UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 SOUTHERN AUTHORS IN POETRY 
 AND PROSE
 
 ED 
 
 liiil
 
 SOUTHERN AUTHORS 
 IN POETRY AND PROSE 
 
 BY 
 
 KATE ALMA ORGAIN 
 
 NEW YORK AND WASHINGTON 
 THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 1908 
 
 145827
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY 
 THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY
 
 TS 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. SIDNEY LANIER 9 
 
 II. AUGUSTA J. EVANS 24 
 
 III. THEODORE O'HARA 33 
 
 IV. MRS. ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON (GRIF 
 
 FITH) 40 
 
 V. JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY ... 46 
 
 VI. MADAME OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT . 55 
 
 VII. PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE .... 63 
 
 VIII. WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS .... 74 
 
 IX. JAMES BARRON HOPE 84 
 
 X. JOHN ESTEN COOKE 96 
 
 XL MRS. MARY S. B. DANA-SHINDLER . 105 
 
 XII. JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS no 
 
 XIII. MRS. VIRGINIA L. FRENCH . . . . 119 
 
 XIV. GRACE ELIZABETH KING .... 128 
 XV. FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR . . . . 132 
 
 XVI. ELISABETH WHITFIELD BELLAMY . . 141 
 
 XVII. JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON .... 146
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XVIII. CATHERINE ANNA WARFIELD . . . 153 
 
 XIX. IRWIN RUSSELL 160 < 
 
 XX. GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE . . . 168 
 
 XXI. HENRY TIMROD 175 
 
 XXII. MRS. MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE (MA 
 RION HARLAND) 186 
 
 XXIII. EDGAR ALLEN POE 194 
 
 XXIV. MARY NOAILLES MURFREE . . . . 214 
 XXV. MARIA J. MC!NTOSH 224 
 
 XXVI. THOMAS NELSON PAGE 228
 
 SOUTHERN AUTHORS IN POETRY 
 AND PROSE
 
 SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 18421881 
 
 THIS poet was born in Macon, Georgia, on the 
 third of February, 1842, and came from a long 
 line of fine ancestors. His father, Robert S. Lanier, 
 was a prominent lawyer, and his mother was Miss 
 Mary Anderson, a woman of remarkable gift in 
 music and poetry. A friend once remarked, " No 
 wonder Lanier is a poet and a genius. The blood 
 that flows through his veins has coursed in those 
 of artists, poets, musicians, and royal personages." 
 
 Very early in life Sidney Lanier showed a pas 
 sion for reading, a talent and fondness for music, 
 and when a mere lad he delighted in forming 
 amateur orchestras of children. Having a keen 
 sense of humor, he often kept the family amused 
 by his mimicry, and later he utilized this faculty 
 of observation in his poems. 
 
 At fifteen he was admitted into Oglethorpe Col 
 lege, near Milledgeville, Georgia, and was gradu 
 ated at the age of eighteen, and then was given a 
 position as tutor in that institution. At the break 
 ing out of the Civil War, Sidney and his brother, 
 Clifford, joined the volunteers at Macon, Georgia,
 
 io SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 and, although several times offered promotion, the 
 brothers declined, because they did not wish to be 
 separated. They were in thej>et6nd Georgia Bat 
 talion of Infantry and were stationed at first 
 amongst the marshes of Sewells Point, opposite 
 Fortress Monroe. There the men all had much 
 sickness and they were ordered to Wilmington, 
 and in Wilmington, as Lanier says, " they had the 
 dry shakes of the Sand Hills." Their battalion 
 participated in the famous Seven Days' Battle 
 around Richmond, and later they were sent up to 
 Petersburg. Here Sidney and Clifford obtained 
 a transfer to Major Milligan's Signal Corps, and 
 finally they were attached to the staff of Major- 
 General French. In 1864 the brothers separated, 
 as Sidney was assigned to duty of signal officer 
 on a blockade runner. He was captured by the 
 Federals, and imprisoned for five months at Point 
 Lookout. During this imprisonment the seeds of 
 disease were sown which caused his death while 
 yet a young man. When he was exchanged he 
 came near dying on the voyage to City Point, and 
 when at last he reached home, footsore and ex 
 hausted, he was prostrated by sickness for many 
 weeks. 
 
 After the war, although his brain was teeming 
 with beautiful thoughts, Lanier was compelled to 
 bear the monotony and wear of teaching and such 
 uncongenial work as clerk in a hotel in Mont-
 
 SIDNEY LANIER n 
 
 gomery. He found some time, however, in the 
 hard struggle for a living, to write his first book, 
 a volume of fiction called " Tiger Lilies," pub 
 lished in 1867. The book is now out of print. 
 
 It contains many fine passages like the following: 
 
 
 
 A man has seventy years in which to explain his life; 
 a book must accomplish its birth, and its excuse for birth, 
 at the same instant. 
 
 The hills sit here like old dethroned kings, met for 
 consultation ; they would be very garrulous, surely, but 
 the exquisite peace of the pastoral scene below them has 
 stilled their life; they have forgotten the ancient anarchy 
 which brought them forth; they dream and dream away, 
 without discussion or endeavor. 
 
 How long our arms are when we are young! Nothing 
 but the whole world will satisfy their clasp. 
 
 To him who has not loved some man with the ardor of 
 a friendship at first sight, one can only say, " Nature has 
 dealt hardly with you, sir." 
 
 Music is in common life what heat is in chemistry, an 
 all-pervading, ever-present, mysterious genius. 
 
 Late explorers say they have found some nations that 
 had no God, but I have not read of any that had no music. 
 
 One might as well be killed with a shower of hail 
 stones as of diamonds; it is but death after all. 
 
 " Sorrow makes poets," Memnon's statue sang when 
 the morning light struck it, but I think men and women 
 sing when the darkness draws on. 
 
 The great uncomplaining trees, whose life is surely the 
 finest of all lives, since it is nothing but the continual
 
 12 SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 growing and being beautiful; the silent, mysterious trees, 
 most strong where most gnarled, and most touching when 
 wholly blasted. 
 
 In 1867 Sidney Lanier was married to Miss 
 Mary Day of Macon, Georgia. Through poverty 
 and sickness, in all changes and conditions she was 
 to him a loving, faithful wife, an inspiration and 
 a blessed comforter. Of her he wrote in his ex 
 quisite poem, " My Springs " : 
 
 Love, O Wife, thine eyes are they, 
 My springs, from out whose shining gray 
 Issue the sweet celestial streams 
 
 That feed my life's bright Lake of Dreams. 
 
 Dear eyes, dear eyes and rare complete 
 Being heavenly-sweet and earthly-sweet, 
 
 1 marvel that God made you mine, 
 
 For when He frowns, 'tis then ye shine! 
 
 Lanier's earliest passion was for music. He 
 learned almost by intuition to play on every kind 
 of instrument, flute, banjo, organ, piano, violin 
 and guitar, devoting himself more especially to 
 the flute because his father was opposed to the 
 violin. He said of himself that his greatest talent 
 lay in music. His flute was his constant com 
 panion, and when he was captured during the war 
 he managed to hide his flute in his sleeve. When
 
 SIDNEY LANIER 13 
 
 he went to Baltimore to live and work, William 
 Hayes Ward says, " He took his pen and flute, for 
 staff and sword, and turned his face northward." 
 In the winter of 1868 Sidney Lanier was seized 
 with his first hemorrhage, and for four following 
 years there was a steady decline in his health. 
 Hoping for some relief, in 1872 he left Georgia 
 and went to San Antonio, Texas, but even that 
 salubrious climate brought him no healing balm, 
 and " he was restless as a caged bird, for he 
 hungered and thirsted for time and health and 
 strength to express his soul in music and poetry." 
 In 1873 he gave up law, which he had studied 
 and undertaken in his father's office, and went to 
 Baltimore, where he was soon engaged as first 
 flute for the Peabody Concerts. " Music was to 
 him what it is to the birds, what it is to the brooks. 
 He played it technically as it was written, but he 
 added sunshine and spring air, or the laughter 
 and tears of joy and sorrow." Asgar Hamerick, 
 the musical director in the Peabody Symphony 
 Orchestra of Baltimore, says of Lanier: " I will 
 never forget the impression he made upon me 
 when he played the flute at a concert in 1878; his 
 tall, commanding, manly presence, his flute breath 
 ing noble sorrows, noble joys, the orchestra softly 
 responding. The audience was spellbound. Such 
 distinction, such refinement! He stood, the mas 
 ter, the genius." In 1879 he was appointed to a
 
 i 4 SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 lectureship in English Literature in the Johns Hop 
 kins University, and this meant a regular income. 
 What he might have accomplished with health 
 and strength back of his great genius who car 
 tell? As it was, often in intense pain and suffering, 
 he delivered his lectures on " Verse " and " The 
 Novel." " He was engaged in a three-fold strug 
 gle for health, for bread and for a literary career." 
 Although he spent most of the last years of his life 
 in Baltimore, yet he was compelled to go away 
 often in search of health. During severe illness 
 and in critical relapses, financial relief came from 
 his father and brother. How dark some of 
 Lanier's days seemed may be judged by his de 
 spairing lines in the poem " The Raven Days." 
 
 O Raven days, dark Raven days of sorrow, 
 Bring to us in your whetted ivory beaks 
 
 Some sign out of the far land of To-morrow, 
 
 Some strip of sea-green dawn, some orange streaks. 
 
 Ye float in dusky files, forever croaking, 
 
 Ye chill our manhood with your dreary shade. 
 
 Dumb in the dark, not even God invoking, 
 We lie in chains, too weak to be afraid. 
 
 O Raven days, dark Raven days of sorrow, 
 
 Will ever any warm light come again ? 
 Will ever the lit mountains of To-morrow 
 
 Begin to gleam athwart the mournful plain ?
 
 SIDNEY LANIER 15 
 
 The works of Lanier abound in expressions of 
 deep and abiding faith in God. The poem, " The 
 Crystal," is a beautiful tribute to the perfect char 
 acter of Christ. The tenderest thing he ever 
 wrote about our Lord was his " A Ballad of 
 Trees and the Master," beginning: 
 
 Into the woods my Master went, 
 
 Clean forspent, forspent; 
 
 Into the woods my Master came, 
 
 Forspent with love and shame. 
 
 But the olives they were not blind to Him, 
 
 The little gray leaves were kind to Him, 
 
 The thorn-tree had a mind to Him, 
 
 When into the woods He came. 
 
 At the instigation of Bayard Taylor, Sidney 
 Lanier was complimented with the commission 
 to write the cantata for the opening of the Cen 
 tennial Exhibition in 1876. 
 
 Gradually overpowered by consuming fever, he 
 went, accompanied by his ever-devoted wife, to 
 West Chester, Pa., where his fourth child was 
 born. Unable to stand the climate, he soon re 
 turned to his home in Baltimore. At the end of 
 April, 1 88 1, he made his last visit to New York 
 to arrange about the publication of his " King 
 Arthur " series. In December of 1880, " when he 
 was too feeble to raise his food to his mouth, and 
 with fever at 104 degrees," writes William Hayes
 
 16 SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 Ward, " he pencilled his last and greatest poem, 
 ' Sunrise,' one of his projected series of the 
 ' Hymns of the Marshes.' It seemed as if he 
 were in fear that he would die with it unuttered." 
 The doctors advised tent life, and with aid from 
 his brother Clifford, he and his family were ar 
 ranged in tents near Richmond Hill, three miles 
 from Asheville, N. C. But the passing time 
 brought no relief, and he began a journey in a car 
 riage across the mountains to Lynn, S. C. There 
 deadly sickness attacked him, and he died Septem 
 ber 7, 1881. 
 
 His wife and four children, Charles, Sidney, 
 Henry and Robert, were left to mourn his death. 
 
 He gave the memory of a spotless life of purity 
 as inheritance to his children, as well as his wealth 
 of poetry and prose. " Even to the end, words 
 of beauty and love and passion and melodious 
 meter poured from his brain, wanting only strength 
 to give them out to the needy world." 
 
 His body was taken to Baltimore. Services 
 were held in the church of St. Michael's, conducted 
 by the Rev. Dr. Wm. Kirlus. The poet's body 
 was buried in Green Mount Cemetery in a lot 
 owned by Mr. Lawrence Turnball. 
 
 The Rev. W. F. Tillett, of Vanderbilt Univer 
 sity, says: " Lanier was, like Wordsworth, a great 
 lover of Nature. Consider, for instance, that poem 
 which many critics have pronounced the finest he
 
 SIDNEY LANIER 17 
 
 ever wrote, from an artistic point of view, ' The 
 Marshes of Glynn.' ' And again, " Lanier's 
 writings everywhere breathe the spirit of ethical 
 earnestness, and abound in allusions that reveal his 
 deep and abounding faith in God." 
 
 Thomas Nelson Page says : " Lanier died too 
 young, but not until he had proved that a great 
 poet could come from the South." 
 
 A bust of Sidney Lanier was presented to the 
 Johns Hopkins University by his kinsman, Charles 
 Lanier, of New York City. Sidney Lanier's prin 
 cipal works are : " Florida, Its Scenery, Cli 
 mate and History"; "Tiger Lilies," a novel; 
 "Poems," "The Boy's Froissart," "The Sci 
 ence of English Verse," " The Boy's King Ar 
 thur," "The Boy's Mabinogion," "The Boy's 
 Percy," " The English Novel and the Principles 
 of Its Development." 
 
 Among his musical works are " Choral Sym 
 phony," for chorus and orchestra; "Symphony 
 Life," in four movements, and " Symphony of the 
 Plantation." 
 
 From his last poem, " Sunrise," we quote these 
 lines : 
 
 Friendly, sisterly, sweetheart leaves, 
 Oh, rain me down from your darks that contain me 
 Wisdoms ye winnow from winds that pain me, 
 Sift down tremors of sweet-within-sweet
 
 1 8 SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 That advise me of more than they bring, repeat 
 Me the woods-smell that swiftly but now brought breath 
 From the heaven-side bank of the river of death, 
 Teach me the terms of silence, preach me 
 The passion of patience, sift me, impeach me, 
 
 And there, oh there 
 
 As ye hang with your myriad palms upturned in the air, 
 Pray me a myriad prayer. 
 
 THE MARSHES OF GYLNN * 
 
 Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and woven 
 With intricate shades of the vines that myriad-cloven 
 Clamber the forks of the multiform boughs, 
 Emerald twilights, 
 Virginal shy lights, 
 
 Wrought of the leaves to allure to the whisper of vows, 
 When lovers pace timidly down through the green colon 
 nades 
 Of the dim sweet woods, of the dear dark woods, 
 
 Of the heavenly woods and glades, 
 That run to the radiant marginal sand-beach within 
 The wide sea-marshes of Glynn; 
 
 Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noon-day fire, 
 Wildwood privacies, closets of lone desire, 
 Chamber from chamber parted with wavering arras of 
 leaves, 
 
 * From poems of Sidney Lanier, copyrighted 1884, 1891, by 
 Mary D. Lanier; published by Charles Scribner's Sons.
 
 SIDNEY LANIER 19 
 
 Cells for the passionate pleasure of prayer to the soul that 
 
 grieves, 
 Pure with a sense of the passing of saints through the 
 
 wood, 
 
 Cool for the -dutiful weighing of ill with good ; 
 Oh, braided dusks of the oak and woven shades of the 
 
 vine, 
 While the riotous noon-day sun of the June-day long did 
 
 shine 
 
 Ye held me fast in your heart and I held you fast in mine ; 
 But now when the noon is no more, and riot is rest, 
 And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of the West, 
 And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle doth seem 
 Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream, 
 Ay, now, when my soul all day hath drunken the soul of 
 
 the oak, 
 And my heart is at ease from men, and the wearisome 
 
 sound of the stroke 
 
 Of the scythe of time and the trowel of trade is low, 
 And belief overmasters doubt, and I know that I 
 
 know, 
 And my spirit is grown to a lordly great compass 
 
 within, 
 That the length and the breadth and the sweep of the 
 
 marshes of Glynn 
 Will work me no fear like the fear they have wrought me 
 
 of yore 
 
 When length was fatigue, and when breadth was but bit 
 terness sore, 
 And when terror and shrinking and dreary unnamable 
 
 pain 
 Drew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain,
 
 20 SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 Oh, now, unafraid, I am fain to face 
 
 The vast sweet visage of space. 
 
 To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I am drawn, 
 Where the gray beach glimmering runs, as a belt of the 
 
 dawn, 
 For a mete and a mark 
 
 To the forest-dark: 
 
 So: 
 
 Affable live-oak, leaning low, 
 Thus with your favor soft, with a reverent hand, 
 (Not lightly touching your person, Lord of the land!) 
 Bending your beauty aside, with a step I stand 
 On the firm -packed sand, 
 
 Free 
 By a world of marsh that borders a world of sea. 
 
 Sinuous southward and sinuous northward the shim 
 mering band 
 Of the sand-beach fastens the fringe of the marsh to 
 
 the folds of the land. 
 Inward and outward to northward and southward the 
 
 beach-lines linger and curl 
 As a silver-wrought garment that clings to and follows the 
 
 firm sweet limbs of a girl. f 
 
 Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into sight, 
 Softly the sand-beach wavers away to a dim gray looping 
 
 of light. 
 And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods 
 
 stands high? 
 The world lies east: how ample, the marsh and the sea 
 
 and the sky !
 
 SIDNEY LANIER 21 
 
 A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad 
 
 in the blade, 
 Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or 
 
 a shade, 
 
 Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain, 
 To the terminal blue of the main. 
 
 Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea? 
 
 Somehow my soul seems suddenly free 
 From the weighing of fate and the sad discussion of sin, 
 By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the 
 marshes of Glynn. 
 
 Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withhold 
 ing and free 
 
 Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to 
 the sea! 
 
 Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the 
 sun, 
 
 Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath 
 mightily won 
 
 God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain, 
 
 And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain. 
 
 As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod, 
 Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God ; 
 I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies 
 In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and 
 
 the skies; 
 
 By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod 
 I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God;
 
 22 SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within 
 The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn. 
 And the sea lends large, as the marsh ; lo, out of his plenty 
 
 the sea 
 
 Pours fast : full soon the time of the flood-tide must be ; 
 Look how the grace of the sea doth go 
 About and about through the intricate channels that flow 
 Here and there, 
 
 Everywhere, 
 Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the 
 
 low-lying lanes, 
 
 And the marsh is meshed with a million veins, 
 
 That like as with rosy and silvery essences flow 
 
 In the rose-and-silver evening glow. 
 
 Farewell, my lord Sun! 
 The creeks overflow ; a thousand rivulets run 
 'Twixt the roots of the sod ; the blades of the marsh-grass 
 
 stir; 
 
 Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr ; 
 Passeth, and all is still ; and the currents cease to run ; 
 And the sea and the marsh are one. 
 
 How still the plains of the waters be ! 
 The tide is in his ecstasy. 
 The tide is at his highest height: 
 And it is night. 
 
 And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters of 
 
 sleep 
 
 Roll in on the souls of men, 
 But who will reveal to our waking ken
 
 SIDNEY LANIER 23 
 
 The forms that swim and the shapes that creep 
 
 Under the waters of sleep ? 
 And I would I could know what swimmeth below when 
 
 the tide comes in 
 On the length and the breadth of the marvellous marshes 
 
 of Glynn.
 
 AUGUSTA J. EVANS 
 1838 
 
 AUGUSTA J. EVANS, now Mrs. L. M. Wilson, 
 of Mobile, was born at Columbus, Georgia, in 
 1838. She had eight brothers and sisters, and she 
 is, on her mother's side, a descendant of the How 
 ards, one of the first families of Georgia. 
 
 When she was a mere child her father removed 
 with his family to Texas. They lived a while in 
 Galveston and Houston, and early in 1847 went 
 to the then frontier town of San Antonio. 
 
 Mrs. Wilson always retained vivid remem 
 brance of the life there, when the Mexican War 
 was at its height and San Antonio was the gather 
 ing place for United States troops sent to rein 
 force General Taylor, and when society there, 
 owing to the unsettled conditions, was thoroughly 
 disorganized. Her life necessarily was one of 
 much seclusion. There were no schools, and her 
 mother conducted her education at home. It was 
 during this life of isolation, when hours of 
 thought and reading were developing her mind 
 rapidly, that the idea of writing began to have at 
 tractions for the young girl. 
 
 24
 
 AUGUSTA L EVANS 25 
 
 Early in her seventeenth year she wrote " Inez," 
 in which she wished to embody the features of the 
 Texan war for independence and what she be 
 lieved to be a misuse of the Catholic religion. On 
 this account the book received much unfavorable 
 criticism, and her judgments were deemed imma 
 ture. Still, " Inez " received many favorable no 
 tices, considering the youth of the writer. 
 
 No one but her mother had known of her am 
 bitious undertaking, until one Christmas morning 
 Miss Evans placed her finished manuscript in her 
 father's hands. It was published in 1855, anony 
 mously. 
 
 Continuing a severe course of study Miss Evans 
 confined her writing to articles for Mobile papers, 
 and it was not till 1859 that " Beulah " appeared, 
 being published by Messrs. Derby and Jackson. 
 The book became very popular. The thread run 
 ning through the story is the baneful influence of 
 skepticism, and the author is very realistic in the 
 road over which she makes the heroine travel. 
 " She takes ' Beulah ' by the hand and goes over 
 the ground of unbelief with merciless fidelity; not 
 a doubt is left unassailed; every dragon of specu 
 lation is unearthed, and over and again is fought 
 the strong battle." Beulah Benton and Guy Hart 
 well make a grim pair of lovers with discussions 
 of " ontology," " psychology," and " eclecticisms "; 
 but they are strong, fine characters. Miss Evans
 
 26 AUGUSTA J. EVANS 
 
 has no touch of anything impure or sensual in 
 any of her writings. 
 
 At the age of twenty-three, when " Beulah " 
 was written, the author had studied deeply into 
 metaphysics, her life and the habits of a recluse 
 having given her the opportunity. Of her mother 
 Miss Evans said: " She has been my Alma Mater, 
 to whom I owe everything, and whom I reverence 
 more than all else on earth." In her home at 
 Mobile Mrs. Wilson fills her days with steady ap 
 plication and those unobtrusive, kindly acts which 
 prove her to be a beautiful and noble woman. 
 
 Her other novels are: "St. Elmo," " Vashti," 
 " Infelice," " At the Mercy of Tiberius," " Mi- 
 caria " and " The Speckled Bird." 
 
 After a silence of many years Miss Evans pro 
 duced her late work, " The Speckled Bird," which 
 was looked for with great eagerness. It has been 
 much criticised, both favorably and adversely. 
 
 " Whatever may be said of Miss Evans, she is 
 a writer of great strength, and while her style is 
 somewhat florid, she never sacrifices her meaning 
 by ambiguous words. She paints all her pictures 
 in brilliant colorings, but they are the kind that 
 only a true artist dare essay. She is skilled with her 
 palette of words, like the great artist that she is, 
 and if she paints a sunset, there is no doubt 
 that it is a realistic one in each instance. That she 
 uses the adjective, there is no doubt, but that she
 
 AUGUST A J. EVANS 27 
 
 is injudicious, no one can say who will analyze 
 her motive. In other words, she is a most potent 
 user of our very elastic language, and gets the 
 best possible meaning out of it. Not a juggler 
 of words in any sense, she commands her tongue 
 to its fullest scope, and dares put colorings that 
 weaker thinkers would refrain from readily. It is 
 this very boldness of touch, stroke and tint that 
 gives glow and beauty to her thought and mode 
 of expression." 
 
 ST. ELMO 
 
 " He stood and measured the earth: and the everlasting 
 mountains were scattered, the perpetual hills did bow." 
 
 These words of the prophet of Shigionoth were sung 
 by a sweet, happy, childish voice, and to a wild, anomalous 
 tune, solemn as the Hebrew chant of Deborah, and fully 
 as triumphant. 
 
 A slender girl of twelve years' growth steadied a pail 
 of water on her head, with both dimpled arms thrown up, 
 in ancient classic Caryatides attitude, and, pausing a mo 
 ment beside the spring, stood fronting the great golden 
 dawn", watching for the first level ray of the coming sun, 
 and chanting the prayer of Habakkuk. Behind her in 
 silent grandeur towered the huge outline of Lookout 
 Mountain, shrouded at summit in gray mist, while centre 
 and base showed dense masses of foliage dim and purplish 
 in the distance, a stern, cowled monk of the Cumberland 
 brotherhood. Low hills clustered on either side, but im 
 mediately in front stretched a wooded plain, and across 
 this the child looked at the flushed sky, rapidly brightening
 
 28 AUGUSTA J. EVANS 
 
 into fiery and blinding radiance, until her wild song 
 waked echoes among the far-off rocks. The holy hush 
 of early morning had rested like a benediction upon the 
 scene, as though nature had laid her broad finger over 
 her great lips, and waited in reverent silence the advent 
 of the sun. Morning among the mountains possessed 
 witcheries and glories which filled the heart of the girl 
 with adoration and called from her lips rude but exultant 
 anthems of praise. The young face, lifted toward the 
 cloudless east, might have served as a model for a pic 
 tured Syriac priestess, one of Baalbec's vestals ministering 
 in the olden time in that wondrous and grand temple at 
 Heliopolis. 
 
 The large black eyes held a singular fascination in their 
 mild sparkling depths, now full of tender loving light 
 and childish gladness, and the flexible red lips curved in 
 lines of orthodox Greek perfection, showing remarkable 
 versatility of expression; while the broad, full, polished 
 forehead, with its prominent, swelling brows, could not 
 fail to recall even to casual observers the calm, powerful 
 face of Lorenzo de Medici, which if once looked on, fas 
 tens itself upon heart and brain, to be forgotten no more. 
 Her hair, black, straight, waveless as an Indian's, hung 
 around her shoulders, and glistened, as the water from the 
 dripping bucket, through the wreath of purple morning 
 glories and scarlet cypress, which she had twined about her 
 head ere lifting the cedar pail to its resting place. She 
 wore a short-sleeved dress of yellow-striped home-spun, 
 which fell nearly to her ankles, and her little bare feet 
 gleamed pearly white on the green grass and rank dewy 
 creepers that clustered along the margin of the bubbling 
 spring. Her complexion was unusually transparent, and
 
 AUGUSTA J. EVANS 29 
 
 early exercise and mountain air had rouged her cheeks 
 till they matched the brilliant hue of her scarlet crown. 
 
 A few steps in advance of her stood a large, fierce yel 
 low dog, with black scowling face, and ears cut close to 
 his head, a savage, repulsive creature, who looked as if 
 he rejoiced in an opportunity of making good his name, 
 " Grip." In the solemn beauty of that summer morning, 
 the girl seemed to have forgotten the mission upon which 
 she came, but, as she loitered, the sun flashed up, kindling 
 diamond fringes on every dew-beaded chestnut leaf and 
 oak bough, and silvering the misty mantle which envel 
 oped Lookout. A moment longer that pure-hearted Ten 
 nessee child stood watching the gorgeous spectacle, drinking 
 draughts of joy, which mingled no drop of sin or selfish 
 ness in its crystal waves, for she had grown up alone with 
 nature, utterly ignorant of the roar and strife, the burn 
 ing hate, and cunning intrigue of the great world of men 
 and women, where " like an Egyptian pitcher of tamed 
 vipers, each struggles to get its head above the other." To 
 her, earth seemed very lovely, life stretched before her 
 like the sun's path in that clear sky, and, free from care 
 and foreboding as the fair June day, she walked on pre 
 ceded by her dog and the chant burst once more from 
 her lips. " She stood and measured the earth ; and the 
 everlasting mountains were scattered, the perpetual 
 
 hills " The sudden, almost simultaneous report of 
 
 two pistol shots rang out sharply on the cool calm air, and 
 startled the child so violently that she sprang forward and 
 dropped the bucket. The sound of voices reached her 
 from the thick wood bordering the path, and, without 
 reflection, she followed the dog, who bounded off toward 
 the point whence it issued. Upon the verge of the forest
 
 30 AUGUSTA J. EVANS 
 
 she paused, and looking down a dewy glade where the 
 rising sun darted its earliest arrowy rays, beheld a spectacle 
 which burned itself upon her memory. A group of five 
 gentlemen stood beneath the dripping chestnut and sweet 
 gum arches; one leaned against the trunk of a tree, two 
 were conversing in undertones, and two faced each other 
 fifteen paces apart, with pistols in their hands. Ere she 
 could comprehend the scene the brief conference ended, 
 the seconds resumed their places to witness another fire, 
 and like the peal of a trumpet echoed the words: " Fire! 
 One two three ! " 
 
 The flash and ringing report mingled with the com 
 mand, and one of the principals threw up his arm and 
 fell. When with horror in her wide-strained eyes and 
 pallor on her lips, the child staggered to the spot, and 
 looked on the prostrate form, he was dead. The hazel 
 eyes stared blankly at the sky, and the hue of life and ex 
 uberant health still glowed on the full cheek, but the 
 ball had entered the heart, and the warm blood, bubbling 
 from his breast, dripped on the glistening grass. The 
 surgeon who knelt beside him took the pistol from his 
 clenched fingers, and gently pressed the lids over his glaz 
 ing eyes. Not a word was uttered, but while the seconds 
 sadly regarded the stiffening form, the surviving principal 
 coolly drew a cigar, lighted it, and placed it between his 
 lips. The child's eyes had wandered to the latter from the 
 pool of blood, and now in a shuddering cry she broke the 
 silence. 
 
 "Murderer!" 
 
 The party looked around instantly and for the first 
 time perceived her standing there in their midst, with 
 loathing and horror in the gaze she fixed on the perpe-
 
 AUGUSTA J. EVANS 31 
 
 trator of the awful deed. In great surprise he drew back 
 a step or two and asked gruffly : 
 
 "Who are you? What business have you here?" 
 
 " Oh! how dared you murder him? Do you think God 
 will forgive you on the gallows? " 
 
 He was a man probably twenty-seven years of age, 
 singularly fair, handsome, and hardened in iniquity, but 
 he cowered before the blanched and accusing face of the 
 child, and ere a reply could be framed, his friend came 
 close to him. 
 
 " Clinton, you had better be off. You have barely 
 time to catch the Knoxville train, which leaves Chatta 
 nooga in half an hour. I would advise you to make a long 
 stay down in New York, for there will be trouble when 
 Dent's brother hears of this morning's work." 
 
 "Aye! Take my word for that, and put the Atlantic 
 between you and Dick Dent," added the surgeon, smiling 
 grimly, as if the anticipation of retributive justice afforded 
 him pleasure. 
 
 " I will simply put this between lis," replied the homi 
 cide, fitting his pistol to the palm of his hand, and as he 
 did so a heavy antique diamond ring flashed on his little 
 ringer. 
 
 Without even glancing toward the body of his antago 
 nist, Clinton scowled at the child, and, turning away, was 
 soon out of sight. 
 
 " Oh, sir! " will you let him get away? Will you let 
 him go unpunished ? " 
 
 " He cannot be punished," answered the surgeon, look 
 ing at her with mingled curiosity and admiration. 
 
 " I thought men were hung for murder." 
 
 " Yes but this is not murder."
 
 32 AUGUSTA J. EVANS 
 
 " Not murder? He shot him dead! What is it? " 
 
 " He killed him in a duel, which is considered quite 
 
 right and altogether proper." 
 
 " A duel ? " She had never heard the word before. 
 
 " To take a man's life is murder."
 
 THEODORE O'HARA 
 
 18201867 
 
 THIS soldier-poet was born in Danville, Ken 
 tucky, January n, 1820. His father, Keen 
 O'Hara, an Irish gentleman and scholar, came to 
 America during the revolutionary troubles in Ire 
 land. " Though belonging to the Irish gentry, 
 he had been an ardent rebel in the famous up 
 rising in 1798, which cost young Emmet his life. 
 Eluding the vigilance of the British officers, Keen 
 O'Hara was fortunate enough to escape to Amer 
 ica." He settled in Danville, Kentucky, where he 
 taught in the academy at that place, and later he 
 established a school in Jefferson County, where 
 among his pupils were Zachary Taylor, afterwards 
 President of the United States, and Colonel George 
 Grogham, known in history as the " hero of San- 
 dusky." 
 
 Inheriting his father's patriotic temperament, 
 Theodore O'Hara early gave evidence of an un 
 usually fine mentality, and all the enthusiasm and 
 ardor of an Irish temperament. 
 
 He was given the benefit of a thorough college 
 education in the Catholic schools of Kentucky, 
 
 33
 
 34 THEODORE O'HARA 
 
 and soon became an accomplished scholar, espe 
 cially in ancient and modern languages. He was 
 admitted to the bar in 1842, but the practice of 
 law offered few attractions to his poetic mind, and 
 he went into journalistic work as editor of " The 
 Frankfort Yeoman," and later of " The Louis 
 ville Times." 
 
 From a letter of J. Stoddard Johnson, a life-long 
 friend, we have the following facts of his brilliant 
 career: "On the breaking out of the Mexican 
 War Theodore O'Hara was appointed captain 
 and assistant quartermaster of the volunteers. He 
 was brevetted for gallant and meritorious conduct 
 at the battle of Cherubusco, and honorably dis 
 charged October 15, 1848." 
 
 O'Hara now resumed the editorship of " The 
 Frankfort Yeoman." In 1850 he took part with 
 Lopez in the first Cuban Expedition with the rank 
 of colonel. At Cardenas, while making a success 
 ful charge on the Governor's palace, he was se 
 verely wounded, and was brought back to the 
 United States. Fortunately he was not sufficiently 
 recovered to return in the Second Expedition, and 
 thus escaped the fate of Lopez, Crittenden, and 
 others, who were captured and shot. 
 
 Subsequently O'Hara entered the regular army 
 and was made captain in the famous " Second 
 Cavalry," with whose fortunes have been associ 
 ated such men as Robert E. Lee, George H.
 
 THEODORE O'HARA 35 
 
 Thomas, Albert Sidney Johnston, Kirby Smith, 
 and John B. Hood, each destined to achieve dis 
 tinction in the bloody conflict of the sixties. 
 
 At the breaking out of the Civil War O'Hara 
 was living in Mobile, where he had been connected 
 editorially with " The Mobile Register," but he 
 immediately enlisted in the Confederate Army, en 
 tering the Twelfth Alabama Infantry as lieu 
 tenant-colonel. A short time before the battle of 
 Shiloh he was invited by General Albert Sidney 
 Johnston to become a member of his personal staff, 
 and resigning his regimental position, O'Hara 
 accepted. At the battle of Shiloh he was near 
 the side of Johnston when the latter was mor 
 tally wounded, and accompanied the General's 
 remains to New Orleans. Colonel O'Hara then 
 became a member of the staff of General John C. 
 Breckinridge, as inspector-general, and at the 
 battle of Murfreesboro, December 31, 1862, and 
 for some time afterwards was acting chief-of- 
 staff. In the early summer of 1863 he retired 
 from active military service and made his home 
 in Columbus, Georgia, where, at the close of the 
 war, he engaged in the cotton business. In the 
 spring of 1867 he was living on the plantation of 
 a friend, Captain Grant, near Guerryton, Bullock 
 County, Alabama, where he died June 6, 1867. 
 In 1873, by resolution of the Legislature of Ken 
 tucky, Colonel O'Hara's remains were brought
 
 36 THEODORE O'HARA 
 
 home to his native State and interred, after an 
 address delivered by General Wm. Preston, in the 
 presence of a large assembly of citizens. His body 
 rests in the State military department of the ceme 
 tery, 
 
 " And kindred eyes and hearts watch by the hero's 
 sepulcher." 
 
 Colonel O'Hara was never married. He was 
 a man of strikingly handsome person, and with 
 a fine intellectual countenance. To superior clas 
 sical attainments he added the qualities of a bril 
 liant orator and poet. No collection of either 
 his poems or orations having been made, his fame 
 as an orator lives only in tradition, while as a 
 poet, his merit now is attested by his widely quoted 
 poem " The Bivouac of the Dead." In regard to 
 the time of the production of this noble poem 
 there exists much error. It is generally said to 
 have been written on the occasion of the imposing 
 public funeral given by the Commonwealth of 
 Kentucky to her soldiers who had fallen in Mexico. 
 This event occurred July 20, 1847, at which time 
 Colonel O'Hara was in Mexico. The weight of 
 authority tends to show that the poem was not 
 written till 1850. It has been quoted everywhere 
 over our land, and lines from it are to be found in 
 a large number of the principal Federal ceme 
 teries.
 
 THEODORE O'HARA 37 
 
 Another touching poem of this poet-soldier is 
 " The Old Pioneer." A handsome marble monu 
 ment in the cemetery at Frankfort is simply in 
 scribed with his name and date of his death. Mr. 
 George W. Ranch, in his little volume entitled 
 " The Bivouac of the Dead and Its Author," says 
 that he hopes some day this inscription may be 
 changed to read u Theodore O'Hara, Author of 
 ' The Bivouac of the Dead,' " for he has given to 
 the world one of its most precious gems of mar 
 tial poetry. 
 
 THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 
 
 The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 
 
 The soldier's last tattoo; 
 
 No more on Life's parade shall meet 
 
 That brave and fallen few. 
 
 On Fame's eternal camping-ground 
 
 Their silent tents are spread, 
 
 And Glory guards, with solemn round, 
 
 The bivouac of the dead. 
 
 No rumor of the foe's advance 
 
 Now swells upon the wind; 
 
 No troubled thought at midnight haunts 
 
 Of loved ones left behind ; 
 
 No vision of the morrow's strife 
 
 The warrior's dream alarms; 
 
 No braying horn, nor screaming fife 
 
 At dawn shall call to arms. 
 
 145827
 
 38 THEODORE O'HARA 
 
 Their shivered swords are red with rust, 
 
 Their plumed heads are bowed ; 
 
 Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, 
 
 Is now their martial shroud 
 
 And plenteous funeral tears have washed 
 
 The red stains from each brow, 
 
 And the proud forms, by battle gashed, 
 
 Are free from anguish now. 
 
 The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 
 
 The bugle's stirring blast, 
 
 The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 
 
 The din and shout, are past; 
 
 Nor War's wild note, nor Glory's peal, 
 
 Shall thrill with fierce delight 
 
 Those breasts that never more may feel 
 
 The rapture of the fight. 
 
 Full many a Norther's breath has swept 
 
 O'er Angostura's plain, 
 
 And long the pitying sky has wept 
 
 Above its moldering slain. 
 
 The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, 
 
 Or shepherd's pensive lay, 
 
 Alone awakes each sullen height 
 
 That frowned o'er that dread fray. 
 
 Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 
 Ye must not slumber there, 
 Where stranger steps and tongues resound 
 Along the heedless air.
 
 THEODORE O'HARA 39 
 
 Your own proud land's heroic soil 
 Shall be your fitter grave; 
 She claims from War his richest spoil 
 The ashes of her brave. 
 
 Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 
 
 Far from the gory field ; 
 
 Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 
 
 On many a bloody shield; 
 
 The sunshine of their native sky 
 
 Smiles sadly on them here, 
 
 And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 
 
 The heroes' sepulcher. 
 
 Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead, 
 Dear as the blood ye gave! 
 No impious footstep here shall tread 
 The herbage of your grave ; 
 Nor shall your glory be forgot 
 While Fame her record keeps, 
 Or Honor points the hallowed spot 
 Where Valor proudly sleeps. 
 
 Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 
 
 In deathless song shall tell, 
 
 When many a vanished year hath flown, 
 
 The story how ye fell ; 
 
 Nor wreck, nor change, nor Winter's blight, 
 
 Nor Time's remorseless doom, 
 
 Shall dim one ray of holy light 
 
 That gilds your glorious tomb. 
 
 Courtesy of J. Stoddard Johnson.
 
 MRS. ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON (GRIF 
 FITH) 
 
 18281894 
 
 MRS. JOH.NSON was born in Natchez, Missis 
 sippi, in 1828, her maiden name being Griffith. 
 When she was nine years old her mother died, but 
 she found in her maternal aunt, Mrs. Vertner, 
 a second mother, from whom she received faith 
 ful love and fostering care. By adoption the 
 name of Vertner became hers, and later in life 
 she said, " I have never known the misery of being 
 motherless, as she [Mrs. Vertner] fulfilled most 
 tenderly and unceasingly a fond mother's duty 
 toward me." 
 
 Mary Forrest says the early childhood of Rosa 
 Vertner was passed at Burlington, a beautiful 
 country-seat near Port Gibson, Mississippi. Her 
 fondness for this place amounted almost to a pas 
 sion. " Here," said Rosa, " I learned to think 
 and feel," and here her poetical talent began to 
 express itself. She prattled in rhyme long before 
 she could write. The charms of " Burlington " 
 and its refined influences, and the constant sym 
 pathy and instruction of her poet-father rapidly 
 
 40
 
 ROSA FERTNER JOHNSON 41 
 
 developed the mind and heart of this beautiful 
 girl. 
 
 For the sake of her education the family moved 
 when she was ten years of age to Kentucky, and 
 Rosa was placed in the noted seminary of Bishop 
 Smith, a school located in Lexington. At the age 
 of seventeen Miss Vertner married Claud M. 
 Johnson, a manly gentleman of considerable for 
 tune. Her life was then spent in a delightful 
 manner: in summer with her adopted mother in 
 Lexington, and in winter at her husband's planta 
 tion in Louisiana. She became the mother of six 
 children, two of whom died young. 
 
 The poem " Angel Watchers " beautifully ex 
 presses the mother pain of these separations. Mrs. 
 Johnson first became a contributor to " The Louis 
 ville Journal " under the name of " Rosa," and 
 the greater number of her poems were published 
 here, though she contributed also to the " Home 
 Journal " and many other magazines. The first 
 volume of her poems was published in 1857 in 
 Boston. Of this collection the editor of " The 
 Louisville Journal" said: " In the blooming field 
 of modern poetry we really know not where to 
 look for productions at once so full of merit and 
 so free from defect." 
 
 Mary Forrest says : " Subordinate to the literary 
 quality of her productions, but more striking to 
 the superficial eye, is the marvelous wealth and
 
 42 ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON 
 
 delicacy of her fancy. The fertility of her con 
 ception seems positively inexhaustible." 
 
 In " The First Eclipse " and " The Frozen 
 Ship " she essayed the higher types of thought 
 and imagination, and here she met with great suc 
 cess. In " Women of the South " we find these 
 words concerning Mrs. Johnson, who, after the 
 death of her first husband, became Mrs. Jeffreys: 
 " In many of the works of this writer we see 
 glimpses of a substratum of passionate power, 
 which has never been stirred. A deep fountain 
 was troubled at the death of her children, but 
 troubled by an angel, and her songs grew only 
 more low and tender. ' Hasheesh Visions ' does 
 not lack impassioned element, but it has the crazy 
 play and prodigality of words evolved from the 
 heights of the brain and not from the depths of 
 feeling." 
 
 Her best production in fiction is " Woodburn," 
 which appeared in 1864. There is not the least 
 effort in this book after what is called fine writing. 
 The whole tale of love and hate, of joy and woe, 
 is told with the simplicity and childlike earnestness 
 which seem to characterize the nature of little 
 " Amy Percy " herself, the youthful story-teller. 
 It is a description of social Southern life before 
 the war, and abounds in truthful pictures of the 
 happy, easy, care-free days of that favored and 
 prosperous time. The frank cordiality, the warm-
 
 ROSA 7ERTNER JOHNSON 43 
 
 hearted hospitality, the gay rides and merry meet 
 ings of friends and neighbors, are all true delinea 
 tions of that happiest time among the dwellers 
 in the " Land of the Mocking-bird and Mag 
 nolia." Under the name of Mrs. Rosa Vertner 
 Jeffreys this writer was best known in the later 
 years of her life. She spent some time with her 
 adopted mother in New York City and died in 
 1894, beloved and admired by all who knew her. 
 " The Night Has Come " has been called one of 
 her poetical productions. 
 
 THE NIGHT HAS COME 
 
 The night has come when I may sleep, 
 
 To dream, perchance of thee 
 And where art thou? Where south winds sweep 
 
 Along a southern sea. 
 Thy home a glorious tropic isle 
 
 On which the sun with pride 
 Doth smile as might a sultan smile 
 
 On his Circassian bride. 
 
 And where the south wind gently stirs 
 
 A chime of fragrant bells, 
 While come the waves as worshipers, 
 
 With rosary of shells 
 The altars on the shore to wreathe, 
 
 Where, in the twilight dim, 
 Like nuns, the foam-veiled breakers breathe 
 
 Their wild and gushing hymn.
 
 44 ROSA FERTNER JOHNSON 
 
 The night has come, and I will glide 
 
 O'er sleep's hushed waves the while, 
 In dreams to wander by thy side 
 
 Through that enchanting isle. 
 For, in the dark, my fancy seems 
 
 As full of witching spells 
 As yon blue sky of starry beams 
 
 Or ocean-depths of shells. 
 
 Yet sometimes visions do becloud 
 
 My soul with such strange fears, 
 They wrap me like an icy shroud 
 
 And leave my soul in tears. 
 For once me thought thy hand did bind 
 
 Upon my brow a wreath 
 In which a viper was entwined 
 
 That stung me unto death. 
 
 And once within a lotus cup, 
 
 Which thou to me didst bring, 
 A deadly vampire folded up 
 
 Its cold and murky wing; 
 And springing from that dewy nest, 
 
 It drained life's azure rills, 
 That wandered o'er my swelling breast, 
 
 Like brooks through snow-clad hills. 
 
 Yet seemed it sweeter thus to die 
 
 There, in thy very sight, 
 Than see thee 'neath that tropic sky, 
 
 As in my dreams last night.
 
 ROSA VERTNER JOHNSON 45 
 
 For lo, within a palmy grove, 
 
 Unto an Eastern maid 
 I heard thee whispering vows of love 
 
 Beneath the feathery shade. 
 
 And stately as the palm was she, 
 
 Yet thrilled with thy wild words, 
 As its green crown might shaken be 
 
 By many bright-winged birds; 
 And 'neath thy smile, in her dark eye, 
 
 A rapturous light did spring, 
 As in a lake soft shadows lie, 
 
 Dropped from the rainbow's wing. 
 
 Some of her other works are " Poems by Rosa," 
 and " The Crimson Hand and Marsh," a novel.
 
 JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 
 
 17951870 
 
 THE father of this noted writer was from the 
 north of Ireland. He settled in Baltimore and 
 became a successful merchant. He married Miss 
 Nancy Pendleton of Martinsburg, Virginia, in 
 1794, and the next year their son was born, John 
 Pendleton Kennedy. Even in boyhood he began 
 to show a strong tendency for literature, and at 
 school, though he studied all the various branches 
 taught, yet a miscellaneous kind of writing was 
 continually pursued by this ambitious boy. 
 
 In 1809 his father bought a cottage home in the 
 country called " Shrub-Hill," from which home 
 John Pendleton Kennedy rode daily to Baltimore 
 College. Later he studied law and was admitted 
 to the bar in 1816. However, the practice of law 
 was distasteful to him, although he had a great 
 admiration for lawyers. Baltimore was a city of 
 much culture, and the association with such men as 
 Pinckney, Hoffman, Poe, Pierpont and Sparks kept 
 alive his passion for literary work. He was a 
 friend also of Washington Irving, and together, 
 on horseback, they traveled over western New 
 York. He was elected to the Maryland Legisla- 
 
 46
 
 JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 47 
 
 ture in 1820, and later, in 1838, to Congress. Dur 
 ing Mr. Fillmore's administration he was Secre 
 tary of the Navy, doing valuable service for the 
 government. 
 
 Mr. Kennedy married a daughter of Judge Ten- 
 nant, of Baltimore, but she died soon after, and 
 his second wife was a Miss Elizabeth Gray, with 
 whom he lived for forty-one very happy years. His 
 frequent visits to Virginia with his mother, which 
 were continued sometimes with his wife, and often 
 alone on horseback, gave him an intimate knowl 
 edge of the habits, life, hospitality, manners, plan 
 tations and romances of Virginia, the State 
 endeared to him by many ties. 
 
 When his story, " Swallow Barn," appeared, 
 there had been few really faithful pictures of 
 Southern life, and the book met with cordial re 
 ception both in the North and the South. Profes 
 sor Link says: " No historian can afford to neglect 
 the pages of ' Swallow Barn.' ' The demand for 
 this book has been so continued that G. P. Putnam 
 & Sons brought out a new edition in 1895. 
 
 Kennedy traveled in Europe and there became 
 acquainted with William Makepeace Thackeray, 
 for whom it is said he wrote a chapter in " Vanity 
 Fair," the fourth chapter of the second volume. 
 
 When in America he traveled much on horse 
 back, which gave him opportunity to meet 
 many of the characters he afterward put in his
 
 48 JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 
 
 novels. He was the true and tried friend of Edgar 
 Allan Poe, ever ready to help him and ever be 
 lieving in his genius. Kennedy's style of writing 
 follows closely that of his friend Irving. 
 
 His principal works are: "Swallow Barn," 
 " Horse-Shoe Robinson," " Rob of the Bowl," 
 " Red Book," an anonymous collection of prose 
 and verse; "Annals of Quodlibet," "Memoirs 
 of William Wirt," addresses, and other prose 
 writings. 
 
 In " Swallow Barn " we find exquisite descrip 
 tions of country life in Virginia " as it existed," 
 Kennedy writes, " in the first quarter of the pres 
 ent century, the mellow, bland, and sunny luxu 
 riance of the old-time society its good fellowship, 
 its hearty and constitutional companionableness, 
 the thriftless gayety of the people and that over 
 flowing hospitality which knew no ebb." 
 
 Speaking of the country homes in Virginia he 
 says: "You never know your friend so well or 
 enjoy him so heartily in the city as you may in one 
 of those large, bountiful mansions, whose horizon 
 is filled with green fields and woodland slopes and 
 broad blue heavens." 
 
 Frank Merriweth he describes: "A landed 
 proprietor, with a good house and a host of serv 
 ants, is naturally a hospitable man. A guest is 
 one of his daily wants." 
 
 The description of the dinner-table portrays to
 
 JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 49 
 
 perfection the abundant supply that graced the 
 hospitable board. 
 
 The table was furnished with a profusion of the delica 
 cies afforded by the country; and, notwithstanding it was 
 much more ample than the accommodation of the guests 
 required, it seemed to be stored rather with a reference to 
 its own dimensions than to the number or wants of those 
 who were collected around it. At the head, immediately 
 under the eye of our hostess, in the customary pride of 
 place, was deposited a goodly ham of bacon, rich in its own 
 perfections, as well as in the endemic honors that belong 
 to it in the Old Dominion. According to a usage worthy 
 of imitation, it was clothed in its own dark skin, which 
 the imaginative mistress of the kitchen had embellished 
 by carving into some fanciful figures. The opposite end 
 of the table smoked with a huge roasted saddle of mutton, 
 which seemed, from its trim and spruce air, ready to gal 
 lop off the dish. Between these two extremes was scat 
 tered an enticing diversity of poultry, prepared with many 
 savory adjuncts, and especially that tropical luxury, which 
 yet so slowly finds its way northward, fried chicken, 
 sworn brother to the ham, and old Virginia's standard 
 dish. The intervening spaces displayed a profusion of the 
 products of the garden ; nor were oysters and crabs want 
 ing where room allowed ; and, where nothing else could 
 be deposited, as if scrupulous of showing a bare spot of 
 the table-cloth, the bountiful forethought of Mistress 
 Winkle had provided a choice selection of pickles of every 
 color and kind. From the whole array of the board it 
 was obvious that abundance and variety were deemed no
 
 50 JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 
 
 less essential to the entertainment than the excellence of 
 the viands." 
 
 The story of old Lucy and her son Abe in 
 " Swallow Barn " is one of exquisite pathos. 
 
 Abe was the youngest son of old Lucy. He had noth 
 ing of the flat nose and broad hip of his tribe 'but his face 
 was moulded with the prevailing characteristics of the 
 negroes of the West Indies. He had been trained to the 
 work of a blacksmith. But a habit of associating with the 
 most profligate menials belonging to the extensive commu 
 nity of Swallow Barn and the neighboring estates cor 
 rupted his character. Merriweth, the master, was strongly 
 imbued with repugnance against disposing of any of his 
 negroes, but finally Abe's transgressions became so numer 
 ous that to save him from a worse fate the master 
 determined to ship him for a while on one of the sailing 
 vessels that frequented the harbor. There never was a 
 more exemplary domestic than the mother. Abe had al 
 ways lived in her cabin. Although she was continually 
 tormented with his misdeeds and did not fail to reprove 
 him with habitual harshness, still her heart yearned se 
 cretly toward him. 
 
 It was very hard to convince the mind of a mother of 
 the justice of the sentence that deprives her of her child. 
 Lucy heard all of the arguments to justify the necessity 
 of sending Abe abroad, assented to it all, bowed her head, 
 as if entirely convinced and thought it very hard. She 
 was told that it was the only expedient to save him from 
 prison. She admitted it, but it was a source of unuttera 
 ble anguish to her, which no kindness on the part of the
 
 JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 51 
 
 family could mitigate, and old Lucy gave way to pas 
 sionate wailing of despair. 
 
 This burst of feeling had its expected effect upon Lucy. 
 She seemed to be suddenly relieved, and was able to ad 
 dress a few short words of parting to Abe; then taking 
 from the plaits of her bosom a small leather purse con 
 taining a scant stock of silver, the hoard of past years, 
 she put it into the unresisting hand of Abe. The boy 
 looked at the faded bag for a moment, and gathering up 
 something like a smile upon his face, he forced the money 
 back upon his mother, himself replacing it in the bosom 
 of her dress. " You don't think I am going to take your 
 money with me!" said he. "I never cared about the 
 best silver my master ever had: no, nor for freedom 
 neither. I thought I was always going to stay here on 
 the plantation. I would rather have the handkerchief you 
 wear around your neck than all the silver you ever 
 owned." 
 
 Lucy took the handkerchief from her shoulders, and 
 put it in his hand. Abe drew it into a loose knot about 
 his throat, then turned briskly round, shook hands with 
 the by-standers, and, shouldering his chest, moved with 
 the boatman at a rapid pace toward the beach. 
 
 In a few moments afterwards he was seen standing up 
 in the boat, as it shot out from beneath the bank, and 
 waving his hand to the dusky group he had just left. 
 
 Then Kennedy gives the account of the ship 
 wreck when all perished save one sailor, who told 
 the story of Abe's daring and heroism in trying 
 to save the crew and vessel.
 
 52 JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 
 
 I might stop to compare this act of an humble and un 
 known negro, upon the Chesapeake, with the many similar 
 passages in the lives of heroes whose names have been 
 preserved fresh in the verdure of history, and who have 
 won their immortality upon less noble feats than this ; but 
 History is a step-mother, and gives the bauble fame to her 
 own children, with such favoritism as she lists, overlook 
 ing many a goodly portion of the family of her husband 
 Time. Still, it was a gallant thing, and worthy of a 
 better chronicler than I, to see this leader and his little 
 band the children of a despised stock swayed by a noble 
 emulation to relieve the distressed; and, what the fashion 
 of the world will deem a higher glory, impelled by that 
 love of daring which the romancers call chivalry throw 
 ing themselves upon the unruly waves of winter, and fly 
 ing, on the wing of the storm, into the profound, dark 
 abyss of ocean, when all his terrors were gathering in 
 their most hideous forms; when the spirit of ill shrieked 
 in the blast, and thick night, dreary with unusual horrors, 
 was falling close around them; when old mariners grew 
 pale with the thought of the danger, and the wisest coun 
 selled the adventurers against the certain doom that hung 
 upon their path: I say, it was a gallant sight to see such 
 heroism shining out in an humble slave of the Old 
 Dominion ! 
 
 Under the terrible grief for loss of her son, the mind 
 of old Lucy gives way, and she continues to look for 
 Abe, saying always to her master, " I cannot give him up, 
 Massa Frank," and she looked continually for him to 
 return. 
 
 One dark and blustering night of winter, the third
 
 JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 53 
 
 anniversary of that on which Abe had sailed upon his 
 desperate voyage, for Lucy had noted the date, although 
 others had not near midnight, the inhabitants of the 
 Quarter were roused from their respective cabins by loud 
 knockings in succession at their doors ; and when each was 
 opened, there stood the decrepit figure of old Lucy, who 
 was thus making a circuit to invite her neighbors, as she 
 said, to her house. 
 
 " He has come back! " said Lucy to each one, as they 
 loosed their bolts; " he has come back! I always told you 
 he would come back upon this very night ! Come and see 
 him! Come and see him! Abe is waiting to see his 
 friends to-night." 
 
 Either awed by the superstitious feeling that a maniac 
 inspires in the breasts of the ignorant, or incited by curi 
 osity, most of the old negroes followed Lucy to her cabin. 
 As they approached it, the windows gleamed with a broad 
 light, and it was with some strange sensations of terror 
 that they assembled at her threshold, where she stood upon 
 the step, with her hand upon the latch. Before she opened 
 the door to admit her wondering guests, she applied her 
 mouth to the key-hole, and said in an audible whisper, 
 " Abe, the people are all ready to see you, honey! Don't 
 be frightened, there's nobody will do you harm ! " 
 
 Then, turning toward her companions, she said, bow 
 ing her head, 
 
 " Come in, good folks! There's plenty for you all. 
 Come in and see how he is grown ! " 
 
 She now threw open the door, and, followed by the 
 rest, entered the room. There was a small table set out, 
 covered with a sheet; and upon it three or four candles 
 were placed in bottles for candlesticks. All the chairs she
 
 54 JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY 
 
 had were ranged around this table, and a bright fire blazed 
 in the hearth. 
 
 " Speak to them, Abe!" said the old woman, with a 
 broad laugh. " This is Uncle Jeff, and here is Dinah, and 
 here is Ben," and in this manner she ran over the names 
 of all present ; then continued : 
 
 Sit down, you negroes ! Have you no manners ? Sit 
 down and eat as much as you choose; there is plenty in 
 the house. Mammy Lucy knew Abe was coming; and 
 see what a fine feast she has made for him ! " 
 
 She now seated herself, and addressing an empty chair 
 beside her, as if someone occupied it, lavished upon the 
 imaginary Abe a thousand expressions of solicitude and 
 kindness. At length she said : 
 
 " The poor boy is tired, for he has not slept these many 
 long nights. You must leave him now he will go to 
 bed. Get you gone! get you gone! you have all eaten 
 enough ! " 
 
 Dismayed and wrought upon by the unnatural aspect of 
 the scene, the party of visitors quitted the cabin almost 
 immediately upon the command, and the crazed old menial 
 was left alone to indulge her sad communion with the 
 vision of her fancy. 
 
 Permission of G. P. Putnam & Sons.
 
 MADAME OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT 
 
 1810 1877 
 
 GEORGE WALTON, the grandfather of Madame 
 Le Vert, was a native of Prince Edward County, 
 Virginia, but removed at an early day to Georgia. 
 He was a member of the first Congress convened 
 at Philadelphia, was Governor of Georgia, and 
 Judge of the Supreme Court. He was also one 
 of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. 
 Not long before the Revolution he married Miss 
 Camber, daughter of an English nobleman, to 
 whom the crown had given large possessions. Two 
 children, a girl and boy, blessed this union. The 
 son, George Walton, traveled much and held 
 many honorable positions in Georgia and also in 
 Florida. Octavia Walton, his daughter, was born 
 at Belle Vue, near Augusta, Georgia, in 1810, but 
 as her parents soon removed to Florida, her ear 
 liest memories are of its orange trees, its flowers, 
 and sunshine, of which she speaks in her own beau 
 tiful language. " The orange and live oak trees, 
 shading the broad veranda; the fragrant acacia, 
 oleander, and cape jasmine trees which filled the 
 parterre sloping along to the sea beach ; the merry 
 
 55
 
 56 OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT 
 
 races with my brother along the white sands, 
 while the creamy waves broke at my feet, and the 
 delicious breeze from the gulf played in my hair; 
 rny pet mocking-birds in the giant oak by my win 
 dow, whose songs called me each morning from 
 dreamland." 
 
 Amid the glories of the warm Southland the 
 young girl absorbed the feelings, thoughts and 
 poetical tastes which are ever present in all her 
 writings. 
 
 Before she was twelve years of age she could 
 write and converse in three languages with facility. 
 It was a common thing for her father to receive 
 at his office letters in French and Spanish, which 
 she would interpret with surprising ease. While 
 Governor of Florida, her father located the seat 
 of government and at her desire named it " Talla 
 hassee." 
 
 A pleasing and never-to-be-forgotten pleasure 
 of her life was her meeting with Lafayette, who 
 had been the friend of her grandmother. He 
 folded the child to his heart, and called her " A 
 truly wonderful child." She had conversed with 
 him, with wonderful correctness, in his own lan 
 guage. 
 
 Octavia Walton was never placed at school 
 away from home; both her mother and grand 
 mother instructed her, and they were assisted by 
 private tutors. An old Scotchman, a classic scholar
 
 OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT 57 
 
 and linguist, lived for years in their home, and 
 Octavia and her brother studied under him. 
 
 After the family moved to Mobile, Octavia, 
 in company with her mother and brother, made 
 an extended tour over the United States, where 
 she was everywhere crowned a reigning belle. She 
 met Washington Irving and began a friendship 
 which lasted during his life. He corresponded 
 with her, watched her literary course, and received 
 her joyfully at " Sunnyside." On the occasion 
 of her last visit, when she was leaving, Irving 
 said, tenderly : " I feel as if the sunshine was all 
 going away with you, my child." Henry Clay, 
 Calhoun, and Webster were all her personal 
 friends. 
 
 Growing up under such rare intellectual influ 
 ences, it is not surprising that Miss Walton de 
 veloped into a most charming young woman. In 
 1836 she married Dr. Henry Le Vert of Mobile, 
 a man of great moral worth and a noted physi 
 cian. His father had come to America with La 
 fayette as fleet surgeon under Rochambeau, and 
 was present at the taking of Yorktown. Dr. Le 
 Vert, the son of this noble ancestry, was in every 
 way worthy to be the husband of the attractive 
 woman he married, and in every way Madame Le 
 Vert, as she was now called, was the willing co- 
 worker with the good doctor in all of his unknown 
 charities and humane labors.
 
 58 OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT 
 
 Great sorrow came to Madame Le Vert in the 
 death of her idolized brother and in that of her 
 two children. For several years prostrated in mind 
 and body, she lived in great seclusion. Then, in 
 1853, she accepted an invitation to visit the family 
 of the Duke of Rutland, and thus began the jour 
 neys through which the world is indebted for her 
 books, " Souvenirs of Travel." These books are 
 made up largely of letters to her mother, and be 
 sides the instructive and truthful descriptions, have 
 all the freshness, vivacity, imagery and genius of 
 the writer's mind expressed in exquisite English, 
 and likewise a simple-hearted, child-like " colour 
 de Rose," which creates a work fascinating to 
 read. " The Way over the Simplon," " The As 
 cent and Eruption of Vesuvius," " Moonlight in 
 Venice," " The Golden and the Silver Illumina 
 tions," are some of the many beautiful and graphic 
 descriptions. 
 
 Lamertine said to her after listening to her 
 brilliant description of a tour in Spain: " Ma 
 dame, you are a natural improvisatrice." 
 
 Her translation, printed in " The Mobile Regis 
 ter," of " The Pope and the Congress " was pro 
 nounced by French scholars to be a most admirable 
 rendering. 
 
 Among her literary works Madame Le Vert 
 found time to labor zealously in the cause of pre 
 serving Mount Vernon. She was one of the first
 
 OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT 59 
 
 to advocate the project and was Vice-Regent of 
 the Association for Alabama. 
 
 Her home on Government Street in Mobile was 
 a plain, substantial mansion, combining taste, ele 
 gance, and comfort. She had an immense library 
 and rare works of art. She had remarkable con 
 versational powers, and that kindness of heart 
 which made her thoroughly democratic. 
 
 Between Madame Le Vert and Fredrika 
 Bremer there existed a pure and continued friend 
 ship. A gentleman friend paid her this greatest 
 of all compliments: "I defy anybody to spend 
 an hour in her company without being a wiser and 
 a better man." 
 
 Madame Le Vert died in 1877. Her books 
 are practically out of print, but those who possess 
 copies of them feel that they are treasures. From 
 the second volume of " Souvenirs of Travel," pub 
 lished by Derby & Jackson, New York, in 1859, 
 we take the following selections : 
 
 In describing her visit to St. Peter's, Madame 
 Le Vert says : 
 
 Driving rapidly to the hotel, we quickly dined, and re 
 turned to St. Peter's just at twilight. In the choral chapel 
 they were singing the Miserere. Seating ourselves by the 
 open door, a perfect flood of melody swept over us, swell 
 ing and seeming to linger long beneath the mighty dome 
 and around the lofty arches. When the music ceased, a 
 procession of cardinals, bishops, and priests moved slowly
 
 60 OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT 
 
 up the aisle to the grand altar, which they washed with 
 wine, chanting in a solemn manner during the time. The 
 darkness was intense, save where the monks held lamps in 
 their hands. The crosses were all wrapped in black, the 
 pictures veiled. At intervals a wild and plaintive cry 
 would break the monotony of the chant, an increase the 
 strange and awe-inspiring mystery of the scene. 
 
 One by one the lamp-holders vanished, and the throng 
 departed, leaving only a few kneeling figures before the 
 great altar, who appeared earnestly and deeply absorbed in 
 their devotions. 
 
 It is impossible to describe the holy calm which fell 
 upon my soul as I sat within that dim and silent church. 
 The very air seemed filled with beautiful spirits, who were 
 weaving around me a spell of enchantment, and bearing 
 me far away from the present into a glorious world of the 
 future. I felt as though I had lost my own identity, when 
 hurried voices approached me. "Where have you been? 
 Where have you hidden yourself ? " were the eager words 
 addressed to me; and thus returning to the actualities of 
 life we left St. Peter's and drove to the Trinita dei Pelli- 
 grini to see the noble Roman ladies wash the feet of the 
 pilgrims and wait upon them at the table. The hospital 
 is divided into two departments. They not only wash their 
 feet, serve them with food at the table, but with their 
 own jeweled hands put the female pilgrims carefully into 
 comfortable beds, where they at least enjoy one night's 
 luxurious repose. Although it strikes one as an ostenta 
 tion of charity, or, rather, a parade of the virtue for public 
 admiration, still many miserable beings were made happy
 
 OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT 61 
 
 by it, and cheered for a few hours of their weary pil 
 grimage. 
 
 FAREWELL TO VENICE 
 
 It was past ten o'clock. Still we lingered on the bal 
 cony, thinking, in truth, it was wronging such a night to 
 sleep. At length we called Antonio, our family gondolier, 
 and told him to bring out the gondola from its haven, 
 where it lay beneath the shadow of the ducal palace. In a 
 few moments it glided to the steps, the black cabin was 
 removed, so there was no covering between us and the 
 sky. We were soon floating along the broad laguna, lean 
 ing back upon the soft cushions and luxuriating in the 
 matchless beauty of the scene. Three wonderful pictures 
 have I seen in Italy, which will hang forever on the 
 " walls of memory." One was the illumination of St. 
 Peter's, another the Niagara-like cataract of fire pouring 
 from the crater of Vesuvius, and the third is moonlight in 
 Venice. There is a glory about the moonlight here never 
 attending it elsewhere; the smooth sheets of water receive 
 its beams as though they were immense mirrors, and thence 
 reflecting them upward, fill the atmosphere with a light 
 of such dazzling brightness we constantly exclaimed, 
 "This cannot be night!" It seemed a mingling of the 
 soft tints of the early morning with the tender radiance 
 of the twilight. 
 
 Along the piazza of San Marco were multitudes of 
 lamps, their rays piercing the still waters as though they 
 were arrows of light. Every object was softened and 
 rounded by the moonbeams, and its shadow singularly dis 
 tinct in the water below. Thus there appeared two cities, 
 one above and another below the Grand Canal, each with
 
 62 OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT 
 
 its winged lion. From the open window of a palace 
 came the sound of merry dancing music, while beneath 
 another was a gondola with serenaders. We made the 
 entire voyage through the streets of Venice, passing under 
 the " Bridge of Sighs," which for a moment shut out 
 the moonlight completely, then we glided by the palace of 
 the Foscari, and did not wonder the sad Jacopo was will 
 ing to endure even torture that he might look upon it 
 again ; we lingered for a while beneath the marble-cased 
 arch of the Rialto, and saw the house of Shylock and the 
 home of Othello thus, " slowly gliding over," we passed 
 all the landmarks of historic and poetic interest. '' To 
 morrow we part with Italy," I murmured, as we went 
 for the last time about the radiant and moon-lighted city, 
 and a deep regret welled up from the fountain of my 
 heart. One must be insensible to the glories of the past 
 and to the charms of the present not to love Italy. 
 
 Earth, sky and air possess here a beauty unknown to 
 other climes. Every city has some treasure of painting, 
 sculpture or science. Every river, vale and mountain has 
 its poetic or historic legend.
 
 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 
 
 1830 1886 
 
 THIS " Poet Laureate of the South," as he is 
 called, was born January ist, 1830, in Charles 
 ton, South Carolina. Upon the death of his 
 father, Lieutenant P. H. Hayne, of the United 
 States Navy, Paul, at an early age, was placed un 
 der the loving care of his uncle, Robert Young 
 Hayne, who was at one time Governor of South 
 Carolina, and a friend of Daniel Webster. 
 
 The Hayne family was one of much culture 
 and refinement, and before the Civil War pos 
 sessed all the comforts wealth could give, and 
 so Paul enjoyed all the advantages accruing from 
 such conditions. He was educated at the Univer 
 sity of South Carolina, from which he was grad 
 uated at the age of twenty-two. 
 
 From his much-loved mother he inherited rare 
 taste for literary study, and also a poetical turn 
 of mind. These traits were early fostered by 
 reading Shakespeare and other great writers. 
 
 In 1853, from among a number of literary 
 gentlemen who often gathered at the dinners 
 given by William Gilmore Simms, young Hayne 
 
 63
 
 64 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 
 
 was selected as editor of " Russell's Magazine," 
 a literary enterprise fostered for some time by 
 many brilliant writers. Hayne was afterwards 
 connected with the " Charleston Literary Messen 
 ger," " The Southern Opinion," and several other 
 journals. But " poetry was his destiny," and be 
 fore 1860 he had published three volumes of 
 verse. He was married to Miss Mary Middleton 
 Michel of Charleston. It was the blessed fortune 
 of this poet, as it was the fortune of Lanier and of 
 Timrod, to find continual support and encourage 
 ment in his wife's appreciation. Margaret J. 
 Preston says: "No poet was more blessed in a 
 wife, who by self-renunciation, exquisite sympathy, 
 positive material help, and bright hopefulness, 
 made endurable the losses and trials that crowded 
 into the life of Paul Hamilton Hayne." In many 
 of his poems is this wife gratefully remembered, 
 especially in " The Bonny Brown Hand." 
 
 Oh, drearily, how drearily, the sombre eve comes down ! 
 And wearily, how wearily, the seaward breezes blow! 
 But place your little hand in mine so dainty, yet so 
 
 brown ! 
 
 For household toil hath worn away its rosy tinted snow: 
 But I fold it, wife, the nearer, 
 And I feel, my love, 'tis dearer 
 Than all dear things of earth, 
 As I watch the pensive gloaming, 
 And my wild thoughts cease from roaming,
 
 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 65 
 
 And bird-like furl their pinions close beside our peaceful 
 hearth : 
 
 Then rest your little hand in mine, while twilight shim 
 mers down, 
 
 That little hand, that fervent hand, that hand of bonny 
 brown 
 
 That hand that holds an honest heart and rules a happy 
 hearth. 
 
 Oh, merrily, how merrily, our children's voices rise! 
 And cheerily, how cheerily, their tiny footsteps fall ! 
 But, hand, you must not stir awhile, for there our nes 
 tling lies, 
 
 Snug in the cradle at your side, the loveliest far of all ; 
 And she looks so arch and airy, 
 So softly pure a fairy, 
 She scarce seems bound to earth ; 
 And her dimple mouth keeps smiling, 
 As at some child fay's beguiling, 
 Who flies from Ariel realms to light her slumbers on the 
 
 hearth. 
 Ha, little hand, you yearn to move, and smooth the bright 
 
 locks down ! 
 But, little hand, but, trembling hand, but, hand of 
 
 bonny brown, 
 Stay, stay with me ! she will not flee, our birdling on the 
 
 hearth. 
 
 Oh, flittingly, how flittingly, the parlor shadows thrill, 
 As wittingly, half wittingly, they seem to pulse and pass! 
 And solemn sounds are on the wind that sweeps the 
 haunted hill,
 
 66 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 
 
 And murmurs of a ghostly breath from out the grave 
 
 yard grass. 
 
 Let me feel your glowing fingers 
 In a clasp that warms and lingers 
 With the full, fond lover of earth, 
 Till the joy of love's completeness 
 In this flush of fireside sweetness, 
 Shall brim our hearts with spirit-wine, outpoured beside 
 
 the hearth. 
 So steal your little hand in mine, while twilight falters 
 
 down, ' 
 That little hand, that fervent hand, that hand of bonny 
 
 brown, 
 The hand which points the path to heaven, yet makes a 
 
 heaven of earth. 
 
 Life did not always run in pleasant lines for 
 Paul Hamilton Hayne. During the Civil War 
 his beautiful home in Charleston, his library and 
 nearly all the heirlooms of his family were de 
 stroyed when that city was bombarded. 
 
 Mrs. Preston says : " Even the few valuables, 
 such as old silver, which he rescued from the 
 flames and had placed in a bank in Columbus for 
 safekeeping, were swept away in the famous 
 ' March to the Sea,' and nothing was left the 
 homeless, ruined man, after the war, but exile 
 among the ' Pine Barrens ' of Georgia. There he 
 established himself, in utter seclusion, in a veri 
 table cottage, or rather shanty, designated at first
 
 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 67 
 
 as ' Hayne's Roost,' behind whose screen of vines, 
 among peaches and melons, and strawberries of 
 his own raising, he fought the fight of life with 
 uncomplaining bravery, and persisted in being 
 happy." 
 
 Maurice Thompson says: "The poet, Hayne, 
 secured eighteen acres of poor pine land a few 
 miles from Augusta, Georgia. There he built of 
 upright boards, a story and a half cottage, rough, 
 poorly jointed and roofed with clapboards. It 
 was just such a house as one sees occupied by 
 trackmen's families along the railroad. Here, at 
 ' Copse Hill,' as this home was afterwards called, 
 upon a desk fashioned out of a rude bench left 
 by the carpenters, Hayne wrote all his most nota 
 ble poems. He never gave up his love for poesy 
 and song, and fought poverty alone with his facile 
 pen. . . . Hayne is, perhaps, the only poet 
 in America who ever dared to depend solely upon 
 poetry for his income, and no right-minded man 
 can go to that lonely cottage on the poor brush- 
 covered hill in Georgia and fail to feel how much 
 courage it required to live there as Hayne lived." 
 
 Paul Hamilton Hayne loved the forest tree, 
 especially the Southern pine, which he has immor 
 talized in verse. " He made the melancholy 
 meanings of the Georgia pine sob through his 
 poems," as, for example, " The Voice of the 
 Pines," " Aspect of the Pine," " The Dryad of the
 
 68 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 
 
 Pines," and " In the Pine Barrens." " Under the 
 Pine " was written about a pine tree at whose base 
 Henry Timrod, the South Carolina poet, sat and 
 rested often during the last visit he made to 
 Hayne, a short time before Timrod's death. The 
 two poets had been schoolmates in youth, and life 
 long friends, and each had generously appreciated 
 the other's poetical genius. One of the finest bio 
 graphical sketches written is the one Hayne wrote 
 for the published edition of Timrod's poems. 
 
 When Hayne was editor of " Russell's Maga 
 zine," one of its staunch supporters and welcome 
 contributors was Henry Timrod. In loving mem 
 ory of this friend, Hayne wrote the beautiful 
 verses " Under the Pine." 
 
 O Tree! hast thou no memory at thy core 
 
 Of one who comes no more? 
 
 No yearning memory of those scenes that were 
 
 So richly calm and fair, 
 
 When the last rays of sunset shimmering down, 
 
 Flashed like a royal crown ? 
 
 O Tree ! against thy mighty trunk he laid 
 
 His weary head ; thy shade 
 
 Stole o'er him like the first cool spell of sleep. 
 
 Professor Link says of Hayne : " If Bryant 
 sometimes served at the altar of Nature, Hayne 
 was her high priest, who ever dwelt amid her 
 glories. Bryant was the pioneer of New Eng-
 
 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 69 
 
 land poets. He was the leader of an association 
 of wits such as Dana, Halleck and others. Even 
 Longfellow followed him at first. So Paul Ham 
 ilton Hayne was long the literary high priest of 
 the South. Lanier, Timrod and others came 
 about him for guidance and encouragement." 
 
 Again Professor Link writes: "With little 
 market for his wares up North, and with the South 
 too poor to buy, and with friends urging him to 
 turn his efforts to something else, Hayne held to 
 his first love, poesy, with the devotion of a Milton 
 dictating ' Paradise Lost ' ; few men in America 
 have been so completely and fully a poet as 
 Hayne. Longfellow was for a time professor in 
 a college, Bryant was a newspaper man, and 
 others, temporarily at least, have trained Pegasus 
 along the paths of different professions. Except 
 ing a few prose sketches, almost poetry, and the 
 biography of Timrod, nothing baser than fine- 
 beaten gold of poesy came from his work shop." 
 
 William Hayne, son of the poet, has inherited 
 much of the father's genius. Between father and 
 son was always a sweet companionship, and in 
 the exquisite poem, " Will and I," Hayne tells 
 how like two boys together they filled their souls 
 with love for Nature. 
 
 We roam the hills together, 
 In the golden summer weather, 
 Will and I;
 
 70 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 
 
 And the glowing sunbeams bless us, 
 And the winds of heaven caress us, 
 As we wander hand in hand 
 Through the blissful summer land, 
 Will and I. 
 
 Where the tinkling brooklet passes 
 Through the heart of dewy grasses, 
 
 Will and I 
 
 Have heard the mock-bird singing, 
 And the field-lark seen upspringing 
 In his happy flight afar, 
 Like a tiny winged star, 
 
 Will and I. 
 
 Amid cool forest closes 
 
 We have plucked the wild-wood roses, 
 
 Will and I, 
 
 And have twined, with tender duty, 
 Sweet wreaths to crown the beauty 
 Of the purest brows that shine 
 With a mother-love divine, 
 
 Will and I. 
 
 Ah! thus we roam together 
 Through the golden summer weather, 
 
 Will and I; 
 
 While the glowing sunbeams bless us, 
 And the winds of heaven caress us 
 As we wander hand in hand 
 O'er the blissful summer land, 
 
 Will and I.
 
 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 71 
 
 Mrs. Preston says of Hayne : " He had the 
 (advantage of quite a distinguished appearance, 
 was slightly built, and of medium height, with a 
 lithe, graceful figure, a fine, oval face, with starry, 
 magnificent eyes that glowed with responsive sym 
 pathy. He had abundant dark hair thrown back 
 from a high forehead, and his manner was urbane 
 and courteous to a high degree." 
 
 The poet had never, even in younger days, been 
 strong physically, and gradually, as he toiled at 
 Copse Hill, he became fully aware that the end 
 was drawing near. Like the swan in her dying 
 song, some of Hayne's most beautiful verses were 
 his late ones, when he felt the hand of Death close 
 by, and even to the end love for Nature throbbed 
 in every line. 
 
 I pray you when the shadow of death comes down, 
 
 Oh ! lay me close to Nature's pulses deep, 
 
 Whether her breast with autumn's tints be brown, 
 
 Or bright with summer, or hale winter's crown 
 
 Press on her brows in sleep; 
 
 Lo, nigh the dawn of some new marvelous birth, 
 
 I'd look to heaven, still clasped in arms of earth. 
 
 Of death Hayne could say in his last poem: 
 
 But I, earth's madness above, 
 In a kingdom of stormless breath 
 I gaze on the glory of love 
 In the unveiled face of Death.
 
 72 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 
 
 Hayne passed away early in July, 1886, hon 
 ored and beloved for the nobility and the purity 
 of his character, as well as for his splendid genius. 
 For a while his wife and son Will " kept vigil at 
 Copse Hill," then the poet's wife joined her be 
 loved husband. 
 
 Among the published works of Hayne are 
 " Sonnets," " Avolio," " Lyrics," " Mountain 
 Lovers," " Life of Robert T. Hayne," also of 
 Hugh Swinton Legare, and Henry Timrod. 
 
 THE VOICE IN THE PINES 
 
 The morn is softly beautiful and still, 
 Its light fair clouds in pencilled gold and gray 
 Pause motionless above the pine-grown hill, 
 Where the pines, tranced as by a wizard's will, 
 Uprise as mute and motionless as they! 
 
 Yea! mute and moveless; not one flickering spray 
 Flashed into sunlight, not a gaunt bough stirred ; 
 Yet, if wooed hence beneath those pines to stray, 
 We catch a faint, thin murmur far away, 
 A bodiless voice, by grosser ears unheard. 
 
 I 
 
 What voice is this? what low and solemn tone, 
 Which, though all wings of all the winds seem furled, 
 Nor even the zephyr's fairy flute is blown, 
 Makes thus forever its mysterious moan 
 From out the whispering pine-tops' shadowy world?
 
 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 73 
 
 Ah! can it be the antique tales are true? 
 Doth some lone Dryad haunt the breezeless air, 
 Fronting yon bright immitigable blue, 
 And wildly breathing all her wild soul through 
 That strange unearthly music of despair? 
 
 Or can it be that ages since, storm-tossed, 
 
 And driven far inland from the roaring lea, 
 
 Some baffled ocean spirit, worn and lost, 
 
 Here, through dry summer's dearth and winter's frost, 
 
 Yearns for the sharp, sweet kisses of the sea? 
 
 Whate'er the spell, I hearken and am dumb, 
 Dream-touched, and musing in the tranquil morn ; 
 All woodland sounds the pheasant's gusty drum, 
 The mock-bird's fugue, the droning insects hum 
 Scarce heard for that strange sorrowful voice forlorn ! 
 
 Beneath the drowsed sense, from deep to deep 
 Of spiritual life its mournful minor flows, 
 Streamlike, with pensive tide, whose currents keep 
 Low murmuring 'twixt the bounds of grief and sleep, 
 Yet locked for aye, from sleep's divine repose. 
 
 By permission of Lothrop Pub. Co., Boston.
 
 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 
 1806 1870 
 
 THE early life of this writer was handicapped 
 by the loss of his mother, and he was reared and 
 cared for by his grandmother. He was born in 
 Charleston, South Carolina, and at eight years of 
 age began writing verses, which his practical 
 grandmother committed to the flames. Her de 
 sire was that he should study medicine, and, as 
 soon as he was old enough, the boy was placed as 
 clerk in a drug-store. But he detested the idea of 
 medicine, and even the smell of drugs was odious 
 to him. In his heart he longed for study, and he 
 said: " I had rather make an absolute failure in 
 literature than a success in something else."/ 
 Nevertheless, obedient to his grandmother's 
 wishes, he remained as clerk in the drug-store, 
 finally gaining her consent to study law, in which 
 he was much hindered by his lack of education. 
 However, he read good literature, pursued the 
 study of law, and while still a clerk wrote poetry. 
 Rich stores of learning were amassed in passing 
 years, yet Simms always regretted that he had not, 
 in youth, been able to receive the culture and polish 
 
 74
 
 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 75 
 
 which the study of Latin and Gree^is believed 
 to give the mind. 
 
 For over forty years this writer devoted himself 
 exclusively to literature. He labored assiduously 
 and threw off from year to year, sometimes from 
 month to month, his rapid series of fiction, now 
 dealing with the rugged, original and aboriginal 
 character of early American life; now depicting 
 the heroic achievements of the knights of elder 
 Spain and the crafty Saracen; now amid the tropic 
 bloom of Florida; now in the abandon of South 
 western life; now on the Dark and Bloody Ground, 
 covering the whole range of Southern and South 
 western life. He was, however, most at home in 
 the Revolutionary period when war, and craft, and 
 treachery, and love and death ruled the hour; or 
 in the older and pre-Revolutionary period, when 
 the stalwart and sturdy Indian yet struggled with 
 bloody hand for his erstwhile dominions, and yet 
 hoped to wrest his lands from the pale-face. 
 
 Before 1860 this voluminous writer had pub 
 lished eighteen volumes of verse; he also wrote 
 more than sixty other bound volumes of biog 
 raphy, romance, and history. 
 
 As an historian and critic he excels. Edgar 
 Allan Poe says of him : " He has more vigor, 
 more imagination, more movement, and more gen 
 eral capacity than all other novelists except 
 Cooper."
 
 76 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 
 
 Professor James Wood Davidson, a later critic, 
 writing in 1869 declares: " In the wielding of 
 events, in that sacrificing of character to situation 
 he stands unsurpassed." He further says: "In 
 his day and time some critics declared Simms' 
 novels too full of realism; yet to-day people ad 
 mire without protest the rough realism that satu 
 rates the ' Barrack Room Ballads ' of Kipling." 
 Ten of his novels have received German transla 
 tion, and his life of Francis Marion is as attractive 
 as fiction; also the lives of John Smith, Chevalier 
 Bayard and General Greene. Simms did for South 
 Carolina what Sir Walter Scott did for his coun 
 try and Fenimore Cooper did for New England. 
 His novels are almost entirely Southern, and 
 Southern life has been faithfully reproduced. He 
 owned a fine plantation near Midway, South Caro 
 lina, called " Woodlands." A bronze bust of him 
 was unveiled at Pine Garden, Charleston, in 1879, 
 and his memory is cherished tenderly in his birth 
 place. 
 
 William Gilmore Simms had little love for the 
 profession of law; his heart was in literature. 
 When he abandoned his practice, he began the 
 editorship of " The Tablet, or Southern Monthly 
 Literary Gazette," a sixty-four-page magazine. 
 It proved to be an unprofitable enterprise and ran 
 only about a year. He then undertook the " City 
 Gazette." He opposed with all his personal cour 
 age and mental powers the nullification movement.
 
 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 77 
 
 The death of his first wife, who was a Miss 
 Giles, of Charleston, the burning of his house, 
 the failure of his literary ventures, the death of 
 his father and grandmother, all came with crush 
 ing force, and a weaker man would have been 
 utterly disheartened; but William Gilmore Simms 
 had the true every-day courage of a soldier and 
 nothing overcame it. Later he was happily mar 
 ried to Miss Chavilette Roach, the daughter of 
 a well-to-do planter, and one of his earliest 
 novels, " Guy Rivers," passed through several 
 editions and was reprinted in London. With 
 great rapidity he now published volume after vol 
 ume of fiction, among them being " The Par 
 tisan," " The Yemassee," " Mellichampe," " Bor 
 der Beagles," " Katharine Walton," and " The 
 Scout," which were much admired and read. It 
 is said, by those who wish to criticise adversely, 
 that Simms is quite forgotten and his books are 
 now unread. Prof essor Trent says : " One might 
 perhaps say the same of Sir Walter Scott's novels, 
 and it is certain that Cooper holds little of the 
 kingdom in which he once reigned supreme. Tales 
 of adventure with historical basis have given way, 
 for the time, to novels of passion." So rapidly 
 did Simms cover the romance, the history, the tra 
 ditions of the South with his fiction that " about 
 fifty volumes," says Professor Trent, " would 
 hardly contain all he wrote, and while much of 
 this work must have been done hurriedly, the
 
 78 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 
 
 South cannot afford to be indifferent to the great 
 value of his books, and his name will always stand 
 high on the list of pioneer American writers." 
 
 The plantation home of this writer, " Wood 
 lands," was noted for its hospitality and many 
 distinguished guests were entertained there. Scott 
 wrote of and immortalized the heather and Whit- 
 tier the native scenery of New England; so Simms 
 loved his home and made beautiful its swamps and 
 forests. 
 
 Paul Hamilton Hayne says: " Simms was a 
 typical Southerner of the ante-bellum period." 
 The first time he saw Simms was in 1847, ' n 
 Charleston, at a lecture, when Simms was called 
 out by the audience for a talk. " I had," says 
 Hayne, " already read some of his novels and I 
 had long desired to see the author. He now came 
 forward, a man in the prime of life, tall, vigorous 
 and symmetrically formed. Under strangely mo 
 bile eyebrows flashed a pair of bluish-gray eyes, 
 keen and bright as steel. His mouth, slightly 
 prominent, especially in the upper lip, was a won 
 derfully firm one; the massive jaw and chin might 
 have been moulded out of iron." 
 
 Simms was an ardent Secessionist, and at the 
 close of the war he found himself, like all Southern 
 men, ruined financially. The death of his beloved 
 wife in 1863 left him prostrated with grief; his 
 fine beard was gray and his noble forehead marked
 
 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 79 
 
 with care and sorrow. He died, beloved by his 
 children and his large circle of acquaintances, June 
 1 1, 1870. He died as he had lived, a noble Chris 
 tian man, one of the band of Southern authors 
 the South must ever admire and whose memory 
 must be perpetuated from generation to genera 
 tion by those who truly love their native land. 
 With much justice, Simms has been called the 
 " Cooper of the South." 
 
 The following list comprises most of his pub 
 lished works: 
 
 " ^artin," " Faber," " Book of My Lady," 
 "Guy Rivers," "The Yemassee," "Partisan," 
 " Mellichampe," "Richard Hurdis," " Palayo," 
 " Carl Werner and other Tales," " Border 
 Beagles," " Confession, or the Blind Heart," 
 " Beauchampe (sequel to Charlemont) ," "Helen 
 Halsey," "Castle Dismal," "Count Julian," 
 " Wigwam and Cabin," " Katharine Walton," 
 " Golden Christmas," " Foragers," " Maroon, and 
 other Tales," " Utah," " Woodcraft," " Marie de 
 Berniere," " Father Abbott," " Scout " (first called 
 " Kinsman "), " Charlemont," " Cassique of Kia- 
 wah," and " Vasconselas (tale of De Soto)." 
 
 POEMS (2 vplumes) 
 
 "Atalantis," " Grouped Thoughts and Scattered 
 Fancies," " Lays of the Palmetto," " Southern
 
 8o WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 
 
 Passages and Pictures," " Areytos," " Songs and 
 Ballads of the South." 
 
 DRAMAS 
 
 " Norman Maurice," " Michael Bonham, or 
 Fall of the Alamo." 
 
 BIOGRAPHY AND HISTORY, ETC. 
 
 " Life of General Francis Marion," " Life of 
 Captain John Smith," " Life of Chevalier Bay 
 ard," " Geography of South Carolina," " Reviews 
 in Periodicals" (2 Vols.), "Life of General 
 Nathanael Greene," " History of South Carolina," 
 " South Carolina in the Revolution," " War 
 Poetry of the South," and " Seven Dramas of 
 Shakespeare." 
 
 The following extract has been taken from 
 " The Yemassee," a story of the South Carolina 
 Indians : 
 
 The district of Beaufort, lying along the Atlantic coast 
 in the State of South Carolina, is especially commended 
 to the regards of the antiquarian as the region first dis 
 tinguished in the history of the United States by an 
 European settlement. (We are speaking now of au 
 thentic history only. We are not ignorant of the claim 
 on behalf of the Northmen to discovery along the very 
 same region fully five hundred years before this period
 
 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 81 
 
 an assertion which brings us back to tradition of Madoc 
 and his Welshmen; the report of the Northmen adding 
 further, that the language spoken was cognate with that 
 of the Irish, with which they were familiar. For this 
 curious history see the recently published " Antiquities 
 American," under the editorship of Professor Raf of 
 Copenhagen.) 
 
 Here a colony of French Huguenots was established in 
 1562 under the auspices of the celebrated Gaspard de 
 Cologni, Admiral of France, who in the reign of Charles 
 IX. conceived the necessity of such a settlement, with 
 the hope of securing a sanctuary for French Protestants, 
 when they should be compelled, as he foresaw they soon 
 would, by the anti-religious persecutions of the time, to 
 fly from their native into foreign regions. This settle 
 ment, however, proved unsuccessful; and the events 
 which history records of the subsequent effort of the 
 French to establish colonies in the same neighborhood, 
 while of unquestionable authority, have all the charm 
 of the most delightful romance. 
 
 It was not till an hundred years after, that the same 
 spot was temporarily settled by the English under Sayle, 
 who became the first governor, as he was the first perma 
 nent founder, of the settlement. The situation was ex 
 posed, however, to the incursions of the Spaniards, who, 
 in the meantime, had possessed themselves of Florida, 
 and for a long time after continued to harass and prevent 
 colonization in this quarter. But perseverance at length 
 triumphed over all these difficulties, and though Sayle, for 
 further security, in the infancy of this settlement, had 
 removed to the banks of the Ashley, other adventurers, 
 little by little, contrived to occupy the ground he had
 
 82 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 
 
 left, and in the year seventeen hundred, the birth of a 
 white native child is recorded. 
 
 From the earliest period of our acquaintance with the 
 country of which we speak, it was in the possession of 
 a powerful and gallant race, and their tributary tribes, 
 known by the general name of Yemassees. Not so numer 
 ous, perhaps as many of the neighboring nations, they 
 nevertheless commanded the respectful consideration of 
 all. In valor they made up for any deficiencies of number, 
 and proved themselves not only sufficiently strong to hold 
 out defiance to invasion, but were always ready to an 
 ticipate assault. Their promptness and valor in the field 
 furnished their best securities against attack, while their 
 forward courage, elastic temper, and excellent skill in the 
 rude condition of their warfare, enabled them to subject 
 to their dominion most of the tribes around them, many 
 of which were equally numerous with their own. Like 
 the Romans, in this way they strengthened their own 
 powers by a wise incorporation of the conquered with the 
 conquerors; and under the several names of Huspahs, 
 Coosaws, Comhahees, Stowoces, and Sewees, the greater 
 strength of the Yemassees contrived to command so many 
 dependents, prompted by their movements, and almost en 
 tirely under their dictation. Thus strengthened, the re 
 cognition of their power extended into the remote in 
 terior, and they formed one of the twenty-eight aboriginal 
 nations among which, at its first settlement by the English, 
 the province of Carolina was divided. 
 
 A feeble colony of adventurers from a distant world 
 had taken up its abode alongside of them. The weak 
 nesses of the intruder were, at first, his only but sufficient 
 protection with the unsophisticated savage. The white
 
 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 83 
 
 man had his lands assigned him, and he trenched his fur 
 rows to receive the grain on the banks of Indian waters. 
 The wild man looked on the humiliating labor, wondering 
 as he did so, but without fear and never dreaming for 
 a moment of his own approaching subjection. Meanwhile 
 the adventurers grew daily more numerous, for their 
 friends and relatives soon followed them across the ocean. 
 They, too, had lands assigned them in turn by the im 
 provident savage, until, at length, we behold the log 
 house of the white man, rising up amid the thinned clump 
 of woodland foliage, within hailing distance of the squat, 
 clay hovel of the savage. 
 
 The Yemassees were politic and brave . . . They 
 looked with a feeling of aversion which they yet strove to 
 conceal upon the approach of the white man on every side. 
 The thick groves disappeared, the clear skies grew turbid 
 with the dense smokes rolling up in the solid masses from 
 the burning herbage. 
 
 Hamlets grew into existence, as it were, by magic under 
 their own very eyes, and in sight of their own town, for 
 the shelter of a different people, and at length, a common 
 sentiment, not even yet embodied perhaps by its open ex 
 pression, even among themselves, prompted the Yemassees 
 in a desire to arrest the progress of a race with which they 
 could never hope to acquire any real or lasting affinity. 
 Permission M. A. Donahue, Chicago.
 
 JAMES BARRON HOPE 
 18291887 
 
 JAMES BARRON HOPE has been called the poet 
 laureate of Virginia. He was born at the resi 
 dence of his grandfather, near Norfolk. His 
 father, Wilton Hope, of Bethel, Elizabeth City 
 County, was a handsome, gifted man, a landed 
 proprietor, whose broad acres bordered on the 
 waters of the Hampton River. The poet's life 
 long devotion to his native State came from the 
 maternal side, from the Barrons, those " Virginia 
 Vikings," as they were called. Jane Barron, his 
 mother, was daughter of Commodore Barron, who 
 commanded the Gosport Navy-Yard at the time 
 of the birth of his son James. James Barron 
 Hope gained his early education at Germantown. 
 Later he became a student of Colonel Cary, in the 
 noted Hampton Academy, and here began a 
 friendship between the distinguished educator and 
 young Hope, a friendship which lasted long in 
 life. 
 
 In 1847 ne was graduated from William and 
 Mary College, then becoming secretary to his 
 uncle, Captain Samuel Barron, and in 1853 he
 
 JAMES BARRON HOPE 85 
 
 made a cruise to the West Indies. His beautiful 
 poem " Cuba," sent at this time to his mother for 
 criticism, now seems almost a prophecy. 
 
 In 1856 Hope was elected attorney for old 
 Hampton, then the center of a charming and cul 
 tivated society. Here he was honored as a bard, 
 for, under the name of " Henry Ellen," he had 
 contributed to various Southern publications, and 
 his poems in the " Southern Literary Messenger " 
 had attracted much gratifying attention. His 
 friendship for John Reuben Thompson, then 
 editor of this magazine, lasted and deepened as 
 the years rolled by. 
 
 In 1857 J. B. Lippincott brought out " Leoni 
 di Monota and Other Poems." The volume was 
 cordially received and much praise was given to 
 "The Charge at Balaklava," which G. P. R. 
 James and other critics have declared equal to 
 Tennyson's " Charge of the Light Brigade." 
 
 Upon the I3th of May, 1857, James Barren 
 Hope was chosen the poet for the 25Oth anniver 
 sary of the English settlement of Jamestown. His 
 poem for this occasion is full of grandeur and 
 imagery. 
 
 Here the red Canute on this spot, sat down, 
 His splendid forehead stormy with a frown, 
 To quell, with the wild lightning of his glance 
 The swift encroachment of the wave's advance ;
 
 86 JAMES BARRON HOPE 
 
 To meet and check the ruthless tide which rose, 
 
 Crest after crest of energetic foes. 
 
 While high and strong poured on each cruel wave, 
 
 Until they left his royalty in a grave; 
 
 But o'er this wild tumultuous deluge glows 
 
 A vision fair as Heaven to saint e'er shows; 
 
 A dove of mercy o'er the billows dark 
 
 Fluttered awhile, then fled within God's ark. 
 
 Had I the power, I'd reverently describe 
 
 That peerless maid the " pearl of all her tribe " ; 
 
 As evening fair, when coming night and day 
 
 Contend together which shall wield its sway; 
 
 But, here abashed, my paltry fancy stays; 
 
 For her, too humble its most stately lays 
 
 A shade of twilight's softest, sweetest gloom 
 
 The dusk of morning found a splendid tomb 
 
 In England's glare; so strange, so vast, so bright 
 
 The dusk of morning burst in splendid light, 
 
 Which falleth through the Past's cathedral aisles, 
 
 Till sculptured Mercy like a seraph smiles. 
 
 Sad is the story of that maiden's race, 
 
 Long driven from each legendary place 
 
 All their expansive hunting-grounds are now 
 
 Torn by the iron of Saxon's plow, 
 
 Which turns up skulls and arrow-heads, and bones 
 
 Their places nameless and unmarked by stones. 
 
 At the anniversary of the " Battle of the 
 Crater " Hope recited his metrical address " Ma- 
 hone's Brigade," beginning:
 
 JAMES BARRON HOPE 87 
 
 Your arms are stacked, your splendid colors furled, 
 Your drums are still, aside your trumpets laid, 
 But your dumb muskets once spoke to the world 
 And the world listened to Mahone's Brigade. 
 
 Like waving plume upon Bellona's crest, 
 Or comet in red majesty arrayed, 
 Or Persia's- flame transported to the West, 
 Shall shine the glory of Mahone's Brigade. 
 
 Not once, in all those years so dark and grim, 
 
 Your columns from the path of duty strayed ; 
 
 No craven act made your escutcheon dim 
 
 'Twas burnished with your blood, Mahone's Brigade. 
 
 In 1857 Hope married Miss Annie Beverly 
 Whiting of Hampton, a woman of lovely person, 
 beautiful character, and great strength of pur 
 pose. 
 
 In 1 88 1 Congress chose him as poet for the 
 Yorktown Centennial, and this address, " Arms 
 and the Man," with other sonnets, was published 
 the next year. 
 
 Again Hope was called upon to deliver a poem 
 at the laying of the cornerstone of the monument 
 erected in Richmond to General Robert E. Lee. 
 The cornerstone was laid in October, 1887, but 
 the poet's voice had been stilled forever, and the 
 poem was read by William Gordon McCabe. 
 This poem, " Memoriae Sacrum," has been pro 
 nounced by many to be Hope's masterpiece.
 
 88 JAMES BARRON HOPE 
 
 In his " Washington Memorial Ode," written 
 for the unveiling of Crawford's statue of Wash 
 ington, occur the following fine lines: 
 
 O proud old Commonwealth! thy sacred name 
 Makes frequent music on the life of Fame! 
 And as the Nation, in its onward march, 
 Thunders beneath the Union's mighty arch, 
 Thine the bold front which every 7 patriot sees 
 The stateliest figure on its massive frieze. 
 O proud old State! well may thy form be grand, 
 'Twas thine to give a Saviour to the land. 
 
 Besides poetry James Barron Hope published 
 "Little Stories for Little People"; a novel, 
 "Madelon"; many masterly addresses; "Vir 
 ginia, Her Past, Present and Future," and " The 
 Press and the Printer's Devil." 
 
 During the late years of his life he suffered 
 from illness, but none save those nearest to him 
 knew of it. He was among the first to join the 
 Confederate Army and came out of the war with 
 broken health and ruined fortune. 
 
 Hope was a little under six feet in height, 
 slender, graceful and finely proportioned, with 
 hands and feet of distinctive beauty. In his own 
 home he was always at his best, for he touched 
 with poetry the daily prose of living. A hand 
 some monument, fashioned from the stones of 
 the State he loved so well, has been erected to his
 
 JAMES BARRON HOPE 89 
 
 memory in Elmwood Cemetery, Norfolk, inscribed 
 to the " Poet, Patriot, Scholar, Journalist, and 
 Kingly Virginia Gentleman." 
 
 BALAKLAVA* 
 
 Spurring onward, Captain Nolan! 
 
 Spurring furiously is seen 
 And although the road meanders 
 
 His no heavy steed of Flanders, 
 But one fit for the commanders 
 
 Of her majesty the Queen. 
 
 Nolan halted where the squadrons 
 
 Stood impatient of delay, 
 Out he drew his brief dispatches, 
 
 Which their leader quickly snatches. 
 At a glance their meaning catches 
 
 They are ordered to the fray! 
 
 All that morning they had waited, 
 
 As their frowning faces showed ; 
 Horses stamping, riders fretting, 
 
 And their teeth together setting; 
 Not a single sword-blade wetting 
 
 As the battle ebbed and flowed. 
 
 Now the fevered spell is broken, 
 Every man feels twice as large, 
 Every heart is fiercely leaping, 
 
 From copy in possession of Capt. M. B. Davis, of Waco. 
 Printed in a Virginia paper in 1861.
 
 90 JAMES BARRON HOPE 
 
 As a lion roused from sleeping, 
 For they know they will be sweeping 
 In a moment to the charge ! 
 
 Brightly gleam six hundred sabres, 
 And the brazen trumpets ring; 
 
 Steeds are gathered, spurs are driven, 
 And the heavens widely riven 
 
 With a mad shout upward given, 
 Scaring vultures on the wing. 
 
 Stern its meaning! was not Gallia 
 Looking down on Albion's sons? 
 
 In each mind this thought implanted, 
 Undismayed and all undaunted, 
 
 By the battle-fields enchanted, 
 They ride down upon the guns. 
 
 Onward ! On ! the chargers trample ; 
 
 Quicker falls each iron heel ! 
 And the headlong pace grows faster; 
 
 Noble steed and noble master, 
 Rushing on to red disaster, 
 
 Where the heavy cannons peal! 
 
 In the van rides Captain Nolan ; 
 
 Soldier stout he was and brave! 
 And his shining sabre flashes, 
 
 As upon the foe he dashes; 
 God ! his face turns white as ashes, 
 
 He has ridden to his grave!
 
 JAMES BARRON HOPE 91 
 
 Down he fell, prone from his saddle, 
 Without motion, without breath, 
 
 Never more a triumph to waken. 
 He, the very first one taken, 
 
 From the bough so sorely shaken, 
 In that vintage-time of Death. 
 
 In a moment, in a twinkling, 
 
 He was gathered to his rest! 
 In the time for which he'd waited, 
 
 With his gallant heart elated, 
 Down went Nolan, decorated 
 
 With a death wound on the breast. 
 
 Comrades still are onward charging, 
 
 He is lying on the sod: 
 Onward still their steeds are rushing 
 
 Where the shot and shell are crushing; 
 From his corpse the blood is gushing, 
 
 And his soul is with his God. 
 
 As they spur on, what strange visions 
 
 Flit across each rider's brain ! 
 Thought of maidens fair, of mothers; 
 
 Friends and sisters, wives and brothers, 
 Blent with images of others, 
 
 Whom they ne'er shall see again. 
 
 Onward, on the squadrons thunder 
 
 Knightly hearts were theirs and brave, 
 Men and horses without number
 
 92 JAMES BARRON HOPE 
 
 All the furrowed ground encumber, 
 Falling fast to their last slumber, 
 Bloody slumber! bloody graves! 
 
 Of that charge at Balaklava 
 
 In its chivalry sublime 
 Vivid, grand, historic pages 
 
 Shall descend to future ages; 
 Poets, painters, hoary sages 
 
 Shall record it for all time. 
 
 Telling how those English horsemen 
 Rode the Russian gunners down ; 
 
 How with ranks all thinned and shattered ; 
 How with helmets hacked and battered; 
 
 How with sword arms blood-bespattered; 
 They won honor and renown. 
 
 'Twas " not war," but it was splendid, 
 As a dream of old romance 
 
 Thinking which their Gallic neighbors 
 Thrilled to watch them at their labors, 
 
 Hewing red graves with their sabres, 
 In that wonderful advance. 
 
 .Down went many a gallant soldier, 
 Down went many a stout dragoon; 
 
 Lying grim, and stark, and gory, 
 On that crimson field of glory, 
 
 Leaving us a noble story 
 
 And their white-cliffed home a boon.
 
 JAMES BARRON HOPE 93 
 
 Full of hopes and aspirations 
 
 Were their hearts at dawn of day; 
 
 Now, with forms all rent and broken, 
 Bearing each some frightful token 
 
 Of a scene ne'er to be spoken, 
 In their silent sleep they lay. 
 
 Here a noble charger stiffens ; 
 
 There his rider grasps the hilt 
 Of his sabre lying bloody, 
 
 By his side, upon the muddy, 
 Trampled ground, which darkly ruddy 
 
 Shows the blood that he has spilt. 
 
 And to-night the moon shall shudder 
 As she looks down on the moor, 
 
 Where the dead of hostile races 
 
 Slumber, slaughtered in their places; 
 
 All their rigid ghastly faces 
 
 Spattered hideously with gore. 
 
 And the sleepers! ah, the sleepers 
 Make a Westminster that day ; 
 
 'Mid the seething battle's lava! 
 
 And each man who fell shall have a 
 
 Proud inscription Balaklava 
 Which shall never fade away.
 
 94 JAMES BARRON HOPE 
 
 CUBA 
 
 O'er thy purple hills, O Cuba! 
 Through thy valleys of romance, 
 All thy glorious dreams of freedom 
 Are but dreamt as in a trance. 
 
 Mountain pass and fruitful valley, 
 Mural town and spreading plain 
 Show the footstep of the Spaniard, 
 In his burning lust for gain. 
 
 Since the caravel of Colon 
 Grated first upon thy strand, 
 Everything about thee, Cuba, 
 Shews the iron Spanish hand. 
 
 Hear that crash of martial music! 
 From the plaza how it swells ! 
 How it trembles with the meaning 
 Of the story that it tells ! 
 
 Turn thy steps up to Altares 
 There was done a deed of shame! 
 Hapless men were coldly butchered, 
 'Tis a part of Spanish fame ! 
 
 Wander now down to the Punta, 
 Lay thy hand upon thy throat 
 Thou wilt see a Spanish emblem 
 In the dark and grim garrote. 
 
 In the Morro, in the market, 
 In the shadow, in the sun,
 
 JAMES BARRON HOPE 95 
 
 Thou wilt see the bearded Spaniard 
 Where a gold piece may be won. 
 
 And they fatten on thee, Cuba! 
 Gay soldado cunning priest! 
 How these vultures flock and hover 
 On thy tortured breast to feast. 
 
 Thou Prometheus of the ocean ! 
 
 Bound down, not for what thou'st done, 
 
 But for fear thy social stature 
 
 Should start living in the sun ! 
 
 And we give thee tears, O Cuba! 
 And our prayers to God uplift, 
 That at last the flame celestial 
 May come down to thee a gift!
 
 JOHN ESTEN COOKE 
 
 183 
 
 886 
 
 THIS most popular author was born in Win 
 chester, Virginia, and his father was John Rogers 
 Cooke, an eminent lawyer of Richmond. John 
 Esten Cooke left school at sixteen. Then he 
 studied law, practicing with his father for about 
 four years, after which he devoted himself to lit 
 erary work. Here he followed three lines, biog 
 raphy, fiction and poetry, and he classes well with 
 the novelists of our country. His writings are not 
 so voluminous as Cooper's and Simms', but he 
 ranks with them. 
 
 In the beginning of the Civil War Cooke en 
 listed and served first as a private in the artillery 
 and was in almost all the battles in Virginia, most 
 of the time serving as a member of General J. E. 
 B. Stuart's staff. At General Lee's surrender he 
 was inspector-general of the horse artillery of 
 the Army of Northern Virginia. 
 
 From his experience it is only natural that 
 Cooke's stories should relate almost entirely to 
 Virginia, its life, its romance, its manners and 
 customs. 
 
 At the close of the Civil War Cooke returned 
 96
 
 JOHN ESTEN COOKE 97 
 
 to his home at " Eagle's Nest " where, in quiet 
 and peace, with his children and wife, he pursued 
 his writings, producing volume after volume of 
 intense and dramatic romance. He was cousin of 
 John Pendleton Kennedy of Baltimore, and was 
 married to Miss Mary Page, one of that distin 
 guished family in Virginia. 
 
 His home was beautifully located, and his 
 neighbors were the Nelsons, the Pages, the Ran 
 dolphs and other well-known families. 
 
 John Esten Cooke is pre-eminently the Southern 
 novelist of the Civil War, and his literary work 
 was done purely for love of the work and not for 
 remuneration. 
 
 The one of his novels which had the largest 
 sale was entitled " Surry of Eagle's Nest." It is 
 a striking portrayal of life in the Old Dominion, 
 and, as with all Cooke's fiction, it holds the 
 interest of the reader to the very end. The skill 
 with which all the scenes and events are pictured 
 is truly wonderful, and the pen portraits of such 
 men as " Jeb " Stuart," " Stonewall " Jackson 
 and others are truthful and convincing. 
 
 " Mohun " is a sequel to " Surry of Eagle's 
 Nest." It is a magnificent drama, opening with 
 a cavalry review in June, 1863, on the plains of 
 Culpeper, and the story ends in 1865, when with 
 his pass the paroled prisoner went slowly across 
 Virginia to his home.
 
 98 JOHN ESTEN COOKE 
 
 But all was not taken. Honor was left us, and the 
 angels at home. Hearts beat fast as gray uniforms were 
 clasped in long embrace. Those angels at home loved the 
 poor prisoners better in their dark days than in their 
 bright ones. 
 
 " Hilt to Hilt " is a novel in which one learns 
 to appreciate the poetry and valor of 1864, the 
 deeds of bravery, the tremendous sacrifice of prop 
 erty and blood, and the destruction of social life 
 in the South, such as the author saw with his own 
 eyes. 
 
 " Fairfax " is a love story, the scene of which 
 is located in the Blue Ridge and the valley of the 
 historic Shenandoah River. Many pages are full 
 of pathos, simple as a child's life, yet deeply 
 touching, as where the child Connie dies, and the 
 boy sings: 
 
 Oh! she was an angel, 
 
 Last year she died, 
 
 Toll the bell, a funeral knell 
 
 For my young Virginia bride. 
 
 All the novels of Cooke are replete with South 
 ern history and the life of the old South, and they 
 should be preserved and read for generations. 
 
 Mr. Cooke was a man of attractive personal 
 appearance, medium height, well formed, with fine 
 eyes and the courtly manner of a Southern gentle 
 man. He preferred a literary career to all others, 
 and while he was an ardent Southerner, he wrote
 
 JOHN ESTEN COOKE 99 
 
 without bitterness. His " History of Virginia " 
 is one of the most delightful of the " Common 
 wealth Series," and is itself like a beautiful ro 
 mance. 
 
 Many of Cooke's writings are scattered among 
 various papers and magazines and have never 
 been collected and put in book form, but his pub 
 lished books are: 
 
 " The Virginia Comedians," " Leather Stock 
 ing and Silk," " Surry of Eagle's Nest," " The 
 Youth of Jefferson," "Wearing the Gray," " My 
 Lady Pocahontas," " Henry St. John, or Bonnybel 
 Vane," " Mohun, or Last Days of Lee and his 
 Paladins," " Her Majesty the Queen," " Pretty 
 Mrs. Gaston," " Stories of the Old Dominion," 
 "The Maurice Mystery," "The Grantley's 
 Idea," " Professor Pressensee," " Virginia Bo 
 hemians," " Hammer and Rapier," " Hilt to 
 Hilt," " Life of General Lee," " Stonewall Jack 
 son," " A Biography of Virginia, a History of the 
 People." 
 
 MISS BONNYBEL 
 
 Vanely was one of those old mansions whose walls still 
 stand in Virginia, the eloquent memorials of other times, 
 and the good old race who filled the past days with so 
 many festivals, and such high revelry. 
 
 The first brick of the edifice had been laid upon the lap 
 of a baby, afterwards known as Colonel Vane, and passed 
 through his baby fingers. The life of the mansion and the 
 owner thus commenced together. It was a broad, ram-
 
 ioo JOHN ESTEN COOKE 
 
 bling old house, perched on a sort of upland which com 
 manded a noble landscape of field and river; and in front 
 of the portal, two great oaks stretched out their gigantic 
 arms, gnarled and ancient, like guardians of the edifice. 
 In these as in the hundred others, scattered over the un 
 dulating lawn, and crowning every knoll, a thousand 
 birds were carroling, and a swarm of swallows darted 
 backward and forward, circling around the stacks of chim 
 neys, and making the air vocal with their merriment. 
 
 There was about the odd old mansion an indefinable air 
 of comfort and repose, and, within, these characteristics 
 were equally discernible. The old portraits ranged along 
 the hall in oaken frames, looked serenely down upon the 
 beholder, and with powdered heads, and lace ruffs, and 
 carefully arranged drapery, seemed to extend a stately and 
 impressive welcome. Sir Arthur Vane, who fought for a 
 much less worthy man at Marston Moor, was there, with 
 his flowing locks and peaked head, and wide collar of rich 
 Venice lace, covering his broad shoulders; and Miss Ma 
 ria Vane, with towering curls, and jewel-decorated fin 
 gers, playing with her lap-dog, smiling meanwhile with 
 that winning grace which made her a toast in the days of 
 her kinsman Bolingbroke, and Mr. Addison; and more 
 than one tender and delicate child, like violets or snow 
 drops, in the midst of these sturdy family trunks, or 
 blooming roses, added a finishing grace to the old walls 
 that grace which nothing but the forms of children ever 
 give. Deer antlers, guns, an old sword or two, and a 
 dozen London prints of famous race horses completed the 
 adornment of the hall ; and from this wide space, the plain 
 oaken stairway ran up, and the various doors opened to 
 the apartments on the ground floor of the mansion.
 
 JOHN ESTEN COOKE 101 
 
 On the May morning we have spoken of, the old house 
 was in its glory; for the trees were covering themselves 
 densely with fresh green foliage, and the grounds were 
 carpeted with emerald grass, studded with flowers, wav 
 ing their delicate heads, and murmuring gently in the 
 soft spring breeze and the golden sunshine. The oriole 
 swung from the top-most boughs, and poured his flood of 
 song upon the air; the woodpecker's bright wings flapped 
 from tree to tree; and a multitude of swamp-sparrows 
 flashed in and out of the foliage and fruit blossoms, or 
 circled joyously around the snowy fringe-trees sparkling 
 in the sunshine. From the distant fields and forests the 
 monotonous caw of the crows, winging their slow way 
 through the blue sky, indicated even on the part of these 
 ancient enemies of the corn field, joyous satisfaction at 
 the incoming of the warm season after the long winter; 
 and a thousand merry robins flew about, with red breasts 
 shaken by melodious chirpings, and brilliant plumage bur 
 nished by sunlight. 
 
 Everything was bright with the youthful joy of spring, 
 and as Mr. St. John and his friend dismounted before the 
 old mansion, the very walls upon which the waving 
 shadows of a thousand leaves were thrown seemed smiling, 
 and prepared to greet them; the open portal held imagi 
 nary arms to welcome them. 
 
 Before this portal stood, its old form basking pleas 
 antly in the sunshine, the roomy, low-swung family 
 chariot, with its four long-tailed grays, as ancient, very 
 nearly, as its self, and showing by their well-conditioned 
 forms and glossy manes the result of tranquil, easy living. 
 By their side stood the old white-haired negro driver, time 
 out of mind the family coachman of the Vanes; and in
 
 102 JOHN ESTEN CO ORE 
 
 person of this worthy African gentleman a similar mode 
 of living was unmistakably indicated. Old Cato had 
 evidently little desire to be a censor ; sure of his own high 
 position, and quite easy on the subject of the purity of 
 the family blood, he was plainly satisfied with his lot, 
 and had no desire to change the order of things. In his 
 own opinion he was himself one of the family a portion 
 of the manor, a character of respectability and importance. 
 Old Cato greeted the young gentlemen with familiar but 
 respectful courtesy, and received their cordial shakes of 
 the hand with evident pleasure. The horses even seemed 
 to look for personal greeting, and when the young man 
 passed his hand over their necks, they turned their intelli 
 gent heads and whinnied gently in token of recognition. 
 Mr. St. John patted their coats familiarly, calling them 
 by name, and looking up to the old man said, smiling : 
 
 " Welcome, Vanely. The month I've been away seems 
 a whole century. After all, the town is nothing like the 
 country, and no other part of it's like Vanely." 
 
 " Suppose you look a minute at the original," said a 
 voice at his elbow. St. John turns quickly and sees the 
 vivacious Miss Bonnybel, decked out for the evening, at 
 his side. " But if I prefer the portrait? " he replies; " it 
 reminds me of old times." 
 
 " When I was a child, I suppose, sir! " 
 "Yes; and when you loved me more than now." 
 "Who said I did not love you now?" asked the girl 
 with coquettish glance. 
 "Do you?" 
 
 " Certainly. I love you dearly you and all my 
 cousins."
 
 JOHN ESTEN COOKE 103 
 
 St. John sighed, and then laughed ; but said nothing, 
 and offering his arm, led the girl into the sitting-room. 
 
 The young girls, whilst awaiting the appearance of 
 Caesar, the violin player, from the " quarters," amused 
 themselves writing their names, after a fashion very preva 
 lent in Virginia, upon the panes of the windows. For 
 this purpose they made use of diamond rings, or, better 
 still, the long sharp pointed crystals known as " Virginia 
 diamonds." 
 
 With these the gallants found no difficulty in inscrib 
 ing the names of their sweet-hearts, with all the flourishes 
 of a writing-master, on the glass, and very soon the glit 
 tering tablets were scrawled over with Lucies and Fan 
 nies, and a brilliant genius of the party even executed some 
 fine profile portraits. 
 
 Those names have remained there for nearly a century, 
 and when, afterwards, the persons who traced them 
 looked with age-dimmed eyes upon the lines, the dead day 
 rose again before them, and its forms appeared once more, 
 laughing and joyous, as at Vanely that evening. And 
 not here only may these memorials of another age be 
 found ; in a hundred Virginia houses they speak of the 
 past. 
 
 Yes, yes, those names on the panes of Vanely are a 
 spell! They sound like a strange music, a bright wonder 
 in the ears of their descendants! Frail chronicle! How 
 you bring up the brilliant eyes again, the jest and the 
 glance, the joy and the laughter, the splendor and beauty 
 which flashed onward, under other skies, in old Virginia, 
 dead to us so long! As I gaze on your surface, bright 
 panes of Vanely, I fancy with what sparkling eyes the 
 names were traced. I see in a dream, as it were, the soft
 
 104 JOHN ESTEN COOKE 
 
 white hand which laid its cushioned palm on this glitter 
 ing tablet; I see the rich dresses, the bending necks, the 
 fingers gracefully inclined as the maidens leaned over 
 to write " Lucy," and " Fanny," and " Nelly," " Frances," 
 and " Kate " ; I see the curls and the powder, the fur 
 belows and flounces, the ring on the finger, the lace on 
 the arm, lace that was yellow indeed by the snow it 
 enveloped ! I see no less clearly, the forms of the gallants, 
 those worthy young fellows in ruffles and fairtops; I see 
 all the smiles, and the laughter, and love. Oh beautiful 
 figures of a dead generation! You are only phantoms. 
 You are all gone, and your laces have faded or are moth- 
 eaten; you are silent now, and still, and the minuet bows 
 no more, you are dimly remembered, the heroines of a 
 tale that is told, you live on a window pane only! Old 
 panes! it is the human story that I read in you, the legend 
 of a generation, and of all generations! For what are the 
 records of earth and its actors but frost work on a pane, 
 or those scratches of a diamond which a blow shatters. A 
 trifle may shiver the tablet and strew it in the dust. 
 There is only one record, one tablet, where the name 
 which is written lives for ever; it is not in this world, 
 'tis beyond the stars. 
 
 "Oh, there's Uncle Caesar!" cries Bonnybel, "and 
 we'll have a dance " ; 
 
 We pause a moment to look on the minuet, to listen to 
 old Uncle Caesar fiddle, to hear the long-drawn music 
 wind its liquid cadences through mellow variations, and 
 to see the forms and faces of the young men and the 
 maidens. 
 
 By permission of G, W . Dillingham Co., New York 
 City.
 
 MRS. MARY S. B. DANA-SHINDLER 
 
 18101883 
 
 BEAUFORT, South Carolina, was the birth-place 
 of Mary Stanly Bunce Palmer, but while she was 
 very young her father, the Rev. B. M. Palmer, re 
 moved to Charleston, South Carolina, and in that 
 city, little Mary, the child of sweet songs, was 
 educated at the seminary of the Ramsey sisters, 
 daughters of the historian, Dr. David Ramsey. 
 
 On account of her delicate health Miss Palmer 
 finished her studies in the North, and while in 
 school she became noted for her poetic genius. 
 Her graceful manners and sprightly conversa 
 tion made her at all times a desirable companion; 
 while her ready sympathy and thorough apprecia 
 tion of the feelings of others rendered her a 
 warmly cherished friend. After leaving school 
 she returned to Charleston and became a contribu 
 tor to different periodicals. In 1835 she married 
 Mr. Charles E. Dana of New York City, where 
 they resided for three years. Then Bloomington, 
 Iowa, became her home, but she had not lived in 
 that city long until death took from her, in two 
 short days, her husband and their only child. Thus 
 
 105
 
 io6 MARY S. B. DANA-SHINDLER 
 
 bereft, it was only natural that she should again 
 return to Charleston, her childhood home. 
 
 44 From early youth she had written for amuse 
 ment, occasionally contributing to various publica 
 tions, but now she devoted her fine talents to the 
 task as a regular occupation, and, in 1841, pub 
 lished that happy combination of music and poetry, 
 4 The Southern Harp.' A similar volume soon 
 followed under the title of ' The Northern 
 Harp.' Both of these books received a hearty 
 welcome, and the combination of her own pure 
 thoughts with the secular music familiar at that 
 time proved a happy and popular union." 
 
 44 The Parted Family and Other Poems " was 
 published in 1842, and contained such songs as 
 " Pass Under the Rod," " Come Sing to Me of 
 Heaven," "A Pilgrim and a Stranger," "Shed 
 Not a Tear," and many other beautiful verses. 
 About the year 1844 Mrs. Dana wrote "The 
 Temperance Lyre " and published a number of 
 short stories. She wrote several prose works, 
 including " Forecastle Tom," " The Young 
 Sailor," and " Charles Martin, or the Young Pa 
 triot," but her largest and best-known prose work 
 is entitled " Letters to Relatives and Friends,", 
 and was published in both the United States and 
 in England. 
 
 A great sorrow again filled the heart of Mrs. 
 Dana. In 1847 death robbed her of the sweet
 
 MARY S. B. DANA-SHINDLER 107 
 
 companionship of her loving parents. In 1848 
 she became the wife of the Rev. Robert D. Shin- 
 dler, an Episcopal clergyman. In 1868 the fam 
 ily moved to Nacogdoches, Texas, where both 
 Mr. and Mrs. Shindler died, leaving an only 
 child, Mr. Robert C. Shindler, who still survives 
 them and lives in that city. 
 
 PASS UNDER THE ROD 
 
 It was the custom of the Jews to select the tenth of 
 their sheep after this manner: The lambs were separated 
 from their dams, and enclosed in a sheep-cote, with only 
 the narrow way out ; the lambs were at the entrance. On 
 opening the gate, the lambs hastened to join their dams, 
 and a man placed at the entrance, with a rod dipped in 
 ochre, touched every tenth lamb, and so marked it with 
 his rod, saying, " Let this be holy." Union Bible Dic 
 tionary. ..." And I will cause you to pass under the 
 rod and I will bring you into the bond of the covenant." 
 Ezekiel. 
 
 I saw the young bride, in her beauty and pride, 
 
 Bedecked in her snowy array, 
 And the bright flush of joy mantled high on her cheek 
 
 And the future looked blooming and gay; 
 And with woman's devotion she laid her fond heart 
 
 At the shrine of idolatrous love, 
 And she anchored her hopes to this perishing earth, 
 
 By the chain which her tenderness wove. 
 But I saw when those heart-strings were bleeding and 
 torn, 
 
 And the chain had been severed in two,
 
 io8 MARY S. B. DANA-SHINDLER 
 
 She had changed her white robes for the sables of grief, 
 
 And her bloom for the paleness of woe ! 
 But the Healer was there, pouring balm on her heart 
 
 And wiping the tears from her eyes, 
 And He strengthened the chain He had broken in twain, 
 
 And fastened it firm to the skies: 
 There had whispered a voice, 'twas the voice of her God, 
 
 " I love thee, I love thee! PASS UNDER THE ROD! " 
 
 I saw a young mother in tenderness bend 
 
 O'er the couch of her slumbering boy, 
 And she kissed the soft lips, as they murmured her name, 
 
 While the dreamer lay smiling in joy. 
 Oh ! sweet as a rose-bud encircled with dew, 
 
 When its fragrance is flung on the air, 
 So fresh and so bright to the mother he seemed, 
 
 As he lay in his innocence there! 
 But I saw when she gazed on the same lovely form, 
 
 Pale as marble, and silent, and cold, 
 But paler and colder her beautiful boy, 
 
 And the tale of her sorrow was told ; 
 But the Healer was there, who had smitten her heart 
 
 And taken her treasure away, 
 To allure her to Heaven, He has placed it on high, 
 
 And the mourner will sweetly obey. 
 There had whispered a voice, 'twas the voice of her God, 
 
 " I love thee, I love thee ! PASS UNDER THE ROD ! " 
 
 I saw when a father and mother had leaned 
 
 On the arm of a dear cherished son, 
 And the star in the future grew bright to their gaze, 
 
 As they saw the proud place he had won ;
 
 MARY S. B. DANA-SHINDLER 109 
 
 And the fast-coming evening of life promised fair, 
 
 And its pathway grew smooth to their feet, 
 And the star-light of love glimmered bright at the end, 
 
 And the whispers of fancy were sweet; 
 But I saw when they stood bending low o'er the grave, 
 
 Where their heart's dearest hope had been laid, 
 And the star had gone down in the darkness of night, 
 
 And the joy from their bosoms had fled ; 
 But the Healer was there, and His arms were around 
 
 And He led them with tenderest care, 
 And He showed them a star in the bright upper world, 
 
 'Twas their star shining brilliantly there. 
 They had each heard a voice, 'twas the voice of their God, 
 
 " I love thee, I love thee ! PASS UNDER THE ROD ! "
 
 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 
 
 1848 1908 
 
 MIDDLE Georgia has contributed much of the 
 brightest and most original humor of the South. 
 Here native material for fiction was early used 
 by writers who saw the quaint habits and heard 
 the dialect of plantation life. " No one of the 
 group of original and fascinating writers of the 
 South has been truer in delineation of character 
 or more keenly alive to the folk-lore, the pathos, 
 the human life of the simple, hearty, independent, 
 homogeneous people of middle Georgia than Joel 
 Chandler Harris, who was born in Putnam 
 County, Georgia." 
 
 Poverty was the first gift presented to the boy 
 hood of Joel Chandler Harris, but he was eager, 
 alive and watchful for opportunities. A Mr. 
 Turner, living near, on a large plantation, began 
 the publication of a small local paper called " The 
 Countryman," a weekly sheet somewhat after the 
 order of " The Rambler." In looking over the 
 first issue, young Harris saw an advertisement for 
 a boy to work in the editor's office and to learn 
 the printing business. An application was quickly
 
 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS in 
 
 made for the place, and here was the lad's oppor 
 tunity, for Mr. Turner was wealthy, had a large 
 plantation, and better still, about three thousand 
 well-selected books, of which young Harris be 
 came a constant reader. This was good soil in 
 which his genius could grow. From among these 
 books, it is said that the first story he read was 
 " The Vicar of Wakefield," the simple charm of 
 which never was forgotten by him, even after he 
 became, himself, a writer of beautiful fiction. 
 
 Mr. Harris says he likes stories that portray 
 " human nature, humble, fascinating, plain, com 
 mon human nature." 
 
 During his life on the plantation, teeming with 
 slaves, and other interesting characters, this young 
 man Harris absorbed every phase of passing 
 events, and " his keen observation and boundless 
 sympathies put i him in touch with every dog, 
 horse, black runaway and white deserter, master 
 and slave." 
 
 It is not strange that, under the influence of this 
 library, and surrounded by the romance, the 
 pathos and beauty of the old Southern plantation 
 life, Joel Chandler Harris began to write. At 
 first his extreme modesty induced him to publish 
 his work under a nom de plume, but later 
 kindly notice and the encouraging reception of 
 his articles induced him to write regularly, using 
 his own name. This pleasant existence ended, for,
 
 ii2 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 
 
 during the Civil war, after Sherman's march 
 through Georgia, there was nothing left on the 
 plantation, and Harris went to Macon, where he 
 found work on " The Daily Telegraph " of that 
 city, and finally became owner of " The Forsyth 
 Advertiser." One night he wrote the first sketch, 
 in " Legends of the Plantation," which was the 
 beginning of " Uncle Remus " and the " Little 
 Boy." Fame came to him at once. The true 
 secret of the real value of Uncle Remus' tales is 
 found in the fact that Mr. Harris " had the rare 
 ability to seize the heart of a suggestion, and make 
 a section famous with a legend." It seems almost 
 impossible for late song writers, novelists, or his 
 torians to appreciate the nature or understand the 
 conditions of the plantation negro, but " there is 
 no misrepresentation in the writings of Joel Chan 
 dler Harris, not a word strikes a false accent, not 
 a scene or incident is out of keeping with the life 
 he knew so thoroughly." 
 
 Quoting from Julian W. Abernethy: "The 
 strenuous work of reconstruction called him, and 
 he entered actively into the reviving journalism 
 of the South, finally becoming associated with the 
 " Atlanta Constitution," as editor, which place he 
 filled for twenty-five years. Having retired from 
 active journalism, he now devoted his time entirely 
 to literature. His published writings are: 
 
 " Uncle Remus, His Songs and His Sayings,"
 
 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 113 
 
 " Nights with Uncle Remus," " Uncle Remus and 
 His Friends," "Max Mingo," "Mr. Little 
 Thimblefinger," " On the Plantation," " Daddy 
 Jake, the Runaway," " Balaam and His Master," 
 " Mr. Rabbit at Home," " The Story of 
 Aaron," " Sister Jane," " Free Joe," " Stories of 
 Georgia," " Aaron in the Wild Woods," " Tales 
 of the Home Folks," " Georgia, from the Invasion 
 of De Soto to Recent Times," " Evening Tales," 
 " Stories of Home Folks," " Chronicles of Aunt 
 Minerva Ann," " On the Wings of Occasion," 
 " The Making of a Statesman." 
 
 The following extract from the " Old Bascom 
 Place," shows the peculiar love of the planter of 
 the Old South for his country home and how diffi 
 cult it was for the aged Southern man to adjust 
 himself to the new conditions. 
 
 The crash came when General Sherman went marching 
 through Hillsborough. The Bascom Place, being the 
 largest and the richest plantation in that neighborhood, 
 suffered the worst. Every horse, every mule, every living 
 thing with hide and hoof, was driven off by the Federals, 
 and a majority of the negroes went along with the army. 
 It was often said of Judge Bascom that he had so many 
 negroes he didn't know them when he met them in the 
 big road, and this was probably true. His negroes knew 
 him, and knew that he was a kind master in many re 
 spects, but they had no personal affection for him. They 
 were such strangers to the Judge that they never felt
 
 ii4 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 
 
 justified in complaining to him even when the overseers 
 ill-treated them. 
 
 Consequently, when Sherman went marching along, the 
 great majority of them bundled up their little effects and 
 followed after the army. They had nothing to bind them 
 to the old place. The house servants and a few negroes, in 
 whom the Judge took a personal interest, remained, but 
 all the rest went away. 
 
 Then, in a few months, came the news of the surren 
 der, bringing with it a species of paralysis or stupefaction 
 from which the people were long in recovering so long, 
 indeed, that some of them died in despair, while others 
 lingered on the stage, watching, with dim eyes and trem 
 bling limbs, half-hopefully and half-fretfully, the repre 
 sentatives of a new generation trying to build up the waste 
 places. There was nothing left for Judge Bascom to do 
 but to take his place among the spectators 
 
 Briefly, the world had drifted past him and his con 
 temporaries and left them stranded. Under the circum 
 stances, what was he to do? It is true he had a magnifi 
 cent plantation, but this merely added to his poverty. 
 Negro labor was demoralized, and the overseer class had 
 practically disappeared. He would have sold a part of 
 his landed estate; indeed, so pressing were his needs that 
 he would have sold everything except the house which his 
 father had built and where he himself was born, that he 
 would not have parted with for all the riches in the 
 world but there was nobody to buy. The Judge's neigh 
 bors and his friends, with the exception of those who had 
 accustomed themselves to seizing all contingencies by the 
 throat and wrestling tribute from them, were in as severe 
 a strait as he was ; and to make matters worse, the political
 
 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 115 
 
 affairs of the State were in the most appalling condition. 
 It was the period of reconstruction. Finally time brought 
 a purchaser, and the old place became owned by a North 
 ern stranger. 
 
 When Colonel Bascom and daughter walk 
 round their loved home the following conversa 
 tion occurs: 
 
 The old gentleman and the young lady walked slowly 
 along the hedge of Cherokee roses that ran around the 
 old Bascom Place, while the negro followed at a respect 
 ful distance. Once they pause, and the old gentleman 
 rubbed his eyes with a hand that trembled a little. 
 
 "Why, darling!" he exclaimed in a tone of mingled 
 grief and astonishment, " they have cut it down." 
 
 " Cut what down, father? " 
 
 " Why, the weeping-willow. Don't you remember it, 
 daughter? It stood in the middle of the field yonder. It 
 was a noble tree. Well, well, well! What next, I 
 wonder? " 
 
 " I do not remember it, father; I have so much 
 . 
 
 " Yes, yes," the old gentleman interrupted. " Of course 
 you couldn't remember. The place has been changed so 
 that I have forgotten it myself. It has been turned topsy 
 turvy ruined ruined!" He leaned on his cane, and 
 with quivering lips and moist eyes looked through the 
 green perspective of the park and over the fertile fields 
 and meadows. 
 
 " Ruined ! " exclaimed the young lady, " how can you 
 say so, father? I never saw a more beautiful place. It 
 would make a lovely picture."
 
 n6 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 
 
 " And they have changed the house, too. The whole 
 roof has been changed." The old man pulled down his 
 hat over his eyes, his hand trembling more than ever. 
 " Let us turn back, Mildred," he said after a while. " The 
 sight of all this frets and worries me more than I thought 
 it would." 
 
 " They say," said the daughter, " that the gentleman 
 who owns the place has made a good deal of money." 
 
 " Yes," replied the father, " I suppose so I suppose 
 so. So I have heard. A great many people are making 
 money now who never made it before a great many." 
 
 " I wish they would tell us the secret," said the young 
 lady, laughing a little. 
 
 " There is no secret about it," said the old gentleman, 
 " none whatever. To make money you must be mean and 
 niggardly yourself and then employ others to be mean and 
 niggardly for you." 
 
 " Oh, it is not always so, father," the young girl ex 
 claimed. 
 
 " It was not always so, my daughter. There was a 
 time when one could make money and remain a gentle 
 man; but that was many years ago." 
 
 Once while the Judge and his daughter were passing 
 by the old Bascom Place they met Prince, the mastiff, in 
 the road. The great dog looked at the young lady with 
 kindly eyes and expressed his approval by wagging his 
 tail. At the gate he stopped and turned around, and 
 seeing the fair lady and old gentleman were going by, he 
 dropped his bulky body on the ground in a disconsolate 
 way and watched them as they passed down the street.
 
 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 117 
 
 The next afternoon Prince made it a point to watch 
 for the young lady; and when she and her father ap 
 peared in sight he ran to meet them and cut up such 
 unusual capers, barking and running around, that the 
 master went down the avenue to see what the trouble was. 
 Mr. Underwood (the new owner of the Bascom Place) 
 took off his hat as Judge Bascom and his daughter drew 
 near. 
 
 " This is Judge Bascom, I presume," he said. " My 
 name is Underwood ; I am glad to meet you." 
 
 " This is my daughter, Mr. Underwood," said the 
 Judge, bowing with great dignity. 
 
 " My dog has paid you a great compliment, Miss Bas 
 com," said Francis Underwood. " He makes few friends, 
 and I have never before seen him sacrifice his dignity, 
 through his enthusiasm." 
 
 " I feel highly flattered by his attentions," said Mildred, 
 laughing. " I have read somewhere, or heard it said, that 
 the instinct of a little child and a dog are unerring." 
 
 " I imagine," said the Judge, in his dignified way, " that 
 instinct has little to do with the matter. I prefer to be 
 lieve " He paused a moment, looked at Underwood, and 
 laid his hand on the young man's stalwart shoulder. " Did 
 you know, sir," he went on, " that this place, all these 
 lands, once belonged to me? " His dignity had vanished, 
 his whole attitude changed. The pathos in his voice, 
 which was suggested rather than expressed, swept away 
 whatever astonishment Francis Underwood might have 
 felt. The young man looked at the Judge's daughter and 
 their eyes met. In that one glance, transitory though it 
 was, he found his cue; in lustrous eyes, proud yet appeal 
 ing, he read a history of trouble and sacrifice.
 
 n8 JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS 
 
 " Yes," Underwood replied, in a matter-of-fact way. 
 " We still call it the Bascom Place, you know." 
 
 " I should think so ! " exclaimed the Judge, bridling up 
 a little ; " I should think so ! Pray what else could it be 
 called?" 
 
 " Well, it might have been called Grassland, you know, 
 or The Poplars, but somehow the old name seemed to 
 suit it best. I like to think of it as the old Bascom Place. 
 Won't you go in, sir, and look at the old house? " 
 
 The Judge turned his pale and wrinkled face toward 
 his old home. 
 
 " No," he said, " not now. I thank you very much. 
 I somehow no, sir, I cannot go now." 
 
 His hand shook as he raised it to his face, and his lips 
 trembled as he spoke. " Let us go away, daughter," he 
 said after a while. " We have walked far enough." 
 
 By permission of the Century Company, Publishers, 
 New York.
 
 MRS. VIRGINIA L. FRENCH 
 18301881 
 
 VIRGINIA SMITH (Mrs. Virginia L. French) 
 had many advantages of birth and education. Born 
 on the fair shores of Virginia, at the country seat 
 of her maternal grandfather, Captain Thomas 
 Parker, an officer in the Revolutionary War, edu 
 cated in Pennsylvania and married in Tennessee, 
 her life has been like herself, varied and cosmo 
 politan. 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 was 
 highly prepossessing, and her manner so gifted 
 with repose as to be unusually tranquilizing in its 
 social influence. Possessed of a keen insight, she 
 could see at a moment's glance the poetical in a 
 scene or situation, and with her heart on fire with 
 poetic zeal she made of her prose passages poetic 
 jewels." 
 
 Mrs. French at an early age was left an orphan. 
 At eighteen she had finished her education, and the 
 same year went to Memphis, Tennessee, to teach 
 
 119
 
 120 VIRGINIA L. FRENCH 
 
 school. She was a successful teacher for several 
 years, but gradually turned her attention to liter 
 ary pursuits, occasionally contributing articles to 
 the journals and magazines under the name of 
 " L'Inconnue." In 1852 she became associate 
 editor of " The Southern Ladies' Book," published 
 in New Orleans. 
 
 She wrote under the nom de plume of " L'In 
 connue," and her poem, " The Lost Louisiana," 
 in quite a romantic way brought about a meeting 
 with Mr. John H. French, whom she married in 
 1853. A newsboy in New Orleans selling a morn 
 ing paper spoke of a late poem on " The Lost 
 Louisiana," written in commemoration of a col 
 lision which had just occurred between the " Lou 
 isiana " and the " Belle of Clarksville," two Mis 
 sissippi steamers. It so happened that Mr. French 
 had been a passenger on the " Belle of Clarks 
 ville," and had lost much valuable cargo, barely 
 escaping with his life. Interested thus in the disas 
 ter, he read the poem many times, and kept it 
 carefully in his pocket-book. Not long after he 
 took steamer passage up the Mississippi, and dur 
 ing the detention at Memphis he went into a book 
 store to buy some reading matter to relieve the 
 hours of travel up the river. His attention was 
 arrested by seeing the name of " L'Inconnue " and 
 was told to look at the writer, as she was just then 
 passing the book shop. He gave one look into
 
 VIRGINIA L. FRENCH 121 
 
 the blue eyes that met his like the eyes of Fate. 
 An introduction was effected, the steamer went on 
 its way without Mr. French, and the result was 
 marriage with the fair " L'Inconnue " and a long 
 residence in McMinnville, Tennessee. Here Mrs. 
 French's home, called " Forest Home," became 
 noted for beautiful scenery, its comfort, its taste 
 ful arrangement, and here this writer led a retired, 
 studious, and happy life. 
 
 In 1856 Mrs. French published a collection of 
 her poems under the title of " Wind Whispers." 
 Her " Legends of the South " are finely imagina 
 tive and graphic. " Iztalilxo, the Lady of Tala," 
 is a tragedy in five acts and contains passages of 
 great beauty and force. Mrs. French's prose 
 writings were instinct with poetical expression, and 
 her review of Madame Le Vert's " Souvenirs of 
 Travel " was copied into the best papers here and 
 in Europe. 
 
 " The Legend of the Infernal Pass " was in 
 spired by the story of the famous gorge some fif 
 teen miles long, called " El Canon Inferno," 
 where rise stupendous masses of rock piled upon 
 rock, until the traveler sees at the top but a narrow 
 strip of sky. The white steed alluded to in the 
 tradition is still said to be seen at intervals by the 
 warriors of the Comanches. He is represented as 
 of exceeding beauty and vigor, but of such swift 
 ness that, notwithstanding the most daring efforts
 
 122 VIRGINIA L. FRENCH 
 
 to capture him, he has never been brought within 
 range of the lariat. 
 
 His neigh to the wind rose wild and high, 
 
 (Thou rider bold, take heed,) 
 With the stag's fleet foot he bounded by, 
 
 That beautiful demon-steed! 
 But the glare of his eye the soul had shook, 
 
 With its terrible human look! 
 
 The versatility of this gifted poet has caused her 
 critics to take different views of her work. One 
 says : " As a journalist she was par excellence." 
 Another one says: "Poetry was her strong 
 point," and for the poem " Shermanized " claims 
 that: " Never sprang cooler and keener sarcasm 
 from more tranquil lips. It is the flash of the 
 ' yataghan ' from a velvet sheath the cold, clear 
 gleam of the sword from a silver scabbard." Still 
 another critic takes another view and says: " Mrs. 
 French writes the best prose, with the strongest 
 sense in it, of any Southern writer." 
 
 Among Mrs. French's poems are : " The Elo 
 quence of Ruins," " Mammy," " Sherman 
 ized," "The Auctioneer," "The Broken Sen 
 tence." Her other works are : " Wind Whis 
 pers," "Legends of the South," " Iztalilxo," 
 a Tragedy; and " My Roses, The Romance of a 
 June Day."
 
 VIRGINIA L. FRENCH 123 
 
 She has written one poem which many regarded 
 as unequaled in its line by any writer. It is a mas 
 terpiece of the highest type and deservedly ranks 
 with the greatest efforts of American poets. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE LOST SOUL 
 
 Ha! what a frenzied cry 
 Up the lone forest-aisles conies sadly wailing, 
 Now quick and sharp, now choked with agony, 
 As sight and sense were failing. 
 
 The far stars coldly smiled 
 Down through the arches of the twilight wood, 
 Where sire and mother sought their child, 
 In the dark solitude. 
 
 And low the phantom wind 
 Came stealing o'er the hills with ghostly feet, 
 But paused not in its flight to bear one kind, 
 Soft echo, shrill and sweet. 
 
 O'er them the giant trees, 
 
 All proudly waving, tossed their arms on high, 
 Yet no loved baby-voice from 'midst of these 
 Answered their broken cry. 
 
 But one sad piping note, 
 That strangely syllabled a blended name, 
 As seemed its cadences to fall or float 
 From boughs above them came.
 
 124 VIRGINIA L. FRENCH 
 
 The mother started wild, 
 
 As that strange sound the forest foliage stirred, 
 Then hastened to the sire; she knew her child, 
 In that lone spirit-bird. 
 
 No word the father spake ; 
 His face was ghastly, and its haggard lines 
 Lay stern and rigid, like some frozen lake 
 O'ershadowed by its pines. 
 
 Shuddering she strove to speak, 
 Once more in nature's strong appealing tones, 
 To supplicate her child there came a shriek 
 That died in heavy moans. 
 
 The night came down; afar 
 Was heard the hoarse, deep baying of the storm, 
 And thunder clouds around each captive star 
 In black battalions form. 
 
 Now, all the mighty wood 
 Has voices like the sullen sounding sea, 
 While onward rolls the deep majestic flood 
 His surges solemnly. 
 
 The massy foliage rocks, 
 Slow swaying to the wind, and failing fast 
 Embattled oaks, that braved a thousand shocks, 
 Are bending to the blast. 
 
 And crimson tropic bloom 
 Lies heaped upon the sward, as though a wave 
 Of summer sunset streams within the gloom 
 Had found a verdant grave.
 
 VIRGINIA L. FRENCH 125 
 
 Down came the rushing rain, 
 But far, perchance, where thunders never roll, 
 The bird had flown, the parents called in vain, 
 Upon the wandering soul. 
 
 Then feeble 'mid the maze 
 Of 'wildering storm, their feet the cabin sought, 
 Oft turning back to search, with blinded gaze, 
 For that which now was not. 
 
 True, true the tale is old, 
 And full of sorrow the tradition hoary, 
 Yet, daily life's unwritten annals hold 
 A sterner, sadder story. 
 
 Oh ! hear ye not the cry, 
 
 That every hour sends up where thick life presses, 
 That shrieks from lowest depths to God on high 
 From life's great wilderness? 
 
 It is the cry of Woman, 
 And hers the really lost and wandering soul, 
 Seeking, amid the godlike, yet the human, 
 To find her destined goal. 
 
 Like glacier of the North, 
 Her pure and shining spirit braves the sea 
 Of Life and Action, drifting, drifting forth 
 On waves of destiny. 
 
 " Deep calling unto deep," 
 How raves the ocean by the tempest tossed ! 
 Perchance her onward course the soul may keep, 
 Perchance 'tis wrecked, or lost.
 
 i26 VIRGINIA L. FRENCH 
 
 Perchance some other heart, 
 In pride of Being, standing firm and free, 
 May call, " Oh, seeker of the better part, 
 Come, wanderer, to me ! " 
 
 Alas! that dulcet tone 
 
 Is but the hollow music of a shell 
 
 That mocks the ocean ; yet, the pilgrim lone 
 
 It wins as by a spell. 
 
 The dream, the dream is past 
 Perchance some careless word, some fancied wrong, 
 The soul is driven forth Oh! woe the last, 
 The weaker by the strong. 
 
 From her closed lips a moan 
 Goes up yet seems it her unspoken prayer 
 Falls back again upon her heart alone 
 To sink and perish there. 
 
 And then her spirit pants 
 Beneath the heat and burden of the day, 
 Still struggling on amid the vulture wants 
 That make her heart their prey. 
 
 Still, in its source of pain 
 Clinging most fondly ; and, in holy trust, 
 Pouring its worship in a worse than vain 
 Idolatry of dust. 
 
 Like the great organ rocks 
 
 That rise on Orinoco's distant shore, 
 
 She sends rich music o'er the wave that mocks, 
 
 Yet answers her no more !
 
 VIRGINIA L. FRENCH 127 
 
 From the still firmament 
 
 A star drops, sparkles, and almost before 
 
 The eye can note, is gone with chaos blent , 
 
 Its brilliancy is o'er. 
 
 And thus with thee, unknown, 
 Unrecognized, and lost in earthly clime, 
 Thy 'wildered soul may wander, and alone 
 Go from the shores of time. 
 
 Yet, far in yon blue dome, 
 Where dwell the spirits of the dead departed, 
 There thou art known ; and they will welcome home 
 An angel, broken-hearted. 
 
 Then courage, weary one! 
 
 Work while thou may'st, for though thy spirit, 
 
 riven, 
 
 Is fading like a fountain in the sun, 
 Exhaled, it reaches heaven !
 
 GRACE ELIZABETH KING 
 
 1852 
 
 STILL living in the old homestead in the city of 
 New Orleans, where she was born, Grace King 
 continues her literary work, which was begun 
 many years ago. Her excellent stories are still 
 being published in " The Century Magazine." 
 She is the daughter of a prominent native Lou 
 isiana family. 
 
 Possibly her strongest work is entitled " Earth- 
 lings." In it are pictured with intense reality the 
 possibilities of those who can be conscientiously 
 called " Earthlings." It is a story full of fire and 
 pathos from beginning to end. Indeed, as has 
 been aptly said: " One closes the cover of the book 
 with a heartfelt sigh that it is over, this dream 
 through which you have been carried, so beauti 
 ful and yet so true." 
 
 It is probable that her greatest reputation has 
 been achieved on what is known as her " Balcony 
 Stories," for it is these that she devoted largely 
 to pictures of Creole beauties. A passage taken 
 from one of them will be sufficient to show how 
 minutely she enters into detail, and yet with what 
 
 128
 
 GRACE ELIZABETH KING 129 
 
 tact and ability she manages to hold the reader's 
 interest, all the while showing all the follies and 
 foibles, as well as the virtues, of the heroine. 
 
 LA GRANDE DEMOISELLE 
 
 That was what she was called by everybody as soon as 
 she was seen or described. Her name, besides baptismal 
 titles, was Idalie Sante Foy Mortemart des Islets. When 
 she came into society, in the brilliant world of New Or 
 leans, it was the event of the season, and after she came 
 in, whatever she did became also events. Whether she 
 went, or did not go; what she said, or did not say; what 
 she wore, and did not wear, all these became important 
 matters of discussion, quoted as much or more than what 
 the President said, or the Governor thought, and in those 
 days, the days of '59, New Orleans was not, as it is now, 
 a one-heiress place, but it may be said that one could find 
 heiresses then as one finds typewriting girls now. 
 
 Mademoiselle Idalie received her birth and what educa 
 tion she had on her parents' plantation, the famed old 
 Reine Sainte Foy place, and it is no secret that, like the 
 ancient Kings of France, her birth exceeded her education. 
 
 It was a plantation, the Reine Sainte Foy, the richness 
 and luxury of which are really well described in those 
 perfervid pictures of tropical life, at one time the passion 
 of philanthropic imaginations, excited and exciting over 
 the horrors of slavery. Although these pictures were then 
 often accused of being purposely exaggerated, they seem 
 now to fall short of, instead of surpassing the truth. 
 Stately walls, acres of roses, miles of oranges, unmeasured 
 fields of cane, colossal sugar house, they were all there,
 
 i 3 o GRACE ELIZABETH KING 
 
 and all the rest of it with the slaves, slaves, slaves, every 
 where, whole villages of negro cabins, and there were 
 also, most noticeable to the natural as well as the vis 
 ionary eye there were the ease, idleness, extravagance, 
 self-indulgence, pomp, pride, arrogance, in short, the 
 whole enumeration, the moral sine qua non, as some people 
 considered it, of the wealthy slave-holder of aristocratic 
 descent and estates. 
 
 What Mademoiselle Idalie cared to learn she studied, 
 what she did not she ignored; and she followed the same 
 simple rule untrammeled in her eating, drinking, dressing, 
 and comportment generally; and whatever discipline may 
 have been exercised on the place, either in fact or fiction, 
 most assuredly none of it, even so much as in a threat, 
 ever attained her sacred person. When she was just 
 turned sixteen Mademoiselle Idalie made up her mind to 
 go into society. Whether she was beautiful or not, it is 
 hard to say. It is almost impossible to appreciate properly 
 the beauty of the rich, the very rich. The unfettered 
 development, the limitless choice of accessories, the confi 
 dence, the self-esteem, the sureness of expression, the sim 
 plicity of purpose, the ease of execution, all these produce 
 a certain effect of beauty behind which one really cannot 
 get to be sure of the length of the nose, or brilliancy of the 
 eye. This much can be said: there was nothing in her 
 that positively contradicted any assumption of beauty on 
 her part, or credit of it on the part of others. She was 
 very tall and very thin, with a small head, long neck, 
 black eyes, and abundant straight black hair, for which 
 her hair dresser deserved more praise than she, good 
 teeth, of course, and a mouth that, even in prayer, talked 
 nothing but commands; that is about all she had en fait
 
 GRACE ELIZABETH KING 131 
 
 d'ornements, as the modistes say. It may be added that 
 she walked as if the Reine Sainte Foy plantation ex 
 tended over the whole earth, and the soil of it were too 
 vile for her tread. 
 
 Other books by this author are: 
 
 " Monsieur Motte," " Tales of Time and 
 Place," "The Place and the People," "Jean 
 Baptiste Lemoine, Founder of New Orleans " ; 
 " De Soto and His Men in the Land of Florida." 

 
 FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 
 
 1822 1874 
 
 THIS writer was a physician by profession, and 
 wrote poetry only when the spirit moved. His 
 birthplace was in Baldwin County, near Colum 
 bus, Georgia. 
 
 In the introductory remarks by Paul Hamilton 
 Hayne for the edition of Dr. Ticknor's volume of 
 poetry, published in 1879, he says of Ticknor: 
 " He combined in his mental and moral constitu 
 tion many of the best qualities of the North and 
 South. His father was a New Jerseyman, a phy 
 sician of great energy, who married into a dis 
 tinguished family of Savannah, and settled in that 
 city. This father dying early in life left his widow 
 with three small children to support. She re 
 moved to Columbus, in Georgia, and succeeded in 
 giving her sons excellent educations. Frank Tick 
 nor studied medicine in New York and Philadel 
 phia, and soon after graduation married Miss 
 Rosalie Nelson, daughter of Major F. M. Nelson, 
 a distinguished soldier of the war of 1812, and 
 later a prominent member of Congress. A few 
 years afterwards Dr. Frank O.Ticknor purchased 
 
 132
 
 FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 135 
 
 a farm not far from Columbus, situated on the 
 summit of a high hill, and celebrated by tradition 
 as the scene where a desperate Indian battle had 
 been fought by torch-light. For this reason the 
 place was called ' Torch Hill.' The new home was 
 beautifully situated, overlooking for miles the 
 Chattahoochee River. Here in this beautiful 
 plare Dr. Ticknor lived for nearly a quarter of a 
 century, and he surrounded the home with fruits 
 and flowers till it was called ' a perfect Eden of 
 Roses.' " 
 
 " Art opened to his soul," says Hayne, " not one 
 alone, but several of her fairest domains. He was 
 a gifted musician, playing exquisitely on the flute, 
 and was a draughtsman of readiest skill and taste. 
 No more experienced doctor or successful scientist 
 could be found in the country, the scene of his la 
 bors. Everybody loved him, especially the suffer 
 ing poor. Far and wide, among the ' Sand Bar 
 rens,' or in the neighboring farm houses, the good 
 and wise physician was known and welcomed. His 
 gleeful smile, his spontaneous witticisms (for his 
 mind actually bubbled over with innocent humors) 
 cheered up many a despondent invalid." 
 
 Again, Paul Hamilton Hayne says of Ticknor's 
 work : " Brief swallow flights of song only were 
 possible to a man whose days and nights were so 
 occupied." 
 
 When the great Civil War began, Ticknor had
 
 134 FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 
 
 just reached the verge of middle age. His in 
 tellectual forces were in their fullest bloom; and 
 so it is not surprising that many of his ablest songs 
 belong to this period. 
 
 " One lyric, associated with the war," Hayne 
 says, " must appeal to many thousands still living 
 with a pathos not to be resisted is ' Unknown.' ' 
 
 The prints of feet are worn away, 
 No more the mourners come; 
 The voice of wail is mute to-day 
 As his whose life is dumb. 
 
 The world is bright with other bloom ; 
 Shall the sweet summer shed 
 Its living radiance o'er the tomb 
 That shrouds the doubly dead? 
 
 Unknown ! Beneath our Father's face 
 The starlit hillocks lie ; 
 Another rosebud! lest His grace 
 Forget us when we die ! 
 
 Dr. Ticknor's poems have had countless ad 
 mirers among those who have never heard of Dr. 
 Ticknor himself, and the verses are often treas 
 ured, either in memory or in scrap-books, simply as 
 anonymous gems which have come from some un 
 known author. " Frequently his poems have been 
 copied into newspapers and periodicals without any 
 credit marks whatever, and often public speakers,
 
 FR4NCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 135 
 
 in appropriate connections, have quoted favorite 
 lines and stanzas from his splendid lyrics without 
 being able to tell who wrote them. To cite an 
 illustration, no poem is more frequently quoted or 
 more warmly admired for its rhythmic beauty and 
 exquisite sentiment than ' The Virginians of the 
 Valley,' and yet not one person out of ten knows 
 that the poem is from the pen of Dr. Ticknor." 
 
 When General Spotswood and his band of fol 
 lowers rode over the mountains of the Blue Ridge 
 and opened the beautiful valley beyond to the set 
 tlement of the white man, the horses of the com 
 pany had to be shod for the first time after leaving 
 the soft soil of the coast. Upon returning from 
 this expedition, which was considered quite a brave 
 one, the House of Burgesses presented these men 
 small golden horseshoes. Those receiving this 
 honor were considered as knighted, and in this 
 poem of " Virginians of the Valley," the poet re 
 fers to these " Golden Horseshoe Knights." 
 
 This favorite gem was inspired by the gallantry 
 of the Virginia soldiers who participated with 
 Stonewall Jackson in the valley campaigns. 
 
 THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY 
 
 The knightliest of the knightly race 
 
 That, since the days of old, 
 Have kept the lamp of chivalry 
 
 Alight in hearts of gold ;
 
 136 FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 
 
 The kindliest of the kindly band 
 
 That, rarely hating ease, 
 Yet rode with Spotswood round the land, 
 
 And Raleigh round the seas; 
 
 Who climbed the blue Virginian hills 
 
 Against embattled foes, 
 And planted there, in valleys fair, 
 
 The lily and the rose! 
 Whose fragrance lives in many lands, 
 
 Whose beauty stars the earth, 
 And lights the hearths of happy homes 
 
 With loveliness and worth. 
 
 We thought they slept ! the sons who kept 
 
 The names of noble sires, 
 And slumbered while the darkness crept 
 
 Around their vigil fires; 
 But, aye, the " Golden Horseshoe Knights " 
 
 Their Old Dominion keep, 
 Whose foes have found enchanted ground 
 
 But not a knight asleep ! " 
 
 This poet wrote under the inspiration of other 
 sentiments than those of chivalry, as is shown by 
 such poems as " Home." 
 
 Bless that dear old Anglo-Saxon 
 For the sounds he formed so well; 
 Little word, the nectar-waxen 
 Harvest of a honey cell, 

 
 FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 137 
 
 Sealing all a summer's sweetness 
 In a single syllable! 
 For, of all his quaint word-building, 
 The queen-cell of all the comb 
 Is that grand old Saxon mouthful, 
 Dear old Saxon heart-ful Home. 
 
 Another poem whose admirers are found on 
 both sides of Mason and Dixon's line, which 
 has often been read with tearful emotions by the 
 veterans of the blue, as well as of the gray, is 
 " Little Giffen of Tennessee." This poem com 
 petent critics have pronounced one of the finest 
 productions of the war period of American 
 literature. 
 
 Dr. Ticknor's poems of the Civil War were the 
 most popular of any written, largely because of 
 their beauty and pathos, and absence of bitterness, 
 for they appeal to the human heart. " With a 
 heart as broad as humanity itself, and a poetic 
 ability surpassed by few, Francis Orrery Ticknor 
 has left one poem, a monument that will last when 
 monuments of stone and clay have passed away 
 and been forgotten. ' Little Giffen ' is a mas 
 terpiece of pathos. Its perusal always touches the 
 heart of the sympathetic reader. Its historical 
 value is great, too, because it pictures so typically 
 the condition of the South, and its fighting heroes 
 so many of whom were boys."
 
 138 FR4NCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 
 
 The story of " Little GiffenTof Tennessee " was 
 a true one. Isaac Giffen went into the Southern 
 army a mere boy; he was terribly wounded and 
 taken to the hospital at Columbus, Georgia. Here 
 good Dr. Ticknor found him and took him to 
 his own home, where Mrs. Ticknor's careful nurs 
 ing and the Doctor's medical skill saved him from 
 death. The boy was the son of a blacksmith and 
 had received no education. During convalescence 
 he learned to read and write. He was anxious to 
 return to the army, and was killed in some battle 
 around Atlanta. 
 
 Maurice Thompson says : " If there is a finer 
 lyric than this in the whole realm of poetry, I 
 should be glad to read it." 
 
 LITTLE GIFFEN 
 
 Out of the focal and foremost fire, 
 Out of the hospital walls as dire; 
 Smitten of grapeshot and gangrene, 
 (Eighteenth battle and he sixteen!) 
 Spectre, such as you seldom see, 
 Little Giffen, of Tennessee. 
 
 " Take him and welcome! " the surgeon said; 
 " Little the doctor can help the dead ! " 
 So we took him and brought him where 
 The balm was sweet in our summer air; 
 And we laid him down on a wholesome bed 
 Utter Lazarus, heel to head !
 
 FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 139 
 
 And we watched the war with abated breath, 
 Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death! 
 Months of torture, how many such ! 
 Weary weeks of the stick and crutch ; 
 And still a glint of the steel-blue eye 
 Told of a spirit that wouldn't die. 
 
 And didn't. Nay, more! in death's respite 
 The cripple skeleton learned to write. 
 " Dear mother " at first, of course, and then, 
 " Dear Captain," inquiring about the men. 
 Captain's answer: " Of eighty and five, 
 Giffen and I are left alive." 
 
 Word of gloom from the war, one day, 
 
 Johnston pressed at the front, they say. 
 
 Little Giffen was up and away; 
 
 A tear his first as he bade good-bye, 
 
 Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye. 
 
 " I'll write, if spared ! " There was news of the fight, 
 
 But none of Giffen he did not write. 
 
 I sometimes fancy that, were I king 
 
 Of the princely Knights of the Golden Ring, 
 
 With the song of the minstrel in mine ear 
 
 And the tender legend that trembles here, 
 
 I'd give the best on his bended knee, 
 
 The whitest soul of my chivalry, 
 
 For " Little Giffen," of Tennessee. 
 
 Referring to this poem Hayne says: "The 
 opening stanza is a bold swell of music, something
 
 1 40 FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 
 
 clarion like. The identical rhyme of the last 
 couplet, of the first verse, one loses sight of in the 
 exceeding terseness of the language, the outright 
 vigor of the rhetorical stroke. Most poets dally 
 with their conceptions. But this one seizes his 
 idea at once, thrusts it into position of strong re 
 lief, fastens it there, and is done. Technically 
 speaking, his style is dynamic." 
 
 Of the whole poem he says: " Here there is no 
 straining after effect, no floundering to get up a 
 foam; but that sturdy art which is the spirit of a 
 genuine popular ballad." 
 
 Of another poem, " Loyal," Hayne says: " It is 
 an absolutely perfect ballad. Was ever the his 
 torical incident it commemorates more feelingly 
 and vividly described? " 
 
 Some of Ticknor's war poems in addition to 
 those previously mentioned are as follows : "The 
 Sword of Raphael Semmes," "Loyal," "Albert 
 Sidney Johnston," " Virginia," " Georgia and 
 Lee." Among other poems are " Lady Alice," 
 " Rosalie," and " Mary." His poems were col 
 lected and published by Miss Kate Mason Roland, 
 of Richmond, in 1879.
 
 ELISABETH WHITFIELD BELLAMY 
 1838 1900 
 
 MRS. BELLAMY belonged to the Croon family 
 of North Carolina, and before the war she married 
 her cousin, Dr. Charles Bellamy. She was edu 
 cated in Philadelphia at Pelham Priory, was a fine 
 musician and linguist and a most excellent English 
 scholar. She lost husband and children in the Civil 
 War and was compelled to write for a living. She 
 wrote for " Appleton's Magazine " and was a con 
 tributor of short stories for " The Cycle," pub 
 lished in Mobile. She also gave private lessons in 
 English and other languages. Amelie Rives, the 
 novelist, was one of her pupils. Mrs. Bellamy 
 first wrote under the nom de plume of " Kamba 
 Thorpe." Among her works are " Four Oaks," 
 " Little Johanna," and a dialect story, " Old Man 
 Gilbert." 
 
 OLD MAN GILBERT 
 
 Colonel Thorpe was in his office, as a separate small 
 building was called in which he transacted all kinds of 
 business. Apparently he was unoccupied when old Gil 
 bert entered, for he sat in his leather-covered armchair 
 
 141
 
 i 4 2 ELISABETH WHITFIELD BELLAMY 
 
 stroking his beard and staring at the fire. But he thrust 
 aside his musings when he heard old Gilbert's familiar 
 salutation, and said with an effort at gayety: 
 
 " Well, old man, what foolishness are you up to now? " 
 
 " Hit's business, Mawster, if you please, suh, dis time," 
 old Gilbert made answer, twirling his hat, by way of re 
 lief to his embarrassment. " Ise been studyin' on a trade 
 ef you'd gib yo' cawnsent, suh." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " Dot ole white mule, Zip, suh. I wuz studyin' det 
 you mought be minded to tak sixty dollars fur him, he is 
 a old mule." 
 
 "What! have you saved up sixty dollars?" exclaimed 
 the Colonel. " And you want to buy old Zip and then 
 feed him on my corn and fodder, eh ? " 
 
 "You wouldn't miss what he'd eat, suh, nur nary 
 nuther mule," old Gilbert said, deprecatingly, uncon 
 scious of the comparison he had made, but which the 
 Colonel perceived and smiled at grimly. 
 
 " I don't see what you want with the mule ! " he said. 
 " Old Brandy and the ox-cart about belong to you now." 
 
 " Ole Brandy an' de yox-cart ain't so servisable fur 
 plowin'," Gilbert explained. 
 
 " I don't want your money," said the Colonel shortly. 
 " You can take the mule any time you may need him," 
 the Colonel added, and he repeated: " I don't want your 
 money." 
 
 " Tankee, tankee, Mawster, tankee, suh," old Gilbert 
 responded, but there was disappointment in his tone. He 
 lingered an instant, as if he meant to say more, then 
 turned and went his shambling way out of the office. 
 When he had gone down the steps he looked back to say :
 
 ELISABETH WHITFIELD BELLAMY 143 
 
 " Ain't I heard you tell de oberseer that Zip is wuth 
 'bout sixty dollars?" 
 
 " I suppose he may be worth about that," the Colonel 
 answered absently. 
 
 It wanted now but a few days of Christmas, which the 
 Colonel desired to celebrate just as usual. The turkeys 
 long had been fattening, the beef was killed, the bonfires 
 piled ready for lighting. If his son Nicolas's absence was 
 felt, no one alluded to it. 
 
 On Christmas morning the Hill resounded with pop 
 ping of fire crackers, the shooting of Christmas guns, and 
 repeated shouts in every variety of tone. " Christmas gif, 
 Mawster; Christmas gif, Missie Virey, Christmas gif, 
 Missie." 
 
 In the afternoon of the second day Glory Ann took 
 occasion to ask: 
 
 " Missie Virey, is you sont ole man Gilbert off any 
 whey." 
 
 " Where should I be sending him? " said Miss Elvira. 
 
 " Dun-no me," Glory Ann answered with mystery. 
 " Maybe hit's Mawster is sont 'im." 
 
 Old Gilbert had been absent since the morning after 
 Christmas. His cabin was locked, and there was no 
 smoke in his chimney. 
 
 When the matter was investigated farther, it was 
 found that the old white mule, Zip, was missing likewise. 
 The Colonel received this information with a stare at 
 first, and then burst out laughing, though no one knew 
 why he laughed. 
 
 The Colonel going into his office one morning was sur-
 
 144 ELISABETH WHITFIELD BELLAMY 
 
 prised to find on his table an uncouth package wrapped in 
 a piece of cloth, and tied with a length of twine multi- 
 tudinously knotted. When this was opened, there revealed 
 a quantity of coin to the amount of sixty dollars! The 
 Colonel's stern features relaxed into a pathetic smile. This 
 was the price of the old white mule, but how it came there 
 on his table was a problem he made no attempt to solve. 
 Carefully he tied the money up again, and locked it away 
 in a drawer of his big mahogany secretary against a day 
 of reckoning, a day more distant than he dreamed. 
 
 Farther on in this beautiful plantation story we 
 learn that old Gilbert, with noble purpose, had 
 stolen away on old Zip, and that after much effort 
 and many dangers the faithful slave, with that 
 wonderful devotion, the offspring of slavery, had 
 found and brought back to the plantation the lost 
 and erring boy and that the Colonel was most 
 deeply touched by this devotion, and still could 
 not suppress a tender smile as he handed back to 
 old Gilbert his sixty dollars carefully tied up in the 
 same piece of cotton cloth. 
 
 The following beautiful description is from 
 " Four Oaks " : 
 
 There is an old tomb in the garden where Anthony 
 Fletcher lies buried, but his name is otherwise perpetuated 
 in Netherford by the great bell of St. Botolf's, which was 
 his gift. The sexton of St. Botolf's was once gardener of 
 Four Oaks, and from him the bell received the name of
 
 ELISABETH WHITFIELD BELLAMY 145 
 
 Lonely Tony, a quaint tribute to its old master. Super- 
 stitution had infested Four Oaks with ghostly terrors, and 
 the children of Netherford have a fancy that Lonely Tony 
 is a prisoner in the church tower, living on the pigeons 
 that build in the belfry, and suffering untold torture at 
 the hands of the sexton. Fanning avenue begins at the 
 corner where stands the church, and leads between over 
 arching trees to a stately edifice fronting the south. Here 
 in days gone by lived Jacob Fanning. He it was who 
 planted the trees which shade the avenue, and he it was 
 who raised the sidewalk of his avenue in imitation of the 
 terraces on the main way.
 
 JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 
 18231873 
 
 JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON was born in Rich 
 mond October 23, 1823, and died in New York 
 April 30, 1873, an d was buried in Hollywood 
 Cemetery, Richmond. After a course of training 
 in his native city, and another at a preparatory 
 school in East Haven, Conn., he entered the 
 academic department of the University of Vir 
 ginia, graduating in its law school in 1844. So 
 decided was his leaning toward letters that even 
 during his two years' practice of law he contributed 
 both prose and verse to Northern and Southern 
 periodicals, and in 1847 closed with an offer of the 
 editorship of " The Southern Literary Mes 
 senger," a journal published in Richmond, and the 
 South to-day owes a debt of gratitude to John R. 
 Thompson. Nor is the North free of some in 
 debtedness, for " The Reveries of a Bachelor " 
 first appeared in the pages of the " Messenger." 
 Many of the poems of Poe and his " Critical 
 Essays " were published here, and Park Benjamin, 
 Mrs. Evans, Mrs. Osgood, J. M. Legare, R. H. 
 Stoddard, Paul H. Hayne, Margaret Junkin 
 
 146
 
 JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 147 
 
 Preston, Lieutenant Maury and many other excel 
 lent writers contributed to this old Southern maga 
 zine. 
 
 In 1854 Thompson made his first trip abroad, 
 expanding his own mind by contact with the mas 
 ter minds of England, and forming what proved 
 to be lasting friendships with Dickens, Bulwer, 
 Macaulay, the Brownings, Thackeray, Tennyson 
 and Carlyle. A series of sketches of foreign travel 
 that gave new zest to the pages of the " Messen 
 ger " was one of the outcomes of this sojourn. 
 
 These sketches, with revisions and additions, 
 were collected in a volume entitled " Across the 
 Atlantic." It had been consigned to the binders in 
 the publishing house of Derby & Jackson, New 
 York, when the building took fire and the edition 
 was destroyed. 
 
 Upon his return to America, resuming control 
 of the " Messenger," Thompson contributed to 
 Northern magazines, recited original poems be 
 fore literary societies and delivered a series of 
 lectures in the principal cities of the South, notable 
 among which lectures were those upon " European 
 Journalism " and the " Life and Genius of Poe." 
 
 In 1860 he resigned his position upon the 
 " Messenger " to accept the more remunerative 
 one of editor of the " Southern Field and Fire 
 side," published in Augusta, Georgia. 
 
 A year later the war recalled him to Virginia,
 
 148 JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 
 
 and debarred by a constitutional malady from en 
 listing in her defense, his loyalty expressed itself 
 writing patriotic verse, and in prose works. He 
 wrote unremittingly for the daily and weekly press, 
 his patriotism inspiring those poems, " Coercion," 
 " On to Richmond," " England's Neutrality," " A 
 Word to the West," " Ashby," " The Burial of 
 Latane," and the " Death of Stuart," praise of 
 which echoed across the Atlantic. 
 
 Meanwhile his fatal disease made rapid prog 
 ress, and in 1864, when he went to England for 
 his health, he was carried in the arms of friends on 
 board the blockade runner which conveyed him. 
 It was feared that he might not live to reach his 
 destination, but the sea air revived him, and he im 
 proved sufficiently to take a position on the edi 
 torial staff of " The Index," the official organ of 
 the Confederacy in London. He also sent weekly 
 letters to the " Louisville Courier-Journal," and 
 wrote leaders every week for the " London Stand 
 ard," a connection with which, as its American 
 correspondent, he maintained until his death. 
 
 He contributed, too, to the " New Orleans 
 Picayune " and " Crescent." He made flying trips 
 to Scotland even after the fall of the Confederacy, 
 which ended for the time his regular newspaper 
 connections, but he continued eighteen months in 
 London, preparing for " Blackwood's," from Von 
 Borcke's notes, an account of that officer's experi-
 
 JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 149 
 
 ence as chief of the cavalry corps of the Army of 
 Northern Virginia. 
 
 Upon his return to America, in 1866, he settled 
 in New York, where he was briefly associated with 
 William Young, formerly editor of the " Albion," 
 in the publication of " Every Afternoon." 
 
 While Thompson published no books, yet his 
 writings were widely known and exerted great in 
 fluence on the literature of the South. Few poems 
 have been more widely read since the Civil War 
 than: 
 
 " MUSIC IN CAMP " 
 
 Two armies covered hill and plain, 
 
 Where Rappahannock's waters 
 Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain 
 
 Of battles' recent slaughters. 
 
 The summer clouds lay pitched like tents 
 
 In meads of heavenly azure, 
 And each dread gun of the elements 
 
 Slept in its hid embrasure. 
 
 The breeze so softly blew, it made 
 
 No forest leaf to quiver, 
 And the smoke of the random cannonade 
 
 Rolled slowly from the river. 
 
 And now, where circling hills looked down, 
 
 With cannon grimly planted, 
 O'er listless camp and silent town 
 
 The golden sunset slanted.
 
 150 JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 
 
 When on the fervid air there came 
 A strain, now rich, now tender; 
 
 The music seemed itself aflame 
 With day's departing splendor. 
 
 A Federal band, which eve and morn 
 Played measures brave and nimble, 
 
 Had just struck up, with flute and horn, 
 And lively clash of cymbal. 
 
 Down flocked the soldiers to the banks, 
 
 Till, margined by its pebbles, 
 One wooded shore was blue with " Yanks," 
 
 And one was gray with " Rebels." 
 
 Then all was still, and then the band, 
 With movement light and tricksy, 
 
 Made stream and forest, hill and strand, 
 Reverberate with " Dixie." 
 
 The conscious stream with burnished glow 
 Went proudly o'er its pebbles, 
 
 But thrilled throughout its deepest flow 
 With yelling of the " Rebels." 
 
 Again a pause, and then again 
 The trumpets pealed sonorous, 
 
 And " Yankee Doodle " was the strain 
 To which the shore gave chorus. 
 
 The laughing ripple shoreward flew, 
 
 To kiss the shining pebbles; 
 Loud shrieked the swarming "Boys in Blue " 
 
 Defiance to the " Rebels."
 
 JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 151 
 
 And yet once more the bugle sang 
 
 Above the stormy riot; 
 No shout upon the evening rang 
 
 There reigned a holy quiet. 
 
 The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood 
 Poured o'er the glistening pebbles; 
 
 All silent now the " Yankees " stood, 
 And silent stood the " Rebels." 
 
 No unresponsive soul had heard 
 
 That plaintive note's appealing, 
 So deeply " Home, Sweet Home " had stirred 
 
 The hidden founts of feeling. 
 
 Or Blue, or Gray, the soldier sees 
 
 As by the wand of fairy, 
 The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees, 
 
 The cabin by the prairie. 
 
 Or cold, or warm, his native skies 
 
 Bend in their beauty o'er him ; 
 Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, 
 
 His loved ones stand before him. 
 
 As fades the iris after rain 
 
 In April's tearful weather, 
 The vision vanished, as the strain 
 
 And daylight died together. 
 
 But memory, waked by music's art, 
 
 Expressed in simplest numbers, 
 Subdued the sternest " Yankee's " heart, 
 
 Made light the " Rebel's " slumbers.
 
 152 JOHN REUBEN THOMPSON 
 
 And fair the form of music shines, 
 That bright celestial creature, 
 
 Who still, 'mid war's embattled lines, 
 Gave this one touch of Nature.
 
 CATHERINE ANNA WARFIELD 
 18161887 
 
 THIS gifted lady was the daughter of Major 
 Nathaniel A. Ware of Natchez, at one time Secre 
 tary of State of Mississippi. His wife was grand 
 daughter of Captain Charles Percy, of the British 
 Navy, who settled finally on a grant of land con 
 ferred upon him. His estate lay near Fort 
 Adams. He was widely known and left valuable 
 possessions to his family. 
 
 After his marriage Major Ware resided at their 
 country seat near Natchez. They had two chil 
 dren, the elder, Catherine, being born in 1816. In 
 order the better to conduct the education of his 
 children Major Ware, after the death of his wife, 
 sold his plantation and moved to Philadelphia. 
 Constant companionship with her father, a man 
 of trained intellect, developed in Catherine poetic 
 fancy and turned her mind into the channel of 
 authorship. 
 
 Early in life she married Elisha Warfield of 
 Lexington, Kentucky, a gentleman of fine family. 
 In 1857 they moved to a country home near Louis 
 ville, Kentucky. About her earliest attempt at 
 
 153
 
 154 CATHERINE ANNA WARFIELD 
 
 authorship was a book written by herself and sis 
 ter, called " The Wife of Leon and Other 
 Stories." In 1846 they published a new collection 
 of pieces entitled " The Indian Chamber and 
 Other Poems." Both these books show strong 
 powers in embryo, and one sees progress soon in 
 depth, range and construction. 
 
 Later, as the years passed, the younger sister 
 died and Mrs. Warfield pursued her literary work 
 alone. A number of poems, " The Romance of 
 Beauseincourt," and several other novels came 
 from her pen, one among the most noted being 
 " The Household of Bouverie." " It was consid 
 ered a novel great in conception and masterly 
 in execution. The story is bold, sharp, live, mag 
 netic. Several scenes in the mysterious cham 
 ber, the interviews between Lilian and Erastus 
 Bouverie, with their pungent pre-Raphaelite de 
 tails, are pictures which, having once burned their 
 way into the brain, can never be forgotten. The 
 quaintness and originality remind one of Haw 
 thorne." 
 
 THE HOUSE OF BOUVERIE 
 
 My grandfather's spacious bedroom, ending in a half- 
 octagon, formed a central projection from the rear of 
 the building. Three doors opened into this apartment 
 from the sides that joined the house, and presented a 
 stiff array, separated as they were by wide panels lined
 
 CATHERINE ANNA WARFIELD 155 
 
 with windows. The central door opened with leaves into 
 a square or, rather, oblong hall; the others, narrowed, 
 and of simpler construction, gave into three rooms, evi 
 dently partitioned from the hall for convenience rather 
 than symmetry, since the effect to the eye must have 
 been far more liberal when the passage swept across the 
 house, as I knew afterward it had originally done. One 
 of these chambers, some twelve feet square only, yet 
 lofty and well-ventilated, had been fitted up for me with 
 a care and taste that left nothing to regret, even when I 
 compared it with the comfort and luxury of my former 
 home. That which I supposed to correspond with it on 
 the other side was kept strictly locked ; and at first I con 
 ceived it to be my grandmother's oratory recalling that 
 of the mistress of Taunton Tower or study, perhaps, 
 where books and paintings, sacred to her eye alone, were 
 cautiously concealed, as I had heard was the custom 
 among the authors and artists of the world. 
 
 But my grandmother, I soon discovered, was neither 
 the one nor the other; and when I found how simple and 
 even homely were the details of her everyday life, I de 
 scended from my pedestal of fancy, and determined that 
 this " Blue-Beard chamber," so mysterious and inaccessible 
 to me, was nothing more than a shy woman's dressing 
 room. A deep reticence of nature seemed to underlie, in a 
 very remarkable degree, the sparkling cordiality of my 
 grandmother's manner. You stumbled on this constitu 
 tional or habitual reserve, accidentally sometimes, as you 
 might do on a stone hid in a bed of flowers, and with 
 something of the same sharp, sudden anguish ; but I am 
 digressing to speak of this now. I wish to give at once, 
 for reasons that will be plainer hereafter, as correct an
 
 156 CATHERINE ANNA WARFIELD 
 
 idea as I know how to convey by words of the construc 
 tion of the house of Bouverie. 
 
 
 
 I understood later how it was that after her husband's 
 death one of violence and horror, it was whispered 
 my grandmother had cut off all communication with those 
 upper rooms which he had chiefly inhabited, associated in 
 her mind as they were with bloodshed and self-slaughter, 
 and how, as the dark legend crept stealthily around, that 
 night after night he might still be heard walking their 
 floors, and had even been seen descending the spiral stairs 
 that linked one circular hall with the other, while the 
 moon shone down through the great skylight, revealing 
 to the startled watchers his ghastly lineaments and spec 
 tral form she had in the desperation of her fear and 
 agony, sealed up forever those haunted and accursed cham 
 bers. For this purpose the stairway had been removed, 
 and the space between the two halls floored and sealed. 
 This was done with an expedition that made food for 
 conjecture in the neighborhood, having its origin, doubt 
 less, in the almost frenzied terror of her own sensations, 
 that caused her to spare neither expense nor urgency to 
 have her alterations executed with dispatch. The work 
 men who performed the task were summoned from a dis 
 tant town, and spoke a foreign tongue. They came and 
 went like shadows; and in this manner she evaded, as 
 much as possible, the neighborhood gossip and espionage 
 which must otherwise have so annoyed her in her crushed 
 condition. For, at the time all this was done, my grand 
 father's fearful death was recent; and the same artisans 
 who removed the staircase, sealed away from sight and 
 access those abhorred upper apartments, placed the sim-
 
 CATHERINE ANNA WARFIELD 157 
 
 pie marble obelisk which bore his name above his grave 
 in the cedar grove. " Not one article was touched or 
 brought away, Miss Lilian, that ever belonged to him," 
 added my informant in low, whispered tones, the old, 
 demure, yet gossiping woman who assisted at my toilet, 
 and who had lived with my grandmother and cared for 
 her ever since her birth ; " not one article, lest a curse 
 might cleave to it and fall on us; and still he may be 
 heard at times don't be frightened, Miss Lilian! walk 
 ing, walking, the livelong night, the livelong day even, 
 as though no rest were granted him, in the other world, 
 who took no rest in this." 
 
 I had hidden my face on Dame Bianca's arm as she pro 
 ceeded in her vague narration, thrilled by a momentary 
 terror. Now I looked up and was annoyed by the ex 
 pression of her countenance, as my sudden glance fell 
 on it. 
 
 " She is trying to fool me," I thought, " with this 
 ghost story, and to make a coward of me, but I know 
 there is nothing of the kind." And nerved by this sudden 
 conviction, I proceeded to question her with more cool 
 ness and sagacity than she could have expected from one 
 evidently so impressed with her narration a moment be 
 fore. 
 
 " What made my grandfather so restless, Dame Bi- 
 anca?" I asked. "Was he unhappy and wicked, or 
 only busy?" 
 
 "Ah, child! all wretched enough, I daresay, when 
 he stopped to think of his misdeeds, and always busy as 
 any working-bee in summer time. Busy with hand and 
 brain, with pen and sword, with drug and pistol, read 
 ing and thinking, plotting and contriving, and trampling
 
 158 CATHERINE ANNA WARFIELD 
 
 over every one that stood in his way without mercy or 
 fear." 
 
 
 
 It was on the day after my arrival that, sitting at the 
 supper table, during a long pause in the conversation, 
 while my grandmother was especially engaged with her 
 coffee-urn, I was shaken by one of those unreasonable 
 fits of laughter common to excitable children. 
 
 " What amuses you, Lilian ? " asked Dr. Quintil. 
 " Come, give us your merry thought, and we will pluck it 
 together." 
 
 " Oh, Dr. Quintil, I was thinking how funny it was 
 and I never thought of it till this minute, which makes 
 it funnier still that my Uncle Jasper has never spoken 
 one word to me since I came to Bouverie! Not one 
 word, Mr. Jasper, have you said to your niece since 
 she came to live with you, either for good or bad," 
 and I shook my finger playfully at him across the 
 table. 
 
 He gazed at me a moment earnestly, and then suffered 
 his forehead to droop into his hands. Had I offended 
 him ? I looked anxiously at Dr. Quintil ; he, too, was 
 pale and grave, and averted his eyes from mine. My 
 grandmother alone retained her self-possession. 
 
 " My child," she said, " in this house above all others, 
 learn to be discreet. It is our misfortune to be an af 
 flicted household Jasper has never spoken" 
 
 I dropped the untasted food, and, in a passion of grief 
 and mortification, I slid from the table, and lay with 
 my face on the floor. I was raised by kindly hands. 
 Jasper held me in his arms. 
 
 " Oh, what have I done! " I said. " I did not know
 
 CATHERINE ANNA WARFIELD 159 
 
 indeed I did not know that one might hear and still be 
 dumb. Poor Uncle Jasper! Can you forgive me? " 
 
 Words never spoke as his eyes spoke to me then. I 
 have since believed that in the spirit world there will be 
 no need of speech, but that light, shining from each heav 
 enly visage, shall reveal whatever the immortal essence 
 seeks to communicate, and words be put away with other 
 bonds of the flesh. He held me to his bosom long, for 
 my feelings, when once vividly aroused, were not easily 
 consoled to quiet again; and they told me that on that 
 home of peace I sobbed myself to rest. 
 
 Jasper my Jasper from that hour I loved thee as 
 entirely as I shall do when we meet at the feet of God!
 
 IRWIN RUSSELL 
 
 18531879 
 
 THIS poet was born in Port Gibson, Mississippi, 
 and was among the first of Southern writers to 
 recognize the possibilities of negro dialect and 
 character in poetry and fiction, and to picture in 
 poetry the unique relation between the Southern 
 slave and his master. 
 
 It is not surprising that there is very little gen 
 eral knowledge of this gifted man, for he passed 
 away quickly, after a brief struggle with life, leav 
 ing only one collection of poems, which was pub 
 lished after his death. 
 
 Irwin Russell's grandfather was a Virginian, 
 but moved West to Ohio, in which State the father 
 of Irwin was born and lived. He married a New 
 York lady, and then going South, settled in Port 
 Gibson, where Irwin and two other children were 
 born. At the outbreak of the Civil War, Russell's 
 father cast his lot with the Confederacy, and after 
 the war ended the son Irwin was sent to the St. 
 Louis University in St. Louis, a school conducted 
 by Jesuit Fathers. Here he became a diligent stu 
 dent, and his young friends called him a " walking 
 
 160
 
 IRWIN RUSSELL 161 
 
 encyclopedia." He also gave evidence of fine 
 mathematical powers. 
 
 After graduation he returned to Mississippi, 
 studied and practiced law. He was in Port Gibson 
 during the yellow fever epidemic, in 1878, and he 
 remained through the whole dreadful tragedy of 
 sickness, and served as a devoted nurse. He 
 never fully rallied from the fearful strain and the 
 harrowing scenes through which he passed, " for 
 he was," says W. M. Baskerville, " that rare 
 union of bright mind with frail body, through 
 which the keenest appreciation and most exquisite 
 sensibility are developed." 
 
 His father, Dr. William Russell, who had also 
 remained in Port Gibson during the scourge, stay 
 ing nobly at his post of duty, sank under the labor 
 and died. This left young Russell entirely de 
 pendent upon himself. 
 
 Joel Chandler Harris says: "Russell always 
 had warm personal friends from whom he could 
 command everything that affection could suggest." 
 
 Going to New York, Irwin Russell took some 
 literary matter to the publishing house of Charles 
 Scribner & Sons, who received him with great per 
 sonal kindness. 
 
 He became very ill with fever in New York, and 
 before he was entirely recovered he worked his 
 passage on a boat back to New Orleans, where he 
 landed almost without money. He applied for
 
 1 62 IRWIN RUSSELL 
 
 work at " The Times " office of that city, obtained 
 employment, and later became connected with the 
 paper. 
 
 For one so young, Russell gave remarkable evi 
 dence of training in the best of literature. He was 
 capable of hard, painstaking study, and his insight 
 into the peculiarities, pathos, and poetry in the 
 negro character was truly wonderful. 
 
 Thomas Nelson Page says of him: " Personally 
 I owe him much. It was the light of his genius 
 shining through his dialect poems that led my feet 
 in the direction I have since tried to follow," and 
 Dr. C. A. Smith says: "The appearance of 
 ' Christmas Night in the Quarters ' meant that 
 Southern literature has now become a true repro 
 duction of Southern conditions." 
 
 Joel Chandler Harris says: " Irwin Russell's 
 negro character studies rise to the level of what in 
 a large way we term literature. I do not know 
 where there could be a more perfect representation 
 of negro character. His operetta ' Christmas 
 in the Quarters ' is inimitable." 
 
 Beginning with the arrival of the negroes who 
 come to " Uncle Johnny Booker's Ball " the poem, 
 " Christmas Night in the Quarters," says: 
 
 That through the din one hardly hears 
 
 Old fiddling 'Josey sound his A, 
 Correct the pitch, begin to play. 
 
 Then the dance commences.
 
 IRWIN RUSSELL 163 
 
 " Git yo' pardners, fust kwatillion ; 
 
 Stomp yo' feet, an' raise 'em high ; 
 Tune is, ' Oh, that water-million ; 
 Gwine to git to home bime-by.' ' 
 
 As daylight approaches, the tired dancers call 
 for a song from old Booker, who with his banjo 
 sings the legend of the origin of that instrument. 
 Repeating the story of the Ark, Uncle Booker 
 says: " Ham got lonesome," 
 
 An' so fur amuse he-self, he steamed some wood an' bent 
 
 it, 
 
 An' soon he had a banjo made, de fust that was invented. 
 He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig, 
 
 'Twas " Neber min' the wedder " ; 
 She seem like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all togedder; 
 Some went to pattin', some to dancin', Noah called the 
 
 riggers ; 
 
 An' Ham he sot and knocked de tune, 
 De happiest ob niggers. 
 
 Russell declared the pathos and humor in the 
 character of the real old-fashioned negro of the 
 South afforded an inexhaustible amount of material 
 for both prose and poetry. 
 
 Like Sidney Lanier, Russell was passionately 
 fond of music and became a remarkably skilful 
 performer on the banjo. 
 
 Irwin Russell died at the early age of twenty-
 
 164 IRWIN RUSSELL 
 
 six. Suffering and sorrow and poverty were his 
 till the last. The brief struggle ended in New 
 Orleans, and the beautiful contributions to South 
 ern dialect poetry remain our heritage. Works : 
 " Dialect Poems." 
 
 Irwin Russell himself tells why he could so 
 faithfully reproduce the life and feelings of the 
 negro in the following quotation: 
 
 You couldn't talk so natchel 
 
 'Bout de niggers' sorrows an' joys 
 Widouten you'd had a black mammy 
 
 To sing to you long is youse a boy. 
 
 Regarding the merits of Irwin Russell's verses 
 one critic says : " It seems to me that his poems 
 are to negro dialect what Gottschalk's music is to 
 negro melody. They have all a swinging gait, and 
 you can hear the rhythmical pattering of the feet, 
 and see the swaying of the darky figures in the 
 ' walk-round ' as you read : 
 
 CHRISTMAS NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS 
 
 Git yo' pardners, fust kwatillion! 
 
 Stomp yo' feet, an' raise 'em high ; 
 Tune is, " Oh, dat water-million! 
 
 Gwine to git to home bime-bye." 
 S'lute yo' pardners! scrape perlitely 
 
 Don't be bumpin' 'gin de res'
 
 IRWIN RUSSELL 165 
 
 Balance all! now, step out rightly; 
 
 Alluz dance yo' lebbel bes'. 
 Fo'wa'd foah ! Whoop up, niggers ! 
 
 Back ag'in ! don't be so slow ! 
 Swing cornahs! min' de figgers! 
 
 When I hollers, den yo' go. 
 Top ladies cross ober! 
 
 Hands around hoi' up yo' faces; 
 
 Don't be lookin' at .yo' feet ! 
 Swing yo' pardners to yo' places! 
 
 Dat's de way -dat's hard to beat. 
 Sides fo'wa'd ! when you's ready 
 
 Make a bow as low's you kin ! 
 Swing acrost wid opp'site lady! 
 
 Now we'll let you swap ag'in: 
 Ladies change ! shet up dat talkin' ; 
 
 Do yo' talkin' arter while ! 
 Right an' lef! don't want no walkin' . 
 
 Make yo' steps, an' show yo' style! 
 
 BLIND NED 
 
 Who is dat ar a-playin'? Shucks! I wish I wuzn't blin' ; 
 But when de Lord he tuk my eyes, he lef my yeahs be- 
 
 hin'. 
 Is dat you, Mahsr Bob? I t'ought I rec'nized your 
 
 bowin' ; 
 I said I knowed 'twas you, soon's I heered de fiddle goin'. 
 
 Sho! dat ain't right! Jes' le' me show you how to play 
 dat tune;
 
 166 IRWIN RUSSELL 
 
 I feel like I could make de fiddle talk dis arternoon. 
 Now don't you see that counter's jes' a leetle bit too high? 
 Well, nebber min', I guess you'll learn to tune her by 
 an' by. 
 
 You's jes' like all musicianers dat learns to play by note; 
 You ain't got music in you, so you has to hab it wrote. 
 Now dat ain't science why de debbil don't you play by 
 
 yeah? 
 For dat's de onlies' kin' ob music fittin' fur to heah. 
 
 Do you suppose, when David wuz a-pickin' on de harp, 
 He ebber knowed de difference atwixt a flat an' a sharp? 
 But any tune you called for, he could pick it all de same, 
 For David knowed de music, dough he didn't know de 
 name. 
 
 Now what shall I begin on? Somefm' lively, fas', and 
 
 quick ? 
 Well, sah, jes' pay attention, an' I'll gib you " Cap'n 
 
 Dick." 
 Yah! yah! young mahsr, don't you feel jes' like you want 
 
 to pat? 
 You'll hab to practice fur a while afore you ekals dat! 
 
 Dere ain't nobody 'roun' dis place kin play wid Uncle 
 
 Ned; 
 
 Dey isn't got it in deir ringers, neider in deir head ; 
 Dat fiddler Bill dey talks about I heered him play a 
 
 piece, 
 An' I declar' it sounded like a fox among de geese.
 
 IRWIN RUSSELL 167 
 
 A violeen is like an 'ooman, mighty hard to guide, 
 An' mighty hard to keep in order after once it's buyed. 
 Dere's alluz somefin' 'bout it out ob kelter, more or less, 
 An' 'tain't de fancies'-lookin' ones dat alluz does de bes'. 
 
 Dis ye's a splendid inst'ument I 'spec' it cost a heap; 
 You r'al'y ought to let me hab dis riddle fur to keep. 
 It ain't no use to you, sah ; fur, widout it's in de man, 
 He cain't git music out de fines' riddle in de Ian'. 
 
 Well, good-bye, Mahsr Bob, sah; when you's nuffin else 
 
 to do, 
 
 Jes' sen' fur dis ol' darky, an' he'll come an' play fur you ; 
 An' don't gib up your practicin' you's only sebenteen, 
 An' maybe when you's ol' as me you'll play the violeen 
 
 By permission of Miss Mary Russell and Century Co,, 
 New York.
 
 GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE 
 
 1844 
 
 THE " Land of the Creole " is the name some 
 times given to lower Louisiana, and here in the 
 cosmopolitan city of New Orleans was born the 
 subject of this sketch. On his father's side he is 
 descended from an old colonial family of Virginia, 
 the Cabells. The name was originally spelled 
 Cable, and their coat-of-arms introduces the cable 
 upon its design. 
 
 Cable's maternal ancestors were from New Eng 
 land. His parents were married in Indiana, and 
 came to New Orleans to live. The father died in 
 1859, leaving the family in very straitened circum 
 stances. George W. Cable, then only fourteen 
 years old, had to leave school just as he was about 
 to graduate, in order to accept a clerkship which 
 would enable him to support the family. 
 
 At the beginning of the Civil War Cable entered 
 the army, although only a youth, serving in Col 
 onel Wilburn's Fourth Mississippi Cavalry of 
 General Wirt Adams' brigade. Army comrades 
 speak of the young volunteer as being a good sol 
 dier, scrupulously observant of discipline, always 
 
 168
 
 GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE 169 
 
 at his post of duty, and courageous and daring. In 
 one engagement he received a serious wound in the 
 left arm, and narrowly escaped being killed. The 
 close of the war found him without a dollar, and 
 he began work in New Orleans as an errand boy, 
 and then was promoted to a clerkship. Through 
 all this arduous and uncongenial labor, Cable was 
 untiring in effort to acquire an education. He be 
 gan his first literary work writing for the " New 
 Orleans Picayune," over the name of " Drop 
 Shot," and after a time he became one of the edi 
 torial staff of this fine old paper. From religious 
 scruples he refused to report entertainments, 
 thereby losing his position, but he soon obtained a 
 situation as accountant with a firm of cotton fac 
 tors. Mr. Cable jotted down, while at his desk, 
 busy with invoices and figures, every incident and 
 conceit that came with his intercourse among men 
 of all classes, and from stray bits of Creole life; 
 thus developing his rare talent for insight into 
 human character and motive. About this time he 
 wrote " The Belles Damoiselle Plantation," 
 " Tite Polite," " Jean ah Poquelin," " Cafe des 
 Exiles," and " Madame Delicieuse." These 
 early stories made a revelation of two facts that 
 there was a wonderful and new field of romance 
 in Creole life and dialect, and that Cable could 
 tell a story well. 
 
 " In ' Madame Delphine,' which was published
 
 170 GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE 
 
 in 1 88 1, we see a perfect specimen of this writer's 
 art in literary construction. The narrative is 
 handled so skilfully that the reader is unaware of 
 its utter impossibility." 
 
 " Dr. Sevier " is a beautiful story of great lit 
 erary merit, with the added grace of simplicity. 
 In the experiences of John Richling it has been 
 said that Mr. Cable, in some measure, gave his 
 own history. There was this difference be 
 tween the writer and his hero, John Richling: the 
 former made a success of whatever he attempted, 
 while in the story, poor Richling was a failure. 
 The writer who could describe Ristofalo with his 
 happy disregard of trouble, Narcisse, " dear, de 
 licious, abominable Narcisse," and Mary, bright, 
 brave and loving, and Dr. Sevier, the physician, 
 noble, generous and capable, yet tender as a 
 woman, was certainly a master in the realms of 
 fiction. 
 
 Some of Mr. Cable's later works have received 
 much criticism from the South, but the beauty of 
 his other writings remains untarnished. He now 
 lives near Northampton, Massachusetts. Here he 
 indulges his tastes for birds, flowers and trees. 
 Tree culture is one of his hobbies, and with quaint 
 idea he has trees planted by well-known friends 
 and guests and named after them, for instance: 
 The Beecher Elm; the Max O'Rell Ash; the 
 Conan Doyle Maple.
 
 GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE 171 
 
 His best known works are: "Old Creole 
 Days," " The Grandissimes," " Madame Del- 
 phine," " The Creoles of Louisiana," " Dr. 
 Sevier," " The Silent South," " Bonaventure," 
 " The Negro Question," " Strange True Stones 
 of Louisiana," " John March, Southerner," 
 "Strong Hearts," "The Cavalier," " Bylow 
 Hill." 
 
 Henrietta Christian Wright says : " ' The Gran 
 dissimes ' made Cable famous, although it elicited 
 much adverse criticism from readers who denied 
 its truthfulness as a picture of old Creole days, 
 yet it must be considered one of the best works of 
 fiction in the South. It has been followed by in 
 numerable transcriptions of Southern life from 
 other hands, but to the author of ' Grandis 
 simes ' must always remain the credit of being 
 the pioneer in the fascinating world of Creole 
 romance." 
 
 To the Acadian settlements in the lower Lou 
 isiana prairies Mr. Cable went for inspiration for 
 his novel " Bonaventure." The hero, Bonaven 
 ture, was an orphan boy, who was being brought 
 up by the village cure. This was the first time 
 since Longfellow wrote " Evangeline " that the 
 story and character of the Acadians were again 
 used for romance in literature. Mr. Cable spent 
 much time hunting among old records and his 
 torical documents, newspapers and government
 
 i?2 GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE 
 
 reports, and sifted out material for his articles 
 called " The Creoles of Louisiana." 
 
 This selection from " Au Large " is a descrip 
 tion of Nature in a " transport of passion," and 
 then in her hour of calmness. Mr. Cable closes 
 the extract with fine psychological thought. 
 
 "AU LARGE" 
 
 Soon the stars are hidden. A light breeze seems rather 
 to tremble and hang poised than to blow. The rolling 
 clouds, the dark wilderness, and the watery waste shine 
 every moment in the wide gleam of lightnings still hidden 
 by the wood, and are wrapped again in ever-thickening 
 darkness, over which thunders roll and jar and answer 
 one another across the sky. Then, like a charge of ten 
 thousand lancers, come the wind and the rain, their onset 
 covered by all the artillery of heaven. The lightnings 
 leap, hiss, and blaze; the thunders crack and roar; the 
 rain lashes; the waters writhe; the wind smites and 
 howls. For five, for ten, for twenty minutes for an 
 hour, for two hours the sky and the flood are never 
 for an instant wholly dark, or the thunder for one mo 
 ment silent ; but while the universal roar sinks and swells 
 and the wide, vibrant illumination shows all things in 
 ghostly half-concealment, fresh floods of lightning every 
 moment rend the dim curtain and leap forth; the glare 
 of day falls upon the swaying wood, the reeling, bowing, 
 tossing willows, the seething waters, the whirling rain, 
 and in the midst the small form of the distressed steamer, 
 her revolving paddle-wheels toiling behind to lighten the
 
 GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE 173 
 
 strain upon her anchor chains; then all are dim ghosts 
 again, while a peal, as if the heavens were rent, rolls off 
 around the sky, comes back in shocks and throbs, and 
 sinks in a long roar that, before it can die, is swallowed 
 up in the next flash and peal. 
 
 A few hours later the winds were still, the stars were 
 out, a sweet silence had fallen upon water and wood, 
 and from her deck the watchman on the steamer could 
 see in the northeastern sky a broad, soft illumination, and 
 knew it was the lights of slumbering New Orleans, eight 
 een miles away. By and by, farther to the east, another 
 brightness began to grow and gather this light into its 
 outstretched -wings. In the nearest wood a soft twitter 
 came from a single tiny bird. Another voice answered 
 it. A different note came from a third quarter; there 
 were three or four replies; the sky turned to blue and 
 began to flush; a mocking-bird flew out of the woods on 
 her earliest quest for family provisions; and a thrush 
 began to sing, and in a moment more the whole forest 
 was one choir. 
 
 What wonderful purity was in the fragrant air ; what 
 color was on the calm waters and in the deep sky; how 
 beautiful, how gentle was Nature after her transport of 
 passion ! Shall we ever subdue her and make her always 
 submissive and compliant? Who knows? Who knows 
 what man may do with her when once he has got self, 
 the universal self, under perfect mastery? See yonder 
 huge bull-alligator swimming hitherward out of the 
 swamp! Even as you point he turns again in alarm and 
 is gone. Once he was man's terror, Leviathan. The very 
 lions of Africa and the grizzlies of the Rockies, so they 
 tell us, are no longer the bold enemies of man they once
 
 174 GEORGE WASHINGTON CABLE 
 
 were. " Subdue the earth ! " It is being done. Science 
 and art, commerce and exploration, are but parts of re 
 ligion. Help us, brothers all, with every possible discov 
 ery and invention to complete the conquest begun in that 
 lost garden whence man and woman first came forth, not 
 for vengeance, but for love, to bruise the serpent's head. 
 But as yet both within us and without us, what terrible 
 revolt doth Nature make! What awful victories doth 
 she have over us, and then turn and bless and serve us 
 again. . . . 
 
 By permission of author.
 
 HENRY TIMROD 
 
 18291867 
 
 THIS noted writer was a descendant of an old 
 German family, and was born in Charleston, South 
 Carolina. His father, William Henry Timrod, 
 who held, with distinction, many positions of 
 honor, was married to a Miss Prince and died 
 from exposure during the Florida War with the 
 Seminole Indians. This father, with German thrift 
 and tenacity of purpose, " voluntarily apprenticed 
 himself to a book-binder in order to have plenty 
 of books to read." Henry Timrod inherited his 
 father's love of books and his determination of 
 character. He entered the University of Georgia, 
 but extreme poverty prevented him from finishing 
 the course of study. However, not discouraged 
 by his lack of money, he returned to Charleston 
 with the intention of studying law, which soon be 
 came distasteful to him. He then endeavored to 
 prepare for a college professorship, but failing in 
 this, he turned his attention to writing and jour 
 nalism, in the meantime supporting himself by 
 teaching in private families. He taught for ten 
 years. 
 
 175
 
 176 HENRY TIMROD 
 
 His first book of poems, published in Boston 
 in 1860, was cordially received in the United 
 States and would have been published in London 
 had it not been for the " turmoil of civil strife " 
 at that time. With heart aflame with loyalty to 
 his State, Timrod voluntereed as a private in the 
 Southern army, and during this time he wrote 
 " Carolina," " The Cotton Ball," and " The Call 
 to Arms," poems that did much to influence the 
 people of South Carolina. 
 
 Failing health compelled him to abandon active 
 service as a soldier, and he undertook the work of 
 war correspondent, first representing " The 
 Charleston Mercury," then in 1864 he went to 
 Columbia and became editor of " The South Caro 
 linian." About this time he married Miss Kate 
 Goodwin, the " Katie" of whom he. wrote in his 
 poems. 
 
 Julian W. Abernethy, Ph. D., Principal of the 
 Berkley Institution, Brooklyn, says : " In less than 
 a year came Sherman's army, cutting its terrible 
 swath to the sea, and Timrod was left destitute. 
 A few months later his idolized child died, and in 
 the little grave a large portion of the father's 
 heart was buried." Before another three years 
 had flitted past, the tired body of Henry Timrod 
 slumbered beside his son in Trinity churchyard, 
 Columbia.
 
 HENRY TIMROD 177 
 
 As it purples in the zenith, 
 
 As it brightens on the lawn, 
 There's a hush of death about me, 
 
 And a whisper, " He is gone." 
 
 Henry Timrod was " The poet of the Lost 
 Cause, the finest interpreter of the feelings and 
 traditions and heroism of a brave people. More 
 over, by his catholic spirit, his wide range, his 
 world-wide sympathies, he was a true American 
 poet." 
 
 The first edition of his poems, published in 
 1860, contained only the verses written in early 
 years, but they found a welcome North and South. 
 The next volume was not brought out till 1873, 
 when the struggle during ,the reconstruction period 
 was too stern for the full appreciation of literature, 
 though the edition was quickly bought up, as also 
 a beautiful edition of " Katie " published by Hale 
 & Sons a little later. 
 
 The poet's mother, who was a daughter of Mr. 
 Charles Prince of Charleston, was a lady of rare 
 culture and had a passionate love for flower and 
 forest, sky and field, and from her Timrod in 
 herited a mind susceptible to every touch of beauty. 
 He was a close student of all classic literature. 
 While of a modest, retiring disposition, he was a 
 man who loved his friends, and among the many
 
 178 HENRY TIM ROD 
 
 who knew him probably his strongest affection was 
 for the companion of his boyhood and life-long 
 confidant, Paul Hamilton Hayne. When the 
 Civil War ended Timrod was left with failing 
 health and utterly bankrupt financially. He clung 
 passionately to his chosen work; even the death of 
 his beloved son and the merciless ravages of disease 
 did not rob his pen of beauty. His last occupation 
 was to correct the proof sheets of his poems, and 
 he died with them by his side, stained with his 
 life-blood. 
 
 Some of the happiest days of Timrod's life were 
 those spent at " Copse Hill," the home of his 
 friend Hayne, and the pathos of his letters to him, 
 when he writes freely of sickness, of utter destitu 
 tion, is inexpressibly sorrowful. 
 
 " Timrod's earnestness and deep poetic insight 
 clothed all themes with the beauty and light," 
 whether of humanity or nature, and the moral 
 purity of everything he wrote is a marked quality 
 of his poems. 
 
 " Ethnogenesis " is said by many to be his finest 
 poem. 
 
 " Spring " is a burst of Southern spring in all 
 its glory. 
 
 " Carolina " and " A Call to Arms " have even 
 to-day, as in the sixties, a meaning to men of the 
 South, " which knows and thrills," and also " they 
 have an abiding power from the standpoint of
 
 HENRY TIMROD 179 
 
 art, for there is nothing finer in all the martial 
 strains of the lyric." 
 
 Paul Hamilton Hayne tells how the words of 
 " Carolina " thrilled him by their pathos and 
 power, when he read them first one stormy March 
 evening in Fort Sumter. 
 
 Timrod's last poem was the Ode written for 
 Memorial Day, April, 1867. 
 
 There is no holier spot of ground 
 Than where defeated valor lies, 
 By morning beauty crowned. 
 
 The keen sensitiveness of Timrod's soul to all 
 nature, even the " tiniest flower," is beautifully 
 expressed in these lines: 
 
 And when in wild or thoughtless hour 
 My Maud hath crushed the tiniest flower, 
 
 I ne'er could shut from sight 
 The corpses of the tender things, 
 With other drear imaginings, 
 And the little angel-flowers with wings 
 
 Would haunt me through the night. 
 
 The feelings of all Southern hearts are told in 
 the lines : 
 
 Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, 
 Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause, 
 
 Though yet no marble column craves 
 The pilgrim here to pause.
 
 i8o HENRY TIMROD 
 
 In seeds of laurel in the earth 
 
 The blossom of your fame is blown, 
 
 And somewhere, waiting for its birth, 
 The shaft is in the stone. 
 
 A beautiful monument was unveiled at Charles 
 ton, in 1901, in honor of the poet. 
 
 On October 6, 1867, Henry Timrod passed 
 from earth at his little cottage home on Hender 
 son Street, Columbia, South Carolina, and was 
 buried October 7. The house is still standing, 
 having escaped the cruel and needless conflagration 
 in 1865. 
 
 " At the end of a generation the poet's fame 
 keeping its freshness and fidelity has come to full 
 maturity; his poems are read in every State and 
 they are now asked for in Canada." 
 
 ' Through clouds and sunshine, in peace and 
 in war, amid the stress of poverty and the storms 
 of civil strife, his soul never faltered and his pur 
 pose never failed. To his poetic mission he was 
 faithful to the end. In life and in death he was 
 not disobedient to the heavenly vision." This is 
 the inscription on the west panel of his monument 
 in Charleston. 
 
 Lanier calls Timrod's name, u One of the very 
 sweetest names connected with Charleston," and 
 Hayne says : " His compositions, with all their 
 elegance, finish, and superb propriety of diction, 
 always leave the impression of having been born, 
 not manufactured."
 
 HENRY TIMROD 181 
 
 The following excerpt is taken from a poem 
 written complimentary to his wife, her name being 
 Kate. 
 
 KATIE 
 
 It may be through some foreign grace, 
 
 And unfamiliar charm of face ; 
 
 It may be that across the foam 
 
 Which bore her from her childhood's home, 
 
 By some strange spell, my Katie brought, 
 
 Along with English creeds and thought 
 
 Entangled in her golden hair > 
 
 Some English sunshine, warmth, and air! 
 
 I cannot tell but here to-day, 
 
 A thousand billowy leagues away 
 
 From that green isle whose twilight skies 
 
 No darker are than Katie's eyes, 
 
 She seems to me, go where she will, 
 
 An English girl in England still ! 
 
 I meet her on the dusty street, 
 
 And daisies spring about her feet ; 
 
 Or, touched to life beneath her tread, 
 
 An English cowslip lifts its head; 
 
 And, as to do her grace, rise up 
 
 The primrose and the buttercup ! 
 
 I roam with her through fields of cane, 
 And seem to stroll an English lane, 
 Which, white with blossoms of the May, 
 Spreads its green carpet in her way ! 
 As fancy wills, the path beneath 
 Is golden gorse, or purple heath;
 
 182 HENRY TIMROD 
 
 And now we hear in woodlands dim 
 
 Their unarticulated hymn; 
 
 Now walk through rippling waves of wheat, 
 
 Now sink in mats of clover sweet, 
 
 Or see before us from the lawn 
 
 The lark go up to greet the dawn! 
 
 All birds that love the English sky 
 
 Throng 'round my path when she is by; 
 
 The blackbird from a neighboring thorn 
 
 With music brims the cup of morn, 
 
 And in a thick, melodious rain 
 
 The mavis pours her mellow strain! 
 
 But only when my Katie's voice 
 
 Makes all the listening woods rejoice, 
 
 I hear with cheeks that flush and pale 
 
 The passion of the nightingale! 
 
 With permission from Ticknor &f Co., Boston, and 
 B. F. Johnson Pub. Co., Richmond, Virginia. 
 
 CAROLINA 
 
 The despot treads thy sacred sands, 
 Thy pines give shelter to his bands, 
 Thy sons stand by with idle hands, 
 
 Carolina ! 
 
 He breathes at ease thy airs of balm, 
 He scorns the lances of thy palm; 
 Oh, who shall break thy craven calm, 
 
 Carolina !
 
 HENRY TIMROD 183 
 
 Thy ancient fame is growing dim, 
 A spot is on thy garment's rim; 
 Give to the winds thy battle-hymn, 
 Carolina ! 
 
 II 
 
 Call on thy children of the hill, 
 Wake swamp and river, coast and rill, 
 Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill, 
 
 Carolina ! 
 
 Cite wealth and science, trade and art, 
 Touch with thy fire the cautious mart, 
 And pour thee through the people's heart 
 
 Carolina ! 
 
 Till even the coward spurns his fears, 
 And all thy fields and fens and meres 
 Shall bristle like thy palms with spears, 
 
 Carolina ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Hold up the glories of thy dead; 
 Say how thy elder children bled, 
 And point to Eutaw's battle-bed, 
 
 Carolina ! 
 
 Tell how the patriot soul was tried, 
 And what his dauntless breast defied ; 
 How Rutledge ruled and Laurens died, 
 
 Carolina !
 
 1 84 HENRY TIMROD 
 
 Cry till thy summons, heard at last, 
 Shall fall like Marion's bugle-blast 
 Re-echoed from the haunted past, 
 Carolina ! 
 
 IV 
 
 I hear a murmur as of waves 
 
 That grope their way through sunless caves, 
 
 Like bodies struggling in their graves, 
 
 Carolina ! 
 
 And now it deepens; slow and grand 
 It swells, as, rolling to the land, 
 An ocean broke upon thy strand 
 
 Carolina ! 
 
 Shout ! Let it reach the startled Huns ! 
 And roar with all thy festal guns! 
 It is the answer of thy sons, 
 
 Carolina ! 
 
 V 
 
 They will not wait to hear thee call ; 
 From Sachem's Head to Sumter's wall 
 Resounds the voice of hut and hall 
 
 Carolina! 
 
 No! thou hast not a stain, they say, 
 Or none save what the battle-day 
 Shall wash in seas of blood away, 
 
 Carolina!
 
 HENRY TIMROD 185 
 
 Thy skirts indeed the foe may part, 
 Thy robe be pierced with sword and dart, 
 They shall not touch thy noble heart 
 Carolina ! 
 
 VII 
 
 Girt with such wills to do and bear, 
 Assured in right, and mailed in prayer, 
 Thou wilt not bow thee to despair, 
 
 Carolina! 
 
 Throw thy bold banner to the breeze! 
 Front with thy ranks the threatening seas, 
 Like thine own proud armorial trees, 
 
 Carolina! 
 
 Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns, 
 And roar the challenge from thy guns; 
 Then leave the future to thy sons, 
 
 Carolina ! 
 
 Memorial Edition, B^ F. Johnson Pub. Co., Richmond, 
 Virginia. 
 
 Henry Timrod's other poems are: " A Cry to 
 Arms," " Katie," " Why Silent," " The Lily Con 
 fidante," " Rosebuds," " Our Willie," " The 
 Cotton Boll," " Spring," " A Vision of Poesy," 
 " Sonnet and Others."
 
 MRS. MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE 
 
 ("MARION HARLAND") 
 
 1831 
 
 THIS well-known writer was born in Amelia 
 County, Virginia, and is the daughter of Samuel 
 P. Hawes. Although born in the country, the 
 greater part of her life was passed in Richmond, 
 her father being a respected merchant of that city. 
 He was a lineal descendant of the Puritans, and 
 her mother was from the earliest settlers of Vir 
 ginia. At a very early age " Marion Harland " 
 showed a remarkable talent for writing, and when 
 only fourteen she wrote short stories of real merit. 
 
 In 1856 she was married to the Rev. E. R. 
 Terhune, and since 1859 has spent most of her 
 time in the North. Her family cherish sacredly 
 the names, deeds, and homesteads of their ances 
 tors North and South, and the hearty participation 
 in the feelings of both Northern and Southern 
 branches is undoubtedly the cause of the freedom 
 from sectional prejudice in all of Marion Har- 
 land's writings. 
 
 The dream of this woman has always been au 
 thorship. At the age of fourteen she contrib- 
 
 186
 
 MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE 187 
 
 uted, under an assumed name, a series of papers to 
 a weekly city journal. The notice which these 
 sketches attracted, and the desire that was ex 
 pressed to know the author, was all very flattering 
 encouragement to the youthful writer. Tales, 
 essays, poems, now followed rapidly, and she 
 studied with untiring constancy. 
 
 A fugitive sketch, written at sixteen, and called 
 " Marrying through Prudential Motives," ap 
 peared in " Godey's Ladies' Book " and had quite 
 a remarkable career. It was copied into an Eng 
 lish paper, then transferred to a Parisian journal, 
 retranslated for another English periodical and 
 was extensively read as an English story, till Mr. 
 Godey claimed it as one of his publications. 
 
 In 1854, under the nom de plume of " Marion 
 Harland," Mrs. Terhune published her first book, 
 " Alone." Long after the first appearance of this 
 story, a new edition went to press regularly every 
 few weeks, while it was reprinted with nearly as 
 much eclat in England, was translated into French, 
 and found its way into most European cities. 
 
 Two years later " The Hidden Path " was pub 
 lished, and besides great popularity at home, was 
 the only book by a female writer given place in 
 " Standard American Authors," a collection pub 
 lished in Leipzig. 
 
 A third novel, " Moss Side," was brought out 
 with like success in 1857.
 
 1 88 MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE 
 
 As a magazine writer in these early years, the 
 contributions of Marion Harland were always 
 eagerly sought for, and her contributions to 
 Godey's Magazine would fill a volume. 
 
 In 1859 the Rev. Mr. Terhune was called to 
 the pastorate of the First Reformed Dutch Church 
 in Newark, New Jersey, and the family removed 
 to that city, where the Southern woman found a 
 warm welcome and many congenial friends. Un 
 like so many authors, the home life and relations 
 of Mrs. Terhune have been very happy. United 
 to a man of rare scholarship, she always had his 
 keen sympathy and his valuable criticism and re 
 vision of her work. 
 
 Marion Harland's stories deal mostly with 
 Southern life, and have been very popular with 
 readers of fiction. They are perfectly pure and 
 wholesome, and she still is a writer of many arti 
 cles, which are eagerly read. As a wife, mother, 
 and housekeeper, Marion Harland has nobly 
 " practiced what she preached." She spends her 
 winters in New York, her summers in the suburbs. 
 Her mornings are devoted to her writing, her 
 evenings to her family. 
 
 CHINK-FILLERS 
 
 At a recent conference of practical housewives and 
 mothers held in a Western city, one of the leaders told, 
 as illustrative of the topic under discussion, an incident
 
 MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE 189 
 
 of her childhood. When a little girl of seven years, she 
 stood by her father, looking at a new log-cabin. 
 
 " Papa," she observed, " it is all finished, isn't it? " 
 
 " No, my daughter; look again." 
 
 The child studied the structure before her. The neatly 
 hewed logs were in their proper places. The roof, and 
 the rough chimney, were complete; but, on close scru 
 tiny, one could see the daylight filtering through the 
 interstices of the logs. It had yet to be chinked. 
 
 When this anecdote was ended, a bright little woman 
 arose and returned her thanks for the story, for, she said, 
 she had come to the conclusion that she was one of the 
 persons who had been put in the world to fill up the 
 chinks. 
 
 The chink-fillers are among the most useful members 
 of society. The fact is patent of the founder of one of 
 our great educational systems, that he grasped large 
 plans and theories, but had no talent for minutiae. What 
 would his majestic outlines be without the army of 
 workers who, with a just comprehension of the impor 
 tance of detail, fill in the chink in the vast enterprise? 
 
 Putty may be a mean, cheap article, far inferior to the 
 clear, transparent crystal pane, but what would become 
 of the costly plate-glass were there no putty to fill in the 
 grooves in which it rests, and to secure it against shocks? 
 
 It requires vast patience and much love for one's fellow- 
 man to be a chink-filler. She it is who, as wife, mother, 
 sister, or perhaps, maiden-aunt, picks up the hat or gloves 
 Mamie has carelessly left on the drawing-room table, 
 wipes the tiny finger smears from the window-panes at 
 which baby stood to wave his hand to papa this morning:, 
 dusts the rungs of the chair neglected by the parlor-maid,
 
 190 MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE 
 
 and mends the ripped coat which Johnny forgot to men 
 tion until it was nearly time to start for school. It is 
 she who thinks to pull the basting-threads out of the newly 
 finished gown, tacks niching in neck and sleeves against 
 the time when daughter or sister may want it in a hurry, 
 remembers to prepare some dainty for that member of 
 the household who is " not quite up to the mark " in 
 appetite in fact, undertakes those tasks, so many of which 
 show for little when done, but which are painfully con 
 spicuous when neglected. 
 
 Strange as it may seem, the mind of the hireling can 
 not grasp the importance of the lesser tasks that go to 
 make up the sum of existence. If you allow Bridget to 
 prepare your chambers for an unexpected friend, you will 
 observe that she glories in Rembrandt-like effects which, 
 when viewed at a distance, assume a respectable appear 
 ance. You, with brains back of your hands, will notice 
 that there is a tiny hole in the counterpane, dust under 
 the table, and above all that the soap-dish is not clean. 
 Your servant may do the rough work ; the dainty, lady-like 
 touch must be given by you. 
 
 You have an experienced waitress and a jewel if the 
 dining-room and table are perfect without your super 
 vision. It may be only that a teacup or plate is sticky or 
 rough to the touch, a fork or a knife needed, the steel or 
 one of the carvers forgotten. But when the family is 
 assembled at the board, these trifles cause awkward pauses 
 and interruptions. 
 
 Often the work which " doesn't show " takes most time, 
 and tries the temper. It would be an excellent plan for 
 each member of the household to resolve to put in its 
 proper place everything which he or she observes out of
 
 MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE 19 r 
 
 order. By the time this rule had been established for 
 twenty-four hours, the house would be immaculate, and 
 the mother find ample time for her mission if she has any 
 besides general chink-filler for the family. If not, she 
 will have an opportunity to rest. 
 
 A well-known author, who is at the same time an 
 exemplary housewife, tells of how she retired one rainy 
 spring morning to her study in just the mood for writing. 
 Husband and sons had gone to their various occupations. 
 She had a splendid day for work ahead of her. She sat 
 down to her desk and took up her pen. The plot of a 
 story was forming itself in her brain. She dipped her 
 pen in the ink and wrote: 
 
 " He was " 
 
 A knock at the door. Enter Anne. 
 
 " Please, mem, a mouse has eat a hole in one of your 
 handsome napkins them as I was to wash ag'in the com 
 pany you're expectin' to-morrow night. By rights it 
 should be mended before it's washed." 
 
 " Bring it to the sewing-room." 
 
 When the neat piece of darning was ended, the house 
 keeper repaired to the closet to put on a loose writing 
 sack. On the nail next to the jacket hung her winter 
 coat. On the edge of the sleeve was a tiny hole. The 
 housewifely spirit was filled with dread. There were 
 actually moths in that closet. She must attend to it im 
 mediately. The woolens ought to be put up if moths 
 had already appeared. John's clothes and the boys' win 
 ter coats were in great danger of being ruined. By lunch 
 time the necessary brushing and doing up were ended. 
 But in stowing away the winter garments in the attic our 
 heroine was appalled at the confusion among the trunks.
 
 192 MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE 
 
 The garret needed attention, and received it as soon as the 
 noonday meal was dispatched. At four o'clock, with the 
 waitress' assistance, the task was completed. About the 
 same time a note arrived from John saying he would be 
 obliged to bring two of his old friends " swell bach 
 elors who were spending the day in town to dine with 
 him that night. She must not put herself to any trouble 
 about dinner, and he would take them to the theater in 
 the evening." To the dinner already ordered were added 
 oyster-pates, salad with mayonnaise dressing, salted alm 
 onds, and instead of the plain pudding that John liked, 
 was a pie of which he was still more fond, capped by 
 black co flee, all of which articles, except the last-named, 
 were prepared by the hostess, who, in faultless toilette, 
 with remarkable brilliant color, smilingly welcomed her 
 husband and his guests to the half-past-six dinner. When 
 they had gone to the theater, and the mother had talked 
 to her two sons of the day's school experiences, before 
 they settled down to their evening of study, she returned 
 to the dining-room, and, as Mary had a headache and had 
 had a busy day, she assisted in washing and wiping the 
 unusual number of soiled dishes, and in setting the break 
 fast table. At nine o'clock she dragged her weary self 
 upstairs. 
 
 As she passed the door of her sanctum on the way to 
 her bedchamber, she paused, then entered and lighted the 
 gas-jet over her desk. In it lay a page of foolscap, blank 
 but for the words: 
 
 Re was " 
 
 The day had gone, and the plot with it. 
 
 With a half-sob she sat down and wrote with tired 
 and trembling fingers:
 
 MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE 193 
 
 " He was this morning. He isn't now! " 
 But will not my readers agree with me that she was 
 a genuine wife, mother, housekeeper in short, a " chink- 
 filler"? 
 
 Permission of Marion Harland. 
 
 Works: "Alone," "Moss-side," "Beech- 
 dale," " Judith," " The Hidden Path," " Handi 
 capped," " Nemesis," " At Last," " Helen Gard 
 ner's Wedding Days," " Jessamine," " With Best 
 Intentions," " True as Steel," " Sunnybank," 
 " From My Youth Up," "My Little Love," " A 
 Gallant Fight," "The Royal Road," "His 
 Daughters," " Marion," " Common Sense in the 
 Nursery," " The Cottage Kitchen," " The Dinner 
 Year Book," " Breakfast, Luncheon, and Tea," 
 " The Story of Mary Washington," " Loitering 
 in Pleasant Paths."
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 1809 1849 
 
 FEW Americans have attracted more attention 
 than the Southern poet, Edgar Allan Poe, and 
 many biographies of him, innumerable reviews, 
 and criticisms, some intelligent, but many igno- 
 rantly and unjustly written, have been published. 
 The fascination of mystery enshrouds much con 
 cerning him, and adds melancholy interest to his 
 history. The very place and date of his birth were 
 for a long time a matter of dispute. It is asserted 
 now and generally admitted that Edgar Poe was 
 born in Boston during a theatrical engagement 
 of his parents, for they were actors. 
 
 Richard H. Stoddard says Poe was born on 
 February 19, while Eugene Didier writes that 
 it was January 19. The parents were Southern 
 people and their home was in Baltimore or Rich 
 mond, when they were not traveling. 
 
 For one hundred years the Poe family occupied 
 a prominent position in the city of Baltimore. 
 David Poe, called General Poe, the grandfather 
 of the poet, was born in Londonderry, in Ireland, 
 in 1743. John Poe and his wife, Jane McBride, 
 
 194
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 195 
 
 the great-grandparents, were also Irish. The 
 family emigrated to America and settled first in 
 Pennsylvania, where David Poe grew to manhood 
 and married the beautiful Miss Cairnes of that 
 State. In 1776 David Poe took up his permanent 
 residence in Baltimore, where he held many posi 
 tions of trust and rendered valuable service to the 
 State. Some of his patriotic letters may be found 
 among the Maryland papers of the " '76 Society." 
 In 1824, when Lafayette was in Baltimore, on 
 learning of the death of General Poe, he called to 
 see Mrs. Poe and expressed to her his great regard 
 for her husband. General Poe had six children, 
 of whom the eldest was David Poe, Jr., the father 
 of Edgar. He was a handsome, dashing young 
 man, and was one of the founders of the Thespian 
 Club of Baltimore. He became infatuated with 
 the stage and at Charleston announced his intention 
 of making his first appearance there as an actor. 
 His uncle, William Poe, persuaded him to give up 
 the stage, and take a place in the law office of Hon. 
 John Forsyth, of Augusta, Georgia. William 
 Poe had settled in Augusta and married the sister 
 of Hon. John Forsyth. Hon. Washington Poe 
 was a child of this marriage and became a member 
 of Congress from Georgia. David Poe fell in 
 love with an actress whose maiden name was 
 Arnold, married her and then adopted and fol 
 lowed his wife's profession. After a wandering
 
 196 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 life of poverty and failure, they both perished in 
 the Richmond Theatre, which was burned Decem 
 ber 26, 1811, in Baltimore. Three children were 
 left penniless. After their death Edgar was 
 adopted by a Mr. Allan of Richmond, Virginia, 
 who, after rearing him in luxury, died and left 
 him without a dollar. Rosalie Poe was adopted 
 by Mr. McKenzie of Richmond, and William 
 Henry, by Mr. Henry Didier, of Baltimore. 
 
 When Edgar Poe was a mere child in the 
 adopted home, " Mr. Allan would call upon him 
 frequently, at dinings, to give a toast, and the boy, 
 rising, roguishly and with ineffable grace, would 
 drink the wine and wittily respond, to the delight 
 of all present." The impressions this training 
 made on a nervous and highly wrought tempera 
 ment, with strong tendencies toward stimulants, 
 were no doubt the beginnings of the habits which 
 blighted Poe's life, and led to his early death, 
 robbing the world of his genius, which should 
 have gladdened it for many years. Poe was so 
 sensitive to the influence of an intoxicant that 
 a single glass of wine made him frantic. When 
 he was six years old, he went with his foster par 
 ents to Europe and attended a private school 
 near London. Upon the family returning to 
 Richmond, Edgar entered the University of Vir 
 ginia, where he was a successful student of 
 languages, and graduated with the highest honor
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 197 
 
 he could receive from the University, which then 
 had no provisions for conferring degrees of any 
 kind. 
 
 Mr. Allan now gave him a position in his office, 
 but the young man grew weary of office work 
 drudgery, went to Boston, and enlisted in the 
 United States Army, under the name of Edgar A. 
 Perry. Here he was again dissatisfied, and Mr. 
 Allan secured his discharge, obtaining for him an 
 appointment at West Point. " The routine of 
 military school life became more and more dis 
 tasteful to him, until at length he deliberately 
 brought about his expulsion by neglect of such 
 duties as roll-call and guard duty." 
 
 Upon the death of Mrs. Allan, Poe lost his 
 best friend, with her tender solicitude and affec 
 tionate interest. Within a year after the death of 
 his wife Mr. Allan married Louise Gabrielle Pat 
 terson, and when a son was born Poe ceased to 
 be the prospective heir to five thousand acres of 
 land in Goochland, Virginia, a hundred slaves, and 
 real estate in Richmond in all a property amount 
 ing to five hundred thousand dollars. Mr. Allan 
 continued for a time to give Edgar a home, but 
 he was merely tolerated, not loved and cared for 
 as he had been during the life of the first wife. 
 Poe, with his proud, sensitive nature, felt the 
 change keenly, and a quarrel and rupture were in 
 evitable. Eugene Didier says in his life of Poe:
 
 i 9 8 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 " For nearly twenty years Edgar had been the 
 idolized child of the house. He returns from 
 West Point and finds all things changed in the old 
 Fifth Street house. Another Mrs. Allan was 
 there. We all know the influence of a second wife 
 upon a fond, doting old husband. Edgar felt its 
 effects more than any one else. Mrs. Allan very 
 naturally wanted all the Allan property for the 
 Allan children." 
 
 Mrs. Susan Archer Tally Weiss says, in a letter 
 to Mr. Didier: "The cause of the quarrel be 
 tween the Allans and Poe was very simple and 
 very natural, human nature considered," and she 
 completely exonerated Edgar Poe from all blame. 
 
 Soon after this Mr. Allan died, leaving Poe 
 unmentioned in his will. In time Poe wandered 
 again to Baltimore, and made his home with his 
 father's sister, Mrs. Clemm, whose daughter Vir 
 ginia he married in May, 1836. Though ex 
 tremely poor, the three formed a very happy 
 household, until death took the child-wife and left 
 Poe alone again with only desperate poverty. 
 " Seldom has a life been so full of genius and of 
 misery." 
 
 During all these years Edgar Allan Poe was a 
 constant contributor to various periodicals, win 
 ning a prize from a Philadelphia paper with his 
 story, " The Gold Bug," and the hundred-dollar 
 prize offered by the " Baltimore Saturday Visitor "
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 199 
 
 with his story, " A MS. Found in a Bottle." In 
 1835 ne went to Richmond and became assistant 
 editor of " The Southern Literary Messenger," 
 which magazine he conducted with marked ability. 
 His stories " The Maelstrom " and " The Mur 
 ders in Rue Morgue " are among the most 
 powerful short stories in any language. He was 
 the first and greatest writer of detective stories. 
 His " Monsieur C. Auguste Dupin " is a master 
 of the analysis of crime. 
 
 Brander Matthews in his " Introduction to 
 American Literature " says : " Poe, in the eyes of 
 foreigners, is the most gifted of all the authors 
 of America; he is the one to whom the critics of 
 Europe would most readily accord the full title 
 of genius. At the end of this nineteenth century, 
 Poe is the sole man of letters, born in the United 
 States, whose writings are read eagerly in Great 
 Britain, in France, in Germany, in Italy, and in 
 Spain, where Franklin is now but a name, and 
 where the fame of James Fenimore Cooper, once 
 so widely spread, is now slowly drifting away." 
 
 Poe's works cover three fields, poetry, fiction 
 and criticism, and in the latter he first attracted 
 attention. As a writer of short stories he estab 
 lished a reputation for great originality. Prob 
 ably his strongest work is in prose. His analysis 
 and his description were so true and real that some 
 believed his stories founded on actual experience;
 
 200 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 as for instance the " Balloon Journey," published 
 in the New York " Sun," and his analysis of 
 monomania and catalepsy in the story of Bernice. 
 
 " A MS. Found in a Bottle " is the story of a 
 sailor who went down in a whirlpool near the 
 South Pole. 
 
 " The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym "is a 
 horrible story of adventures that befell a ship 
 wrecked crew among cannibals. Discovery and 
 invention helped Poe in the weird tale of " Sche 
 herazade," and the " Gold Bug " is an account of 
 the discovery of Captain Kidd's treasure under a 
 tulip tree. " The Murders of the Rue Morgue " 
 shows the powerful analytical reasoning of a young 
 Frenchman who finally discovers that the perpe 
 trator of a horrible murder which had shocked all 
 Paris was an escaped orang-outang. " The Mys 
 tery of Maria Bouget " is the exposition of an 
 other murder, and " The Black Cat," one among 
 his best known stories, shows the growth of crim 
 inal impulse and the helplessness of a broken 
 will. 
 
 Edgar Poe is described as having been of me 
 dium height, erect and handsome in early life. 
 His eyes possessed wondrous beauty and charm. 
 Intellectually and as a companion he was most fas 
 cinating, and when not under the influence of 
 liquor, a most lovable person. He closed his 
 troubled life at the Washington University Hospi-
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 201 
 
 tal of Baltimore, from causes which will probably 
 never be known. 
 
 It has been declared that Poe was intoxicated 
 and left the train, not knowing what he was doing, 
 but when his monument was erected in Baltimore 
 in 1875, by the teachers of that city, assisted by 
 George W. Childs of Philadelphia, this accusation 
 was declared untrue. 
 
 Appleton Morgan says: "The conductor of 
 the train carrying the poet for the last time, made 
 a sworn statement that there was no sign of intoxi 
 cation about him," and Dr. John J. Morgan said: 
 " There was no smell of liquor about the body 
 when brought to the hospital." The story that 
 Poe was a habitual drunkard is denied by many 
 modern writers. 
 
 In the winter of 1837, when Poe and his little 
 family were in New York, Mrs. Clemm endeav 
 ored to add to their slender income by taking 
 boarders. William Gowans, a then well-known 
 bookseller, boarded with them. He says of the 
 eight months he was with Poe : " I saw much of 
 him during that time. He was one of the most 
 courteous, gentlemanly, and intelligent compan 
 ions I ever met. I never saw him in the least af 
 fected by liquor, or descend to any known vice." 
 
 Eugene Didier says: "There are some people 
 who will always believe that the life of Edgar 
 Allan Poe was one long fit of intoxication. It
 
 202 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 never seems to occur to these people that a drunk 
 ard's intellect could not have produced the literary 
 work which stands as an immortal monument to 
 Poe's genius." 
 
 Besides the ancient and modern languages Poe's 
 works show a familiarity with natural history, 
 mineralogy, philosophy, chemistry, astronomy, etc. 
 Habitual drunkards do not, generally speaking, 
 spend their time in accumulating vast stores of 
 learning. It does seem very suspicious that only 
 one of Poe's acquaintances knew of his frequent 
 " fits of intoxication." N. P. Willis, who was in 
 daily intercourse with him for months, saw noth 
 ing of his dissipated habits. L. A. Wilmer, dur 
 ing an intimate friendship of twelve years, saw 
 nothing of it. George R. Graham, who was asso 
 ciated with him for two years, saw nothing of it. 
 S. D. Lewis, who lived in closest intimacy, never 
 saw Poe drink a glass of wine, beer or liquor of 
 any kind. The fact is, that it was only at rare 
 intervals, and more especially after the loss of his 
 adored wife, that he indulged in stimulants. 
 Poe was a most industrious, laborious, painstaking 
 writer. Neilson Poe said Edgar was one of the 
 best-hearted men that ever lived. " Every person 
 who came in contact with Edgar Poe speaks of 
 his elegant appearance, the stately grace of his 
 manners, and his fascinating conversation." 
 
 Hannay, the English critic, says of Poe's writ-
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 203 
 
 ings: " His poetry is all as pure as wild flowers. 
 With all his passion for the beautiful, no poet was 
 ever less voluptuous. He never profaned his 
 genius." 
 
 It is a matter of surprise that any American 
 writer, who really has at heart the honor of Amer 
 ican literature, should endeavor to cast reproach 
 and dishonor upon Edgar Allan Poe, who has 
 done more for our country's literary reputation 
 than any other author. It is hard to stop a false 
 hood when once started. 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe was perhaps the most schol 
 arly writer our country ever produced. His ac 
 quaintance with classical literature was thorough, 
 and even the most insignificant of his writings 
 show scholarship. 
 
 Dr. Griswold's " Life of Poe " was unfortu 
 nately our first medium for forming an estimate of 
 our noble poet. This biography was only the 
 cruel revenge a man took upon a dead author who 
 had dared in life to criticise the book " Poets and 
 Poetry of America." Every volume of Dr. Gris 
 wold's biography of Edgar Allan Poe should be 
 destroyed. 
 
 His published works are " Poems," " Tales of 
 the Arabesque and Grotesque," " Humorous 
 Tales and Sketches," " Literati of New York," 
 " Conchologist's First Book," " Poems Written in 
 Youth," and " Critical Essays."
 
 2O4 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 Walter C. Brown says : " To his American en 
 vironment Poe owed nothing but poverty and fet 
 ters, but in spite of all he managed to produce a 
 few poems and tales which are perfect of their 
 kind, and greatly raised the standard of art in 
 American literature." 
 
 Another critic says : " Poe's striking genius will 
 rank him always as one of the most distinguished 
 writers of English. To-day his works are more 
 in demand than ever before. They abound in that 
 magnetic quality which not only attracts, but also 
 arouses permanent interest. You will read Poe 
 over and over again. No one can have a knowl 
 edge of American verse, fiction, and criticism with 
 out a thorough acquaintance with his masterpieces 
 of imagination. His writings constitute a treasure- 
 house of pathos, mystery, melody, and dramatic 
 narrative, weird fancy, and profound wisdom." 
 
 Mrs. M. E. Bryant writes: "Almost as many 
 utterly false things have been published and be 
 lieved about Poe as about Byron. In the new En 
 cyclopaedia Britannica it says that Poe is the most 
 interesting figure in American literature, and fur 
 nishes the most extraordinary instance on record 
 of systematic misrepresentation on the part of 
 biographers." 
 
 His " critical notices," spiced with wit and 
 irony, his acute sensitiveness to defects, particu 
 larly in poetry, made him a severe and con-
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 205 
 
 scientious critic. He made enemies by this, such 
 as Dr. Griswold, whose works he frankly criti 
 cised. 
 
 Donald G. Mitchell says : " Again and again in 
 highest praise, of this erratic genius, it must be 
 said that in his pages there is no coarse, no beastly 
 double meaning, not a line to pamper sensual 
 appetite." 
 
 " The Raven " was published anonymously in 
 " The American Review " of February, 1845. N. 
 P. Willis, who knew it to be Poe's, transferred it 
 to " The New York Evening Mirror " and gave 
 it a good review. An English writer says: " ' The 
 Raven ' is the most popular lyrical poem in the 
 world. It has been translated and commented 
 upon by the leading literati of the two continents, 
 and an entire literature has been founded upon it." 
 
 At West Point Poe's scholarship was high, but 
 he rebelled against the routine of military dis 
 cipline. Poe's life was one long struggle with 
 poverty. In 1833 he had sunk to great destitu 
 tion, when " A MS. Found in a Bottle " won the 
 prize of $100. Under his conduct "The South 
 ern Literary Messenger " sprang into sudden 
 prominence, and gained wonderful advancement. 
 Professor Woodbery says, speaking of Poe : " He 
 impressed me as a refined and very gentlemanly 
 man, exceedingly neat in person. His manner 
 was quiet and reserved. The form of his MS.
 
 206 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 was peculiar. He wrote on half sheets of note 
 paper which he pasted together. His life in the 
 cottage on the outskirts of Philadelphia and later 
 in Fordham was idyllic in the days when his child- 
 wife was well enough to sing on the harp, while 
 Poe hung over her frail form tenderly, and good 
 Mrs. Clemm, who idolized them both, looked on 
 with motherly pleasure." 
 
 After the death of his wife, Poe had brain 
 fever, and he never quite returned to his former 
 self, and the intense suffering of his morbidly sen 
 sitive nature, with all the sad results, must touch 
 the heart of any merciful person. Although the 
 critical reviews of Poe were not valued in his time 
 as they should be, they helped to raise the standard 
 of American letters by their keen, fearless attacks 
 upon " complacent mediocrity." 
 
 His lectures on " The Poetic Principle," in which 
 poetry is defined as " the rhythmic creation of 
 Beauty," were a " wholesome antidote to the di- 
 dactism of New England conception of Art." 
 Walter Bronson says:. "Poe has been accused of 
 plagiarism, but in his best work he was emphat 
 ically original." The old " Poe and Chivers Con 
 troversy " has from time to time reappeared, and 
 claims are made that Poe got his style, atmosphere 
 and unique rhythmic conceptions from poems of 
 Dr. Thomas Holly Chivers. 
 
 Of this Professor Charles H. Hubner says:
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 207 
 
 " Every reader and student will have to form his 
 own conclusions." Referring to " The Bells," 
 "The Raven," "Annabel Lee," he adds: " No 
 critic will doubt that to Poe belongs the wonderful 
 magic and mastery of this species of song. If .to 
 him who says a thing best the thing belongs, no 
 one will hesitate to decide that Poe is entitled to 
 the ' bays which crown ' him." 
 
 To-day Poe's works are more in demand than 
 ever, and to-day he is the most interesting figure 
 in American literature. Any one who is not ca 
 pable of appreciation of the beauty of his poetry 
 and who has not a heart that can feel keen sym 
 pathy with his bitter poverty, should never attempt 
 to be the judge of Edgar Allan Poe. 
 
 Miss Susan Archer Tally (Mrs. Weiss) lived 
 near neighbor to Mrs. McKenzie in Richmond, 
 who had adopted Poe's sister Rosalie. Mrs. 
 Weiss was quite intimate with Rose Poe, and when 
 Poe came to Richmond in 1849, i n tne interest of 
 his magazine, " The Stylus," which he was eager 
 to publish, he took lodging at Swan's Tavern, a 
 rambling frame building on the corner of Eighth 
 and Broad Streets. Poe was then about forty 
 years old. Mrs. Weiss described him as of me 
 dium height and distinguished looking. " His 
 eyes," she says, " were unlike any I have ever seen 
 and possessed wonderful beauty and charm. Large 
 and shaded by long black lashes, they were steel
 
 208 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 gray in color, of crystalline clearness, the pupils 
 expanding and contracting with every shade of 
 thought or emotion. Young as I was, I seemed 
 to recognize the finer nature of the man." 
 
 Charles Hemstreet says: "When Poe wrote 
 4 The Raven ' he was living with his wife and her 
 mother, Mrs. Clemm, in Bloomingdale Village, 
 the house standing on the thoroughfare now run 
 ning between Broadway and West End Avenue. 
 In the spring of 1846, when his wife grew more 
 feeble, he moved out into the country to a secluded 
 spot then far from the city known as Fordham. 
 In this dingy little house Poe dreamed out his 
 ' Eureka,' and penned the exquisite ' Annabel 
 Lee ' and also the first draught of ' The Bells.' " 
 
 THE BELLS 
 I 
 
 Hear the sledges with the bells, 
 
 Silver bells, 
 
 What a world of merriment their melody foretells! 
 How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
 
 In the icy air of night ! 
 While the stars that oversprinkle 
 All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
 With a crystalline delight, 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme,
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 209 
 
 To the tintinabulation that so musically wells 
 From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 
 Bells, bells, bells 
 From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 
 
 II 
 
 Hear the mellow wedding bells, 
 
 Golden bells! 
 
 What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! 
 Through the balmy air of night 
 How they ring out their delight! 
 From the molten-golden notes, 
 
 All in tune, 
 
 What a liquid ditty floats 
 To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
 
 On the moon ! 
 
 Oh, from out the sounding cells, 
 What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! 
 How it swells! 
 How it dwells 
 
 On the Future! How it tells 
 Of the rapture that impels 
 To the swinging and the ringing 
 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells - 
 To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Hear the loud alarum bells, 
 Brazen bells!
 
 210 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! 
 In the startled ear of night 
 How they scream out their affright ! 
 Too much horrified to speak, 
 They can only shriek, shriek, 
 
 Out of tune, 
 
 In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 
 In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire 
 Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
 With a desperate desire, 
 And a resolute endeavor, 
 Now now to sit or never, 
 By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
 Oh, the bells, bells, bells! 
 What a tale their terror tells 
 
 Of Despair! 
 
 How they clang, and clash, and roar! 
 What a horror they outpour 
 On the bosom of the palpitating air! 
 Yet the ear it fully knows, 
 By the twanging, 
 And the clanging, 
 How the danger ebbs and flows; 
 Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
 In the jangling, 
 And the wrangling, 
 How the danger sinks and swells, 
 By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells,- 
 
 Of the bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells 
 In the clamor and the clangor of the bells.
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 211 
 
 IV 
 
 Hear the tolling of the bells, 
 
 Iron bells! 
 
 What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! 
 In the silence of the night 
 How we shiver with affright 
 At the melancholy menace of their tone! 
 For every sound that floats 
 From the rust within their throats 
 
 Is a groan. 
 
 And the people ah, the people 
 They that dwell up in the steeple, 
 
 All alone, 
 And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, 
 
 In that muffled monotone, 
 Feel a glory in so rolling 
 
 On the human heart a stone 
 They are neither man nor woman 
 They are neither brute nor human 
 
 They are Ghouls: 
 And their king it is who tolls; 
 And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
 
 Rolls 
 
 A paean from the bells! 
 And his merry bosom swells 
 With the paean of the bells ! 
 And he dances, and he yells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 To the paean of the bells, 
 
 Of the bells;
 
 212 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the throbbing of the bells 
 Of the bells, bells, bells 
 
 To the sobbing of the bells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 
 As he knells, knells, knells, 
 In a happy Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the rolling of the bells 
 Of the bells, bells, bells 
 
 To the tolling of the bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 
 Bells, bells, bells 
 To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 
 
 Permission A. C. Armstrong & Sons, Pub., N. Y. 
 
 ANNABEL LEE 
 It was many and many a year ago, 
 
 In a kingdom by the sea, 
 That a maiden there lived whom you may know 
 
 By the name of Annabel Lee: 
 And this maiden she lived with no other thought 
 
 Than to love and be loved by me. 
 
 I was a child and she was a child, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea; 
 But we loved with a love which was more than love- 
 
 I and my Annabel Lee ; 
 With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 
 
 Coveted her and me. 
 
 And this was the reason that, long ago, 
 In this kingdom by the sea,
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 213 
 
 A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
 
 My beautiful Annabel Lee; 
 So that her high-born kinsman came 
 
 And bore her away from me, 
 To shut her up in a sepulchre 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea. 
 
 The angels not half so happy in heaven, 
 
 Went envying her and me 
 Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea) 
 That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 
 
 Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 
 
 But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
 
 Of those who were older than we 
 
 Of many far wiser than we 
 And neither the angels in heaven above, 
 
 Nor the demons down under the sea, 
 Ever dissever my soul from the soul 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 
 
 For the moon never beams without bringing me 
 dreams 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
 And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
 And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
 Of my darling my darling my life and my bride, 
 
 In the sepulchre there by the sea, 
 
 In her tomb by the sounding sea. 
 By permission of A. C. Armstrong, New York City.
 
 MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 
 ("CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK") 
 
 THIS talented writer was born at Grantlands, 
 the home of her parents near Murfreesboro, Ten 
 nessee, this city being named for her family, who 
 were early settlers in the State. 
 
 Her father was a lawyer, but his fortunes were 
 ruined by the disasters of the Civil War. In ad 
 dition to this poverty which so early shadowed 
 her life, there came to Miss Murfree the trial of 
 disease, and a partial paralysis left the little girl 
 lame and deprived her of active sports enjoyed by 
 other children. Thus she was set apart in one of 
 those " wildernesses " into which God often sends 
 those of whom He makes His most capable work 
 ers. " Sickness sent Scott to the country where he 
 gathered legend and story, it inclined Dickens to 
 reading and laid Hawthorne often down upon the 
 carpet to study." Through an intense desire for 
 occupation, the desire to write came to her, for 
 both her father and mother had written for many 
 magazines. Miss Murfree strengthened her mind 
 by the most wholesome and the best reading, and 
 she soon developed a capacity for the examination 
 
 214
 
 M4RY NOAILLES MURFREE 215 
 
 of human types, seeming to have peculiar insight 
 into the nature of boys. " To the slaves on the 
 plantation she was indebted, as was every Southern 
 writer, for a unique cultivation of fancy and leg 
 endary taste." 
 
 Although years passed before Miss Murfree's 
 writings began to receive much recognition, they 
 were years spent in study and intelligent gathering 
 in of good material, near at hand. She had op 
 portunity for a varied collection of experiences. 
 The buildings on the place where she was born 
 were riddled with bullets at the battle of Stone 
 River. 
 
 The assumed name, " Charles Egbert Crad- 
 dock," under which she wrote, was used for the 
 double purpose of concealing failure if it came 
 her way, and because she believed the writings of 
 a man were more apt to be well received than those 
 of a woman. So perfectly did she hide behind 
 this nom de plume that her publishers wrote to 
 her as to a man, beginning their letters, " My dear 
 Craddock." Her manuscripts had nothing femi 
 nine about them, her writing was clear and bold, 
 and free from any feminine " hall marks." When 
 she wrote " The Prophet of the Great Smoky 
 Mountain " and found herself famous, she sur 
 prised her publishers by appearing and introducing 
 herself. Miss Murfree's first story, which ap 
 peared in " The Atlantic Monthly," was called
 
 216 
 
 MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 
 
 " The Dancing Party." Egbert Craddock was 
 the name of the hero of her second story, and so, 
 being in search of a nom de plume for herself, 
 she took the name of her hero with the prefix of 
 Charles. Miss Murfree soon became recognized 
 as a Southern writer of uncommon art, originality 
 and power. Her sympathetic insight into ordinary, 
 unpoetic lives, her recognition of the beauty and 
 pathos of the Tennessee mountaineers, shows her 
 capable of the depth necessary for a writer of fic 
 tion. She shows with wondrously tender insight 
 " that the same questions, the same doubts, the 
 same fears and temptations perplex the untutored 
 heart as they do the people of higher culture, and 
 that the most lowly can often rise to the heights 
 of the heroic." 
 
 Her story of " Where the Battle was Fought " 
 is a novel of picturesque power, though " The 
 Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountain " has been 
 considered her best. 
 
 " In the Tennessee Mountains " is a collection 
 of eight short stories. " Down the Ravine " is 
 called a story for young people, but no one should 
 be too old to be delighted by its bright sketches 
 of scenery in the Cumberland Mountains. How 
 close the story gets to every mother's heart when 
 the mountaineer mother says : " Don't everybody 
 know a boy's mother air boun' ter take his part 
 agin all the worl'?" and what more pathetic and
 
 MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 217 
 
 touching character than the little sister, " Tennes 
 see," who " ain't purty, but she's powerful 
 peart " ! Miss Murfree's stories are pure and 
 wholesome, a benefit to all who read them. 
 Among the best-known are : " In the Clouds," 
 " Keedon Bluffs," " His Vanished Star," " The 
 Mystery of Witch Face Mountain." 
 
 IN THE CLOUDS 
 
 "Where be ye goin', Lethe?" demanded Mrs. Sayles, 
 ruthlessly interrupting Jacob's monologue. 
 
 " Ter hunt up that thar lamb," replied Alethea calmly, 
 as if nothing else had been under discussion. " I ain't seen 
 nuthin' of it ter-day, an' some o' the chill'n I believe 
 'twas Joe 'lowed its dam were down yander nigh Boke's 
 spring yesteddy, actin' sorter cur'ous, an' I reckon suthin's 
 happened ter it." 
 
 Doaks looked after her as she went, tempted to follow. 
 
 She took the way down the path beside the zigzag rail 
 fence. All the corners were rank with wild flowers, vines 
 and bushes, among which her golden head showed from 
 time to time as in a wreath. She was soon without the 
 limits of Wild Cat Hollow. More than once she paused 
 as she went, holding her hands above her eyes, and look 
 ing at the vast array of mountains on every side. A for 
 eign land to her, removed even from vague speculation, 
 she saw only how those august summits lifted themselves 
 into the sky, how the clouds, weary-winged, were fain 
 to rest upon them. There was a vague blurring at the 
 horizon line, for a shower was succeeded by mist. The
 
 218 MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 
 
 woods intervened presently; the long stretches of the 
 majestic avenues lay before her, all singularly open, 
 cleared of undergrowth by the fiery besom of the autumn 
 conflagration. It was very silent ; once only she heard the 
 shrill trilling of a tree frog; and once the insistent clamor 
 of the locust broke out close at hand, vibrating louder and 
 louder and dying away, to be caught up antiphonally in 
 the distance. Often she noted the lightning-scathed trees, 
 the fated of the forest, writhen and blanched and spectral 
 among their flourishing kindred. There were presently 
 visible at the end of the long leafy vista other dead trees; 
 their blight was more prosaic; they stood girdled and 
 white in an abandoned field that lay below the slope on 
 which she had paused, and near the base of the mountain. 
 A broken, rotting rail-fence still encircled it. Blackberry 
 bushes, broom-sedge, a tangle of weeds, were a travesty 
 of its crops. A fox, a swift-scudding tawny streak, sped 
 across it as she looked. Hard by there was a deserted 
 hut : the doors were open, showing dark voids within ; the 
 batten shutters flapped with every changing whim of the 
 winds. Fine sport they often had, those riotous mountain 
 sprites, shrieking down the chimney to affright the loneli 
 ness; then falling to sobs and sighs to mock the voices of 
 those who had known sorrow here and perhaps shed tears ; 
 sometimes wrapping themselves in snow as in a garment, 
 and reeling in fantastic whirls through forlorn and empty 
 place; sometimes twitting the gaunt timbers with their 
 infirmities, and one wild night wrenching off half a dozen 
 clapboards from the roof and scattering them about the 
 door. Thus the moon might look in, seeing no more than 
 those whose eyes had once met its beam, and even the 
 sunlight had melancholy intimations when it shone on the
 
 MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 219 
 
 forsaken hearth-stone. A screech-owl had found refuge 
 among the rafters, and Alethea heard its quavering scream 
 ending in a low, sinister chuckle. There was a barn near 
 at hand, a structure of undaubed, unhewn logs, with 
 wide-open pass-way below the loft to shelter wagons and 
 farm implements ; it seemed in better repair than the 
 house. The amber sky above the dark woods had deep 
 ened to orange, to crimson ; the waning light suffused the 
 waters of the spring branch which flowed close by the 
 barn, the willows leaning to it, the ferns laving in it. 
 The place was incredibly solitary and mournful with the 
 persistent spectacle of the deserted house, suggestive of 
 collapsed energies, of the defeated schemes of some simple 
 humanity. 
 
 A faint bleat rose suddenly. Alethea turned quickly. 
 Amongst a patch of briars she caught a glimpse of some 
 thing white; another glance, it was the ewe, quietly 
 nibbling the grass. Alethea had no intention of moving 
 softly, but her skirts brushing through the weeds made 
 hardly a sound. Her light, sure step scarcely stirred a 
 leaf. The ewe saw her presently and paused in feeding. 
 She had been making the best of her woes, remaining near 
 her lamb, which had fallen into a sink-hole, sustained by 
 the earth, gravel and banks of leaves held in the mouth of 
 the cavity. Its leg was broken, and thus, although the 
 sheep could venture to it, the lamb could not follow to 
 the vantage-ground above. Seeing that succor was at 
 hand, the sheep lost all patience and calmness, and ran 
 about Alethea in a distracting fashion, bleating, till the 
 lamb, roused to a renewed sense of its calamities, bleated 
 piteously too. As it lay down in the cavity upon the dead 
 leaves, it had a strangely important look upon its face,
 
 22O 
 
 appreciating how much stir it was making in the world 
 for one of its size. Alethea noticed this, albeit she was too 
 self-absorbed at the moment. These treacherous hopper- 
 shaped sink-holes are of indefinite depth, and are often 
 the mouths of caves. To reach the lamb she must needs 
 venture half way across the cavity. She stepped cautiously 
 down the debris, holding fast the while to the branches 
 of an elder-bush growing on its verge. She felt the earth 
 sinking beneath her feet. The sheep, which had jumped 
 in too, sprang hastily out. Alethea had a 'dizzy realiza 
 tion of insecurity. She caught the lamb in one arm, then 
 stepped upon the sinking mass, and struggled up the side 
 of the aperture, as with a great gulp the leaves and earth 
 were swallowed into the cavity. She looked down with 
 that sickening sense of a sheer escape, still holding the 
 lamb in one arm; the other hand readjusted the heavy 
 masses of her golden hair, and the saffron kerchief about 
 the neck of her brown dress. The sheep, one anxiety re 
 moved, was the prey of another, and pressed close to 
 Alethea, with outstretched head and all the fears of kid 
 napping in her pleading eyes. Alethea waited for a mo 
 ment to rest. Then as she glanced, over her shoulder 
 her heart seemed to stand still, her brain reeled, and, but 
 for her acute consciousness, she would have thought she 
 must be dreaming. The clearing lay there all as it was 
 a moment before; the deserted buildings, the weed-grown 
 fields, the rotting rail fence; the woods dark about it, the 
 sky red above it. Around and around the old barn, in a 
 silent circuit, three men were solemnly tramping in 
 single file. She stood staring at them with dilated eyes, 
 all the mystic traditions of supernatural manifestations 
 uppermost in her mind. Once more the owl's scream rent
 
 MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 221 
 
 the brooding stillness. How far that low, derisive chuckle 
 echoed! A star, melancholy, solitary, was in the pensive 
 sky. The men's faces were grave, once, twice, thrice, 
 they made the round. Then they stood together in the 
 open space beneath the loft, and consulted in whispers. 
 One suddenly spoke aloud. 
 
 "Oh, Tobe! " he called. 
 
 "Tobe!" called the echoes. 
 
 There was no answer. All three looked up wistfully. 
 Then they again conferred together in a low tone. 
 
 "Oh, Tobias!" cried the spokesman in a voice of en 
 treaty. 
 
 " Tobias ! " pleaded the plaintive echoes. Still there 
 was no answer. The owl screamed suddenly in its weird, 
 shrill tones. It had flown out from among the rafters and 
 perched on the smokeless chimney of the hut. Then its 
 uncanny laughter filled the interval. 
 
 Once more the men whispered anxiously to each other. 
 One of them, a tall, ungainly, red-haired fellow, seemed 
 to have evolved a solution of the problem which had 
 baffled them. 
 
 "Mister Winkeye!" he exclaimed, with vociferous 
 confidence. 
 
 The echoes were forestalled. A sneeze rang out ab 
 ruptly from the loft of the deserted old barn, a sneeze 
 resonant, artificial, grotesque enough to set the blades 
 below to roaring with delighted laughter. 
 
 " He mus' hev his joke. Mr. Winkeye air a mighty 
 jokified old man," declared the red-haired fellow. 
 
 They made no effort to hold further communication 
 with the sneezer in the loft. They hastily placed a burly 
 jug in the center of the space below, and laid a silver half-
 
 222 MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 
 
 dollar upon the cob that served as stopper. The coin 
 looked extremely small in this juxtaposition. There 
 may be people elsewhere who would be glad of a silver 
 coin of that size capable of rilling so disproportionately 
 large a jug. Then they ran off fleetly out of the clearing 
 into the woods, and Alethea could hear the brush cracking 
 as they dashed through it on the slopes below. 
 
 She was still pale and tremulous, but no longer doubts 
 beset her. She understood the wiles of the illicit distiller, 
 pursued so closely by the artifices of the raiders, that he 
 was prone to distrust the very consumers of his whiskey. 
 They never saw his face, they knew not even his name. 
 They had no faint suspicion where his still was hidden. 
 They were not even dangerous as unwilling witnesses, 
 should they be caught with the illicit whiskey in their 
 hands. The story that they had left a jug and a half- 
 dollar in a deserted barn and found the jug filled and the 
 coin vanished, would inculpate no one. From the loft 
 the distiller or his emissary could see and recognize them 
 as they came. Alethea, having crept down the slope 
 amongst the briars in search of the lamb, had been con 
 cealed from him. She was seized with instant desire to 
 get way before he should appear. She coveted the knowl 
 edge of no such dangerous secret. She walked boldly out 
 from the leafy covert, that he might see her in the clear 
 ing and delay till she was gone. 
 
 The lamb was bleating faintly in her arms ; the sheep 
 pressed close to her side, nudging her elbow with insistent 
 nozzle. The last flush of the day was on her shining hair 
 and her grave, earnest face. The path led her by the barn. 
 She hesitated, stopped, and drew back hastily. A man 
 was swinging himself alertly down from the loft. He
 
 MARY NOAILLES MURFREE 223 
 
 caught up the coin, slipped it into his pocket, and lifted 
 the jug with the other hand. The next moment he 
 dropped it suddenly, with a startled exclamation. His 
 eyes had met her eyes. There was a moment of suspense 
 charged with mutual recognition. Then she ran hastily 
 by, never pausing till she was far away in the deep ob 
 scurity of the woods. 
 
 Courtesy of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
 
 MARIA J. McINTOSH 
 
 " OF noble Scottish descent, tracing back to the 
 clan Mclntosh, famous in history as loyal adher 
 ents to the House of Stuart, Maria J. Mclntosh 
 was born in Georgia, in the village of Sunbury, 
 not far from Savannah, and there received her 
 primal stamp and stamina." 
 
 Captain John Moore Mclntosh, her great 
 grandfather, was driven from Scotland by the fall 
 of the Stuarts, and set sail, with one hundred re 
 tainers, for the Georgia colony, in 1735. They 
 landed on the banks of the Altamaha, and called 
 their settlement (now known as Darien) " New 
 Inverness," in memory of the homeland. The 
 county still bears the original name, Mclntosh. 
 Major Lachlan Mclntosh, the father of Maria, 
 was an officer in the Revolutionary War, and after 
 wards became a successful lawyer. After the 
 Revolution Major Mclntosh married, removed to 
 the village of Sunbury, and here Maria Mclntosh 
 was born and reared. 
 
 She attended the academy in Sunbury, and 
 nursed her invalid mother for many years, and 
 this experience developed the young girl's mental 
 and moral strength. 
 
 224
 
 MARIA J. M'INTOSH 225 
 
 In 1835, after the death of father and mother, 
 Miss Mclntosh went to live in New York with her 
 brother, Captain James M. Mclntosh, of the 
 United States Navy. 
 
 " It was suggested by a friend to Miss Mcln 
 tosh that she should try her literary powers in a 
 series of juvenile tales. Under the name of 
 ' Aunt Kitty ' this talented Georgian published 
 ' Blind Alice ' with marked success." 
 
 Then came " Jessie Graham," " Florence Ar- 
 nott," " Grace and Clara," and " Ellen Leslie " 
 in rapid succession, " each story pure as a dew- 
 drop, sparkling in its own jewel of moral truth." 
 
 Then followed the more ambitious books, 
 " Conquest and Self-Conquest," " Praise and 
 Principle " and " Two Lives." In 1848 appeared 
 " Charms and Counter Charms," " a work in 
 which the author seems to have concentrated the 
 strength of her artistic and womanly nature. It 
 is threaded with veins and nerves, as if she had 
 dipped her pen in living hearts, and had written 
 on because the electric tide would flow." 
 
 In 1853 "The Lofty and the Lowly" was 
 published and sold rapidly at home and abroad. 
 In company with her nephew, the Hon. John 
 Ward, Miss Mclntosh sailed for Liverpool in 
 1859, and she enjoyed months of travel in Eng 
 land and France, settling for a time with Mrs. 
 Ward, her brother's wife, in Switzerland. " Their
 
 226 MARIA J. M'INTOSH 
 
 cottage, shut in by Alpine Heights," was fit home 
 for gathering food and inspiration for future au 
 thorship. Miss Mclntosh was known to the read 
 ing world chiefly through her prose writings, yet 
 she published fragments of song, such as " A La 
 ment," " A Paean," and " A Prayer," which are 
 true poems. Her books have all been translated 
 into French, and were largely sold in France and 
 England. Love of locality and home is expressed 
 in " A Southern Home." 
 
 Home! Home! I have had too many resting places in 
 my not very long life this is my twentieth birthday 
 but I have had, I can have, but one home. For eight 
 years I have not seen it, with the bodily eye, and yet how 
 vividly it stands before me! A week ago I determined to 
 paint it, and the picture, to which I have given every 
 moment of leisure, is done; here in this record of thought 
 and feeling meant only for myself, I may say what I truly 
 think. 
 
 There is the very beach where I gathered shells with 
 my faithful nurse, my kind, devoted Charity. To the 
 eastward the blue waves are lifting their white foam- 
 crests to the sun; inland I can distinguish amid the mass 
 of verdure which marked the utmost tropical luxuriance 
 of St. Mary's Isle, the glistening leaves of the orange- 
 trees only half concealing their snowy flowers and golden 
 fruit, and the darker green of the old oaks, " the king 
 of forests all," from whose giant boughs the long pendant 
 moss suspends its floating drapery of silver gray. Within 
 the circle of those live oaks rises the home which sheltered
 
 MARIA J. M'INTOSH 227 
 
 my orphan childhood : a frame building two stories high, 
 and surrounded by a piazza., whose pillars, wreathed with 
 roses, honeysuckles and woodbine, gave something of airy 
 brightness to what would otherwise have been without 
 ornament and grace.
 
 THOMAS NELSON PAGE 
 1853 
 
 THIS American writer of dialect stories was 
 born at Oakland plantation, Hanover County, Vir 
 ginia. His early life was passed upon the estate 
 which belonged to his maternal ancestor, Thomas 
 Nelson. He was educated at Washington and Lee 
 University and there studied law, afterwards prac 
 ticing in Richmond. As a delineator of negro dia 
 lect and character there are few men who equal 
 him, and possibly none excel him. He has won 
 for himself a lasting and enviable name in the 
 world of letters. His first literary attempts were 
 in the shape of negro dialect stories and poems, 
 and they were so well received that he settled down 
 to the steady, hard work necessary for a literary 
 career. The first real story of any length which 
 came from his pen was entitled " In Old Virginia," 
 and appeared in 1887. Shortly after its appear 
 ance a leading critic said: " To Mr. Page all eyes 
 will now be turned, for he has done something 
 in a literary way notably excellent and pointing 
 easily to a future bright with a sunlit path." 
 
 His second story, published in 1883, " Two Lit- 
 228
 
 THOMAS NELSON PAGE 229 
 
 tie Confederates," was even better than " In Old 
 Virginia." But his greatest production came later 
 when his pen brought forth those undying master 
 pieces, "Marsc Chan," " Meh Lady," "Red 
 Rock," and his latest, " Gordon Keith." " These 
 four books are destined to live beyond this age, 
 for they tell a tale of life and character equal to 
 that told by Dickens." 
 
 Page has one charm which few latter-day writ 
 ers possess, namely, absolute perfectness of fin 
 ish as to style and rhetoric. He turns out no 
 " shoddy " or hasty work. His stories delineate 
 the old Virginia darky and his dialect, as Mr. 
 Harris does the darky of the Carolinas and Geor 
 gia. There is a marked difference in the language 
 of the negro in different sections of the South. 
 
 " The naturalness of this author's style, the 
 skill with which he uses seemingly indifferent inci 
 dents and sayings to light up his pictures, the ap 
 parently unintentional and therefore most effective 
 touches of pathos, are uncommon." 
 
 That this writer's life has been a busy one, is 
 evidenced by the number of his books : 
 
 "In Old Virginia," "Two Little Confeder 
 ates," "On Newfoundland River," "The Old 
 South," " Among the Camps," " Elsket and Other 
 Stories," "Befo' de War," "Pastime Stories," 
 " The Burial of the Guns," " Unc' Edinburgh," 
 11 Meh Lady," " Marse Chan," " Polly," " Social
 
 230 THOMAS NELSON PAGE 
 
 Life in Old Virginia," " The Old Gentleman of 
 the Black Stock," " Two Prisoners," " Red 
 Rock," "Santa Claus's Partner," U A Captured 
 Santa Glaus," " Gordon Keith." 
 
 This extract from "A Soldier of the Empire" 
 depicts the patriotism of the French soldier, and 
 the closing paragraph emphasizes the fact that if 
 we have won the " Cross of Honor," it will show 
 upon our breast, even after death. 
 
 A SOLDIER OF THE EMPIRE 
 
 " Go back. Upon it depends the fate of France. Hold 
 it for France," the officer called after him. 
 
 The words were heard perfectly clear even above the 
 din of battle which was steadily increasing all along the 
 line, and they stirred the old soldier like a trumpet. No 
 rear for him! He turned and pushed back up the hill at 
 a run. The road had somewhat changed since he left, 
 but he marked it not; shot and shell were plowing across 
 his path more thickly, but he heeded them not; in his 
 ears rang the words, "For France!" They came like 
 an echo from the past; it was the same cry he had heard 
 at Waterloo, when the soldiers of France that summer 
 day had died for France and the Emperor, with a cheer 
 on their lips. " For France ! " The words were conse 
 crated; the Emperor himself had used them. He had 
 heard him, and would have died then; should he not die 
 now for her! Was it not glorious to die for France, and
 
 THOMAS NELSON PAGE 231 
 
 have men say he had fought for her when a babe, and had 
 died for her when an old man ! . . . 
 
 Although this had occupied but a few minutes, mo 
 mentous changes had taken place on the ridge above. The 
 sound of the battle had somewhat changed, and with the 
 roar of artillery were mingled now the continuous rattle 
 of the musketry and the shouts and cheers of the contend 
 ing troops. The fierce onslaught of the Prussians had 
 broken the line somewhere beyond the batteries and the 
 French were being borne back. Almost immediately the 
 slope was filled with retreating men hurrying back in the 
 demoralization of a panic. All order was lost. It was 
 a rout. The soldiers of his own regiment began to rush 
 by the spot where the old sergeant stood above his dead 
 son's body. Recognizing him, some of his comrades seized 
 his arm and attempted to hurry him along, but with a 
 fierce exclamation the old soldier shook them off, and 
 raising his voice so that he was heard even above the 
 tumult of the rout, he shouted, "Are ye all cowards? 
 Rally for France for France ! " 
 
 They tried to bear him along ; the officers they said were 
 dead. The Prussians had captured the guns, and had 
 broken the whole line ; but it was no use, still he shouted 
 that rallying cry, " For France, for France, vive la 
 France, vive 1'Empereur," and steadied by the war-cry, 
 accustomed to obey an officer, the men around him fell 
 instinctively into something like order, and for an instant 
 the rout was arrested. The fight was renewed over 
 Pierre's dead body. As they had, however, truly said, 
 the Prussians were too strong for them. They had carried 
 the line and were now pouring down the hill by thousands 
 in the ardor of hot pursuit; the line on either side was
 
 232 THOMAS NELSON PAGE 
 
 swept away, and while the gallant little band about the 
 old soldier still stood and fought desperately, they were 
 soon surrounded. There was no thought of quarter ; none 
 was asked, none was given. Cries, curses, cheers, shots, 
 blows, were mingled together, and clear above all rang 
 the old soldier's war-cry, " For France, for France, vive 
 la France, vive 1'Empereur! " It was the refrain from an 
 older and bloodier field. He thought he was at Waterloo. 
 Mad with excitement, the men took up the cry and fought 
 like tigers, but the issue could not be doubtful. 
 
 Man after man fell, shot or clubbed down with the 
 cry " For France! " on his lips, and his comrades, stand 
 ing astride his body, fought with bayonets and clubbed 
 muskets till they too fell in turn. Almost the last one was 
 the old sergeant. Wounded to death, and bleeding from 
 numberless gashes, he still fought, shouting his battle cry, 
 " For France! " till his musket was hurled spinning from 
 his shattered hand, and, staggering senseless back, a dozen 
 bayonets were driven into his breast, crushing out for 
 ever the brave spirit of the soldier of the Empire. 
 
 It was best, for France was lost . . . 
 
 That night a group of Prussian officers going over the 
 field with lanterns looking after their wounded, stopped 
 near the spot where the old sergeant had made his last 
 stand for France, a spot remarkable even on that bloody 
 slope for the heaps of dead of both armies literally piled 
 upon each other. 
 
 "It was just here," said one, " that they made that 
 splendid rally." 
 
 A second, looking at the body of the old French ser 
 geant lying amid heaps of slain with his face to the sky, 
 as he saw his scars, said simply:
 
 THOMAS NELSON PAGE 233 
 
 " There died a brave soldier." 
 
 Another, older than the first, bending closer to count 
 the bayonet wounds, caught the gleam of something in 
 the light of the lantern, and, stooping to examine a broken 
 cross of the Legion on the dead man's breast, said 
 reverently : 
 " He was a SOLDIER OF THE EMPIRE." 
 
 By permission of author and Century Co., publishers, 
 New York.
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below 
 
 MAY 1 1 1933 
 MAY ]__ 1934 
 
 : . 
 
 JAN 25 1956 
 
 NOV 92361 
 
 *%l23l 
 
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 flft> 
 
 APR 30 
 
 JUL 9 1937 
 
 AUG 5