cannot the bard's power impart To other souls to sing. THE RAIN. The rain, the longed-for summer rain, Is coming down at last; Over the city, the wood, the plain, A misty veil is cast. The children of men, with dust-dimmed eyes, And a prayer in every heart, Look fearful up to the cloud-draped skies, Lest the welcome signs depart. The rain, the pleasant summer rain, Comes pattering from the eaves; The grateful music rings again From the dust-besprinkled leaves. O children of men, from sleep arise, To worship the loving Hand That sends the life-stream from the skies To heal the fainting land. MARY E. POPE. 731 The rain, the cooling summer rain, How it brightens the crisp, brown grass ! How the odors of blossom and ripened grain Sweep by as the sweet drops pass ! The cattle, upon a thousand hills On freshened pastures fed, Are drinking content the tide that fills The dried-up streamlet's bed. The rain, the grateful summer rain, It falleth alike on all On the child of want in his aching pain, On the dweller in splendor's hall ; On him whose heart and hands are clean, On the wretch with the mark of Cain ; And lordly man aiid reptile mean Bless God for the summer rain. The blessed rain of heavenly grace Is falling on human souls, And the stain from the mire of earth's wild chase Away on the bright drops rolls ; The heart that in sin lay scorched and dead, To a higher life has birth, Whence flowers of love and holiness shed Sweet perfume o'er the earth. MAEAH. " I went out full, and the Lord hath brought me home empty.' Travel-stained, foot-sore, and weary Comes the exile home again ; Lifting eyes tear-stained and dreary O'er her life's wide, blasted plain; With the dust of ceaseless sorrow Burning ever on her brow, Seeks on Labor's fields to borrow Strength to meet the empty Now. Ne'er was queen, with crown-gem studded, On the world's most lofty throne, Richer than with heart-love flooded Went the exile from her home. SOUTHLAND WRITER 8. Mother oh! the wealth, the glory Of that (liiuU'in of light; Words can never tell the story Of its treasures of delight. On the won field, rent and gory, Whence the routed foe had fled, Faded out the light and glory When the hero son lay dead. Empty, shorn, and inly bleeding, Groping 'neath a rayless sky, All the joys of earth unheeding, Fain the mother-heart would die. But o'er sorrow's waves come stealing Whispered tones of tender love, To the darkened soul revealing Shapes of light the grave above ; And a form of seraph beauty, Hero brow, and maiden cheek, To hear her song, " Life is duty, And the brave the conflict seek." Travel-stained, foot-sore, and weary, Is there strength left to obey? O'er a life so blank and dreary, Can the fainting steps make way? Saviour, on thy path of sorrow, Guide the feet so far astray, Purge the tear-dimmed eyes to follow Thee, the mourner's hope and stay. VIRGINIA. 733 MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTON. ARGARET JUNKIN is the second daughter of the Rev. George Junkin, D. D., a Presbyterian divine of some note in the Southern portion of that Church. Dr. Junkin was President of Lafayette College, Easton, Pa,., and of Wash ington College, Lexington, Va. The successor of the Rev. Dr. Junkin in the presidential chair of the latter College is Robert E. Lee. " Stonewall " Jackson was one of its Professors in the term of Dr. Junkin, whose eldest daughter was the wife of the famous Confederate leader. Miss Junkin was a frequent contributor to the " Southern Literary Messenger " during the editorship of John R. Thompson. The follow ing poem was published in 1850 : DANTE IN EXILE. " The prior perceived one day a man coming into the monastery whom none of its inmates knew. He asked him what he wanted ; but the stranger making no reply, and continuing to gaze on the building, as though contemplating its architecture, the ques tion was put a second time; upon which, looking round on his interrogator, he answered: 'Peace ! '" TURNBULL'S Genius of Italy. Peace for the exile banished from his home, His kindred, and his country ? for the man Whose very birthplace roots him from her soil In jealous rage, as though he were a weed Of noxious influence, and flings him forth To wither, all uncared for peace for him f Yea, even for him if indignation just Against oppression and foul wrong can yield A nutriment, though bitter, strong enough To still the cravings that his nature feels ; But not for thee, O Poet, with thy soul Of organism tender, delicate, 735 736 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. Stern, yet with woman's gentlest sweetnesses Tempering its loftiness its every chord Thrilling with an unutterable love To thine unworthy Florence with thy heart, Thy high, heroic, melancholy heart, In its refinement of ecstatic pain, Quivering beneath its sorrow evermore ! No peace for thee ! Thy sadden'd gaze could rest Upon no other sky that wore a hue Resplendent as thine own Etrurian heavens ; No stream that flashed in sunshine could awake The joyousness that thy young years had known By silvery Arno ; and no city seem So queenly in its proud magnificence As beautiful Florence, lying lovingly Within the arms of her encircling hills. Yet she could fling thee from her she could bear To bind thy sensitive spirit to the rack Of an ingenious torture, till thy life Should wear in broken-heartedness away ! And thou couldst tame thy fiery nature down, And love her still with an unselfish love, That nought could quench, even in thy deepest wrong, Throughout thy years of lingering martyrdom ! She could not take thine all : though sore athirst For the sweet sympathies that once refreshed Thy Tuscan home thou hadst a hidden spring, Pure, cooling, inexhausted, whence thy mind Drew strength and solace 'midst ijts harshest woes ; And even in thy severest poverty Of hope and comfort thou, with lavish hand, Didst pour from out that precious fount of song Delicious waters that should ever yield Divine refreshment. But the living stream, So clear and full and flowing, and so fraught With rare delight to others could not cure Thy long home-sickness could not satisfy Thy painful human yearnings. And the peace Which thou hadst sought through many wanderings Through years of weary banishment, in vain Thine aching heart found only in the grave 1 MARGARET J. PRESTON. 737 In 1857, she published a volume, entitled " Silverwood : A Book of Memories." Colonel J. T. L. Preston, the husband of the subject of this article, is one of the faculty of the Virginia Military Institute, at Lexington. Mrs. Preston's most ambitious effort is the poem of " Beechenbrook : A Rhyme of the War." Mrs. Preston has written because she " thought in numbers, and the numbers came," not for popular notice, nor from necessity, as, alas ! so many of her countrywomen have been forced to do since the war, by the reverses of fortune. She is so happy as to be lifted above want or accidents of poverty. She has written for pastime and from patriot ism, as the amusement in the pleasant idleness of a life devoted not to literature, but to the womanly cares and pleasures which a large establishment, husband, children, and "society" force upon her. Mrs. Preston was a frequent contributor from its commencement to the " Land we Love ; " General Hill, its editor, being a warm personal friend of hers. She also contributes to various other Southern journals. We subjoin some critiques, Northern and Southern, of " Beechen brook " the first taken from the "Round Table," the second from the " Field and Fireside : " " BEECH EXBROOK : A RHYME OF THE WAR. A publisher's printed esti mate of the sale of his publications is usually somewhat imaginative ; to use a threadbare but serviceable quotation, ' The wish is often father to the thought.' Yet in this case we see no reason to doubt the entire veracity of Messrs. Kelly & Piet in announcing ' fifth thousand ' on the title-page of this volume. It is one which, we should judge, would be immensely popu lar among the people for whom it was written, and to whose sectional pride and prejudices it appeals in more ways than one. In all respects it is essen tially Southern, and in most it is praiseworthy. Its press-work especially shows a standard of excellence which we were not prepared to look for below Philadelphia ; and the poems themselves, if they do not quite deserve, still do not altogether disgrace their handsome setting. In two points particu larly they challenge Southern admiration : in the first place, they are not absolutely trash, which is quite an advance on the majority of Southern verse ; and in the second place, their merit is even sufficient to dimly fore shadow a time when the sunny South shall achieve intellectual emancipa tion in a literature of its own, and be no longer dependent on New England for poetry, as well as piety, politics, and prints. To the author's own people, therefore, unjaded as yet by the worship of many literary idols, her book must be peculiarly grateful : even we of the North, who are not tainted by that sombre fanaticism that sees no good in Nazareth, may find in it much 15 738 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. to admire and applaud. The verse is graceful and flowing, and the language and sentiment prove the author to be a lady of refined and cultivated taste. l l>ulce et deem 1 is nit her an indecorous liberty with Horace, and we should greatly prefer that Miss (or Mrs.?) Preston had not linked 'breast 'with 'caress,' nor turned ' harassing' and 'support' into 'harassing' and 'sup port.' But after all, we are not so much concerned with Miss (or Mrs. ?) Preston's Latin and orthoepy, which might be better, as with her poetry, which might be decidedly worse. The story of ' Beechenbrook ' a story mournfully trite to thousands of aching hearts is simply and gracefully told; and some of the shorter poems interspersed ' Only a Private ' and Shi in in Battle' are not without pathos. Of course, the war is re garded from the Confederate standpoint, and equally, of course, there is the usual amount of Southern devotion and Southern invincibility Miss (or Mrs.?) Preston's rebels being easily victorious against anything less than quadruple odds, which is a rather perplexing statement, considering that Northern bards assure us of its exact converse. But to offset these very natural and not unpardonable flights of fancy, we have much less than the usual amount of 'vandal hordes' and 'despot's heels' that generally tram ple through and make gory the war-poetry of Dixie, just as the strains of the Federal minstrel are enlivened by the dismal howl of the bondman. The most flagrant error in this direction is a rather invidious comparison of the vulture and the eagle in what is one of the best poems in the book, ' Stonewall Jackson's Grave ; ' but it is suggested only to be deprecated and dismissed. The stanza will bear quoting : ' The largess of their praise is flung With bounty rare and regal ; Is it because the vulture fears No longer the dead eagle ? Nay, rather far accept it thus An homage true and tender, As soldier unto soldier worth, As brave to brave will render.' " The last stanza is even better : ' Rare fame ! rare name ! If chanted praise, With all the world to listen ; If pride that swells a nation's soul, If foemen's tears that glisten ; If pilgrim's shrining love if grief, Which nought may soothe or sever; If THESE can consecrate this spot Is sacred ground forever ! ' " The political tone, if we may so call it, of these poems, is much higher and healthier throughout than we could have expected, or than we were MARGARET J. PRESTON. 739 warranted in hoping for by any example of moderation that loyal muses have set. Southern women, we are told, still cherish in their hearts that bitterness of hatred and that stubbornness of rebellion that did so much to prolong the late conflict, and which their husbands and brothers, we believe, have more wisely and nobly dismissed; but if we interpret this volume rightly, if it has not been deftly doctored for the Northern market, we take it as a sign, that, even among the women of the South, at least the more cultivated portion, the right feeling, the true patriotism, is gradually re asserting itself. The concluding poem, entitled 'Acceptation/ expresses best the spirit which should animate the Southern people ; a spirit wherein a very intelligible regret for the past is tempered by submission in the pre sent, and abiding hope for the future : ' We do accept thee, heavenly peace ! Albeit thou comest in a guise Unlocked for undesired; our eyes Welcome through tears the sweet release From war, and woe, and want surcease For which we bless thee, blesse'd peace ! ' " These lines have the true ring ; and an extension of the feeling which prompted them will do more to hasten reconstruction than the harangues of a dozen Senators, and the Freedmen's Bureau to boot. The women of the South have done much to destroy the Union ; they can certainly do as much to rebuild it." " It is to be sincerely hoped that the war which has so severely scourged the South will bring some good to the country, beside the lessons of political economy it has impressed upon us all. It is cheering to begin to see already some marked signs of fruition of this hope in the matter of the literary sta mina, and taste, and ambition of our people. It has always seemed to us that whatever of genius there is in the South, there has always been wanting some great necessity, some great pressure of circumstances, some great awak ening cause to arouse and develop it ; and it would seem that the war, in its progress and final effect, is the first gleam of the dawning. It certainly has kindled a poetic fire that has never burned before ; and now, while the great avalanche of worthless rhymes which it forced out upon the seething surface are being sunk into their proper places in the dark waters of oblivion, a pearl here and an opal there are being fished out, burnished, and set ablazing in tissues of beautiful gold. " At first, some good things will be lost in the scramble with the bad; some bad things will be saved in the shadow of the good. At last, all the bad will filter through, and most of the good, and the good only, will be saved. "Messrs. Kelly & Piet, of Baltimore, have executed a commendable piece of workmanship in bringing out, from all this rubbish, the poems of Mrs. 740 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. Preston.* We like the book. It contains some elegant touches that should not be lost. "To begin with the beginning, and end with the ending, as we propose to do, the leading poem covers seventy-five pages, and is styled ' A Rhyme of thr War.' An appropriate title, it is true; but we wish it did not have this double name at all we have had too much of the war. It is written in tlic- anapestic measure, which is so beautifully employed in the splendid ballads of Scott and Macaulay, and is interspersed with several animated odes in the Pindaric style. The hero is a Colonel Dunbar, and the introductory scene portrays the parting of husband from wife and children, and the sor row which overspreads his hitherto happy home, Beechenbrook Cottage, when war's rude alarms burst over Virginia, in 1861, on 'a day bright with the earliest glory of May,' and when ' The blue of the sky is as tender a blue As ever the sunshine came shimmering through.' The wife, after she prepared the few little articles belonging to a soldier's wardrobe, and after he was ready to leave, 'On the fresh, shining knapsack she pillows her head, And weeps as a mourner might weep for the dead. And the stout-hearted man is as weak as a girl.' And then the good wife rouses herself, and, in the very midst of her over powering paroxysm of grief, throws her arms around her husband's neck, and leaning upon his breast, ' She raises her eyes with a softened control, And through them her husband looks into her soul,' while she speaks, with a steady and clear voice, the sentiment of a Macedo nian mother to her son, when she told him to ' Go : return with your shield, or on it;' but the griefful wife makes this uninterrupted speech, twenty-six lines long, hardly stopping to take breath. It is the heaviest part of the poem. If she had said what she did say with more brevity and more vim, it would have been better. It is a good scene, too much drawn out. "Beechenbrook Cottage is situate within hearing of the booming of the guns in the battle of Manassas. Mother, daughter, and little son seek a green hillock, and pause to listen : 'Again and again the reverberant sound Is fearfully felt in the tremulous ground ; Again and again on their senses it thrills, Like thunderous echoes astray in the hills.' That is certainly very fine. * Mrg. Preston is a sister-in-law of Stonewall Jackson. MARGAKET J. PRESTON. 741 " Again : ' On tiptoe the summer wind lifting his hair, AVith nostrils expanded, and scenting the air, Like a mettled young war-horse that tosses his mane, And frettingly champs at the bit and the rein, Stands eager, exultant ' "What? who? ' a twelve year old boy, His face all aflame with a rapturous joy.' It is really to be regretted that the author should have attempted to fill such a magnificent background for a superb picture with ' a twelve year old boy.' "Many and many an eye that peruses this paper will recognize a scene por trayed in Mrs. Dunbar's letter to her husband. It is not hard to find the beauty in these lines : whether it is hard or not to find any truth and how much of truth in them we leave the reader to determine. Here is what she writes to him : ' Our beautiful home as I write it, I weep Our beautiful home is a smouldering heap ! And blackened and blasted, and grim and forlorn, Its chimneys stand stark in the mists of the morn ! ' I stood, in my womanly helplessness, weak, Though I felt a brave color was kindling my cheek, And I plead by the sacredest things of their lives By the love that they bore to their children their wives By the homes left behind them, whose joys they had shared By the God that should judge them that mine should be spared. ' As well might I plead with the whirlwind to stay, As it crashingly cuts through the forest its way! I know that my eye flashed a passionate ire, As they scornfully flung me their answer of fire!' " The hero of the rhyme is once wounded ere he receives the fatal shot that deprived his cause of his gallant services, and his bereaved widow and orphans of their husband and father. The allusions to the fields which were fought in the Old Dominion are but incidental, and perhaps, on this account, are more interesting and artistic. " The poem is a very fair reflection of the feelings of our people, both men and women, during the progress of the war, telling how the women urged the men forward to the front, and wrote them kind letters, burning with patriotic zeal how the men marched through snows and ice without shoes, 742 SOUTHLAND \V RITER8. and fought battle after battle, with never enough to eat how the mothers, wives, sisters, and sweethearts toiled day in and day out for the soldiers, the sick and the wounded, their hearts writhing the while with a terrible doubt ing, hoping, fearing. " The last two stanzas of this poem are full of vigor and earnestness a fire that will kindle life enough, even where the process of freezing has been quite completed, to make one appreciate the lines on page 42 : ' The crash of the onset the plunge and the roll Reach down to the depths of each patriot soul ; It quivers for since it is human, it must,' etc. "Besides ' Beechenbrook,' this volume contains 'Virginia,' a sonnet; ' Jackson,' a sonnet ; ' Dirge for Ashby,' ' Stonewall Jackson's Grave,' ' When the War is over,' and ' Virginia Capta.' " There have been but few poems produced by the war so exquisite and thrilling as the 'Dirge for Ashby;' perhaps it has not its equal, if we except Harry Flash's ' Zollicoffer.' " We cannot resist the temptation to quote a stanza or two from ' Virginia Capta ; ' they have so much of sublime submission the conquered to the conqueror in them : ' The arm that wore the shield, strip bare ; The hand that held the martial rein, And hurled the spear on many a plain Stretch till they clasp the shackles there ! ' Bend though thou must beneath his will, Let not one abject moan have place; But with majestic, silent grace, Maintain thy regal bearing still. ' Weep, if thou wilt, with proud, sad mien, Thy blasted hopes thy peace undone Yet brave live on, nor seek to shun Thy fate, like Egypt's conquer'd Queen. ' Though forced a captive's place to fill In the triumphal train, yet there, Superbly, like Zenobia, wear Thy chains Virginia Victrix still ! ' " MARGARET J. PRESTON. 743 NON DOLET. A SONNET. When doubt, defeat, and dangers sore beset The Roman Arria, yielding to the tide Of ills that overwhelmed on every side, With unheroic heart, that could forget 'Twas cowardice to die, she dared and met The easier fate; and luring, sought to hide (For her beloved's sake true woman yet!) The inward anguish, with a wifely pride. Not so our Southern Arria ! In the face Of deadlier woes, she dared to live, and wring Hope out of havoc; till the brave control, Pathetic courage, and most tender grace Of her " Non dolet" nerved her husband's soul, Won him to life, and dulled even failure's sting! CHRISTMAS CAROL FOR 1862. From " Beechenbrook," a Poem of the War. 'T is Christmas, the season of mirth and of cheer, The happiest holiday known to the year ; The one that we oftenest love to recall Most ancient, most sacred, and dearest of all ! Turn the records of memory over and see What days of your childhood were fullest of glee What scenes are remembered as brightest with joy, For the old and the young for the maiden and boy When home, with its festive and innocent mirth, Seemed the sweetest and sunniest spot upon earth, And the chimes of your heart most responsively rung To the song that the angels at Bethlehem sung : Be sure that these white-letter days will be drawn Now is it not so ? from your Christmases gone. How saddening the change is ! The season 's the same, And yet it is Christmas in nothing but name : No merry expression we utter to-day How can we, with hearts that refuse to be gay ? 744 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. We look back a twelvemonth on many a brow That graced the home hearthstone and where are they now? We think of the darling ones clustering there ; But we see through our tears an untenanted chair. We wait for a footstep we wait but in vain; It will never return from the battle again ; The dear face is hidden cold under the clay ; His Christmas is kept with the angels to-day! Thank God ! there is joy in the sorrow for all ; He fell but it surely was blessed to fall ; For never shall murmur be heard from the mouth Of mother or wife through our beautiful South, Or sister or maiden yield grudging her part, Though the price that she pays must be coined from her heart ! We drop the close curtains, we stir up the fire, And pile up the blazing hearth higher and higher; We wheel up our chair, and with friends and good cheer We try to shut from us all visions of fear. But the spectre will come through the warmth and the light, The camp gleams before us all shrouded in white. We tread the soft carpet, and lo ! there 's the sound Of the half-frozen sentinel pacing his round. Come hither, my pretty musician, we say, Come chase us this gloomy oppression away. Her hand o'er the instrument gently she flings, And this is the Song of the Snow that she sings : " Halt ! the march is over ; Day is almost done ; Loose the cumbrous knapsack, Drop the heavy gun. Chilled, and worn, and weary, Wander to and fro, Seeking wood to kindle Fire amidst the snow. "Round the camp-blaze gather; Heed not sleet nor cold; Ye are Spartan soldiers, Strong, and brave, and bold. Never Xerxian army Yet subdued a foe Who but asked a blanket On a bed of snow. MARGARET J. PRESTON. 745 " Shivering 'midst the darkness Christian men are found, There devoutly kneeling On the frozen ground; Pleading for their country In its hour of woe For its soldiers marching Shoeless through the snow. " Lost in heavy slumbers, Free from toil and strife, Dreaming of their dear ones Home, and child, and wife ; Tentless they are lying, While the fires burn low ; Lying in their blankets 'Midst December's snow ! " UNDERTOW. It is a gift for which to render praise, Ceaseless and fervent, that our troubled hearts Can hide the harrowing grief that chafes and smarts, And shut themselves from all intrusive gaze. Oft when the murmur of the world grows low, And the felt silence broods serene and still, The inward ear is listening to the flow Of eddying memories, that flood and fill The soul with tumult. Then how blest to wear, In eyes that yield no sympathizing look, A face of tidal quiet, that shall bear No hint of undercurrents ! Who could brook That even our nearest, dearest, best should know The secret springs of many an hour of woe? STONEWALL JACKSON'S GEAVE. A simple, sodded mound of earth, With not a line above it With only daily votive flowers To prove that any love it ; 746 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. The token-flag that, silently, Each bree/e's viit numbers, Alone keeps miirtial ward above The hero's dreamless slumbers. No name? no record? Ask the world The world has heard his story If all its annals can unfold A prouder tale of glory? If ever merely human life Hath taught diviner moral If ever round a worthier brow Was twined a purer laurel? Humanity's responsive heart Concedes his wondrous powers, And pulses with a tenderness Almost akin to ours : Nay, not to ours for us he poured His life a rich oblation, And on adoring souls we bear His blood of consecration. A twelvemonth only since his sword Went flashing through the battle A twelvemonth only since his ear Heard war's last deadly rattle ; And yet have countless pilgrim feet The pilgrim's guerdon paid him, And weeping women come to see The place where they have laid him. Contending armies* bring in turn Their meed of praise or honor, And Pallas here has paused to bind The cypress-wreath upon her. It seems a holy sepulchre Whose sanctities can waken Alike the love of friend or foe The Christian or the pagan! They come to own his high emprise, Who fled in frantic masses, * In the month of June, 1864, this singular spectacle was presented at Lexington, of two hostile armies in turn reverently visiting the grave of Stonewall Jackson. MARGARET J. PRESTON. 747 Before the glittering bayonet That triumphed at Manassas : He witnessed Kernstown's fearful odds, As on their ranks he thundered, Defiant as the storied Greek Amid his brave three hundred. They will recall the tiger-spring, The wise retreat the rally The tireless march the fierce pursuit Through many a mount and valley. Cross Keys unlocks new paths to fame, And Port Republic's story Wrests from his ever-vanquished foes Strange tributes. to his glory! Cold Harbor rises to their view; The Cedar gloom is o'er them; And Antietam's rough, wooded heights Stretch mockingly before them. The lurid flames of Fredericksburg Right grimly they .remember, That lit the frozen night's retreat That wintry, wild December. The largess of their praise is flung With bounty rare and regal: Is it because the vulture fears No longer the dead eagle ? Nay, rather far accept it thus An homage true and tender, As soldier unto soldier's worth, As brave to brave will render. But who shall weigh the wordless grief That leaves in tears its traces, As round their leader crowd again Those bronzed and veteran faces? The "old brigade" he loved so well The mountain men who bound him With bays of their own winning, ere A tardier fame had crowned him: The legions who had seen his glance Across the carnage flashing, 748 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. And thrilled to catch his ringing "Charge!" Above the volleys crashing; Who oft had watched the lifted hand, The inward trust betraying, And felt their courage grow sublime While they beheld him praying : Cool knights, and true as ever drew Their swords with knightly Roland, Or died at Sobieski's side, For love of martyred Poland ; Or knelt with Cromwell's "Ironsides," Or sung with brave Gustavus, Or on the field of Austerlitz Breathed out their dying "Aves." Bare fame ! rare name ! If chanted praise, With all the world to listen If pride that swells a nation's soul If foeman's tears that glisten If pilgrim's shining love if grief, Which nought can soothe or sever If these can consecrate, this spot Is sacred ground forever. ACCEPTATION. We do accept thee, heavenly Peace ! Albeit thou comest in a guise Unlocked for undesired ; our eyes Welcome through tears the kind release From war, and woe, and want surcease For which we bless thee, holy Peace ! We lift our foreheads from the dust; And as we meet thy brow's clear calm, There falls a freshening sense of balm Upon our spirits. Fear distrust The hopeless present on us thrust We '11 front them as we can, and must. MARGARET J. PRESTON. War has not wholly wrecked us ; still Strong hands, grand hearts, stern souls are ours Proud consciousness of quenchless powers A past whose memory makes us thrill Futures uncharactered, to fill With heroisms, if we will ! Then courage, brothers ! Though our breast Ache with that rankling thorn, despair, That failure plants so sharply there No pang, no pain shall be confessed: We'll work and watch the brightening west, And leave to God and heaven the rest ! MRS. S. A. WEISS. SUSAN ARCHER TALLEY is descended, on the paternal side, from a Huguenot refugee, who settled in Hanover County, Vir ginia. In an old homestead on an estate in this county the subject of this article was born, and passed the years of childhood. We are indebted to " Mary Forrest's " volume, " Women of the South," for the following : "Among the traits earliest developed in Miss Talley were extreme fear lessness and love of liberty " It is said that she was never known to betray a sign of fear ; and at the age of five years, in her visits to the neighbors, she would unhesitatingly face and subdue by her caresses the fiercest dogs, which even grown persons dared not approach. A singular power of will and magnetism, like that ascribed to the author of ' Wuthering Heights,' seems to have possessed her. She rode with a graceful, fearless abandon, and loved nothing better than to float away by herself in a frail boat. She was the frequent com panion of her father and grandfather in their walks, rides, and hunting and fishing excursions; yet with all these influences, she was ever a gentle child, and remarkable for extreme sensibility and refinement. She delighted in all sights and sounds of beauty, and would sit for hours watching the sky in storm and sunshine, or listening to the wind among the trees, the plashing of a waterfall, or the cry of a whip-poor-will. This life familiarized her with all the voices of nature. A sound once heard she never forgot, but could, years after, imitate with surprising exactness. " When she was eight years of age, her father removed to Richmond, and she then entered school When in her eleventh year, she was released from the thraldom of the school-room by an unexpected dispensa tion. It had been remarked that for some days she had appeared singularly absent and inattentive when spoken to ; being at length reproved, she burst into tears, exclaiming, 'I can't hear you.' It was then discovered that her hearing was greatly, impaired. She was placed under the care of the most eminent physicians of the country ; but their varied efforts resulted, as is too often the case, only in an aggravation of the evil. She lost the power to distinguish conversation, though carried on in a loud key ; a power which she has not wholly recovered " Her parents were at first greatly at loss as to the manner of conducting 750 S. A. WEISS. her education. Fortunately, she was advanced far beyond most children of her age; and now, released from the discipline of school, her natural love of study deepened into a passion. It was soon found sufficient to throw suit able books in her way, and thus, unassisted, she completed a thorough scho lastic course. She also acquired an extensive acquaintance with the lite rature of the day, and her correct taste and critical discrimination elicited the warmest encomiums from that prince of critics, Edgar A. Poe. " It was not until Miss Talley had entered her thirteenth year that her poetic faculty became apparent to her family ; she having, through modesty, carefully concealed all proofs of its development. Some specimens of her verse then falling under the eye of her father, he at once recognized in them the flow of true genius, and very wisely, with a few encouraging words, left her to the guidance of her own inspiration. In her sixteenth year, some of her poems appeared in the ' Southern Literary Messenger.' " In September, 1859, a collection of her poems was issued by Eudd & Carleton, of New YorK. This volume secured for her a distinction of which she may well be proud. For rhythmic melody, for sustained imagination, for depth of feeling, and purity and elevation of senti ment, these poems are equalled by few, and surpassed by none of the productions of our poets. They are rich also in those qualities of mind and heart, which, apart from any literary prestige, win for Miss Talley the esteem and affection of all who are admitted within the choice circle of her friendship. The "war experience" of this lady reads like a romance. It was reserved for Susan Archer Talley to suffer many hardships and priva tions during the war. Circumstances placed her during a great por tion of that period within the power of the enemy at intervals as a guarded prisoner at intervals under surveillance. As the record of these events is closely connected with many interesting phases of the struggle, and, indeed, in many respects is historical, this sketch of the lady under consideration would be incomplete without some testimony to her adherence, in despite of evil conjunctions, to the principles which, in common with every true Southern woman, she steadfastly maintained. At the time of the secession of South Carolina from the Union, she was in New York, on her way to Europe, with the ultimate purpose of realizing a cherished wish of her heart, viz., a year's residence in Italy. Prior to the rising of the issue between the North and the South, a devoted friend of the Union, the Northern threat to " whip the South back into the Union " with armed men aroused her Southern 752 SOUTHLAND WRITERS. >j>irit; and abandoning her purpose of visiting Europe, she deter mined to return to her home in the South. About this time she refused to sign a petition of li';i