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In this book I have endeavored to represent as adequately 
as might be possible within the limits of a volume of moderate 
size the work of the more important Southern writers. My at- 
tempt has been not merely to show the value of literary effort 
in the South as absolute achievement but also to emphasize its 
importance as a record of Southern life and character. 

Taking literature in the stricter sense of fiction, essay, and 
poetry, I have omitted the historians, the biographers, and the 
political writers so frequently used to swell the bulk of Southern 
literature. In poetry I have endeavored to select poems which 
have attatined some measure of general critical approval. But 
in some instances, especially in the Civil War poetry, I have 
included poems obviously without much literary merit because 
they were household poems of an older generation and embodied 
in a characteristic way the traditions and spirit of the people 
who loved them. For much the same reason I have included 
a few specimens of the vanishing survivals of old English bal- 
lads to the presence of which in the South attention has lately 
been turned. 

* In the case of the older prose writers, I have drawn upon a 
very limited number of the most significant works. As most of 
these were out of print or difficult to secure, I have tried to give 
a general idea of each by means of liberal excerpts and suitable 
summaries. Coming to the recent novelists and story-writers, 
whose number is almost legion, I was compelled to confine my- 
self rigidly to the five pioneers in the new development of fiction 


in the eighties. The single departure from this principle in the 
case of William Sidney Porter (^^ O. Henry ") will require no 
explanation. I have devoted much attention to the humorous 
writers of the South because of my belief that, although much 
of this work was rough and crude, it was nevertheless very 
influential not only in the development of American humor but 
also in that of realistic fiction. 

Better to fit the book to the needs of students, I have tried 
to organize the material effectively. The table of contents will 
show that the arrangement is roughly chronological, with such 
subdivisions as would bring together writers of the same type 
of literature. Further aids to students have been given in 
biographical notes, summaries of literary developments, explana- 
tions of unfamiliar matters in the selections, and bibliographies 
— all being held to the briefest compass. 

I have given at appropriate places in the book acknowledg- 
ments for permission to reprint such of the selections as were 
under copyright, but I wish here to record in a general way 
grateful appreciation of the courtesy extended to me in this 

matter by authors and by publishers. 

M. G. F. 
Davidson College, 
Davidson, N. C. 





The British Spy's Opinion of Tnii Spi.ctator .... i 
An Old Virginia Preacher 4 


The Bear Hunt 8 


Early Settlers along the Mississippi 14 


A Deer Hunt 19 



The Fall of the House of Usher 28 


Selections from " Swallow Barn " 50 

Swallow Barn, an Old Virginia Estate 50 

The Master of Swallow Barn 54 

The Mistress of Swallow Barn 57 

Traces of the Feudal System 59 

The Quarter 64 

Selections from " Horseshoe Robinson " 68 

Horseshoe Robinson 68 

Capture of Butler and Horseshoe 72 

Horseshoe captures Five Prisoners 77 

The Battle of King's Mountain 90 


Selection from "The Yemassee" 105 

The Attack on the Block House - . . 105 




Selections from **The Virginia Comedians" 124 

Mr. Champ Effingham of Effingham Hall 124 

Governor Fauquier's Ball 128 



The Horse Swap 151 

The Turn Out 161 


Major Jones's Courtship 170 


Ovid Bolus, Esq 176 

How the Flush Times served the Virginians .... 180 



Resignation 188 


The Star-Spangled Banner 190 


My Life is Like the Summer Rose 192 

To THE Mocking-Bird 193 


Song 194 

A Serenade 194 

A Health 195 


The Daughter of Mendoza 197 


To the Mocking Bird 198 


Florence Vane 200 

Life in the Autumn Woods 202 



The Bivouac of the Dead 205 


A Song 209 

Land of the South 210 

The Mocking Bird 211 


The Red Old Hills of Georgia 213 

My Wife and Child 215 


. To A Lily 217 

Haw Blossoms 217 


Oh, the Sweet South! 220 

The Swamp Fox 222 


To Helen . '. 225 

IsRAFEL 227 

The Raven 228 

Ulalume 233 

Annabel Lee 237 

Eldorado 238 



My Maryland 240 

John Pelham 243 


Dixie 244 

HARRY McCarthy 

The Bonnie Blue Flag 246 


The Band in the Pines 247 



ASHBY 249 

Music in Camp 250 

The Burial of Latane 253 


Dreaming in the Trenches 255 

Christmas Night of '62 256 

John Pegram 258 


Stonewall Jackson's Way 259 


Stonewall Jackson 261 


All Quiet along the Potomac To-night 262 

Somebody's Darling 264 


The Jacket of Gray 266 


Gone Forward 268 

The Shade of the Trees 269 


The Soldier Boy 270 

"The Brigade must not know, Sir!" 271 

The Confederate Flag 272 

Lines on a Confederate Note • "• • 273 


The Conquered Banner 275 

The Sword of Robert Lee 277 


Carolina 279 

A Cry to Arms 282 

Charleston 284 

Spring 286 



The Cotton Boll 288 

The Lily Confidante 293 

Magnolia Cemetery Ode 295 


Little Giffen 297 

The Virginians of the Valley 298 

Unknown 299 

Page Brook 300 

Loyal 301 




The Goosepond Schoolmaster 303 


Jud Brownin's Account of Rubinstein's Playing . . . 308 



The Dance in Place Congo 314 


Brer Rabbit grossly deceives Brer Fox 324 

The Cunning Fox is again Victimized 328 

The " Harnt " that walks Chilhowee 332 


Marse Chan (Summary) 342 

The Training of the Old Virginia Lawyer 347 


Two Gentlemen of Kentucky 348 


Two Renegades 3^3 




A Southern Planter's Ideals of Honor 373 


The Creed of the Old South 377 


The Diversity among Southerners 389 



A Dream of the South Winds 400 

Aspects of the Pines 401 

Macdonald's Raid — 1780 402 

The Pine's Mystery 405 

The Will and the Wing 405 

The Axe and Pine 407 

Midsummer in the South 407 


Nebuchadnezzar 410 

Selling a Dog 412 

Dat Peter 413 


The Tournament 416 

Song of the Chattahoochee 419 

The Crystal 421 

Sunrise 422 


My Star 429 

KiLLDEE 430 

Clover 430 

Fame 431 


Moonrise in the Pines 431 

The Light'ood Fire 434 

Foe's Cottage at Fordham 435 



The High Tide at Gettysburg 437 


A Southern Girl 440 

The Grapevine Swing *. . . 441 

Aunt Jemima's Quilt 443 


A Meadow Song 445 

When Dogwood brightens the Groves of Spring . . 447 


To A Crow 448 

Ballad of the Faded Field . .' 448 


A Plantation Ditty 450 

The Graveyard Rabbit 450 

Answering to Roll Call 451 


The Whippoorwill , 453 

Evening on the Farm 454 


Away Down Home 456 

An Idyl 458 

Barefooted . ^ 459 

Sundown 460 


October in Tennessee 461 


Barbara Allen 462 

Lord Thomas and Fair Eleanor 464 

The Hangman's Tree 467 

The Wife of Usher's Well 469. 

George Collins 470 

NOTES 473 


LITERATURE ^ . . • 52^ 



The Lanier Oak Frontispiece 

Edgar Allan Poe 27 

John Pendleton Kennedy 51 

Major Butler and Horseshoe Robinson 73 

William Gilmore Simms 105 

John Esten Cooke 124 

The Raleigh Tavern in Old Williamsburg, and its Famous Apollo 

Room 129 

Blossom and his Horse, Bullet 152 

Michael St. John, the Schoolmaster, effecting an Entrance by 

Storm 168 

Tom Edmundson as Schoolmaster 186 

Francis Scott Key 190 

Woodlands, the Country Estate of William Gilmore Simms . . 221 

Poe's Room at the University of Virginia, No. 13 West Range . 226 

John Reuben Thompson 248 

Henry Timrod 278 

Francis Orray Ticknor 296 

George Washington Cable 313 

Joel Chandler Harris 324 

Mary Noailles Murfree 332 

Thomas Nelson Page 342 

James Lane Allen 349 

Paul Hamilton Hayne 399 

Copse Hill, the Home of Paul Hamilton Hayne 406 

Irwin Russell ;io 

Sidney Lanier 415 

Poe's Cottage at Fordham 435 

William Hamilton Hayne 445 

Madison Julius Cawein 452 

Job.D Charles McNeill 457 








[William Wirt was born at Bladensburg, Maryland, in 1772. He 
was admitted to the bar in 1792 and began practice at Culpeper 
Court-House, Virginia. After 1799 he resided chiefly at Richmond 
until his appointment as Attorney-General of the United States in 
181 7. This position he held for twelve years, and upon his retire- 
ment from office he resided in Baltimore. He died at Washington 
in 1834. During Wirt's practice of law in Virginia his best-known 
l^al argument was his celebrated speech in 1807 against Aaron 
Burr at the latter's trial for treason. In addition to success at the 
bar Wirt had the distinction of being regarded for many years as 
the chief man of letters in the South.] 


In one of my late rides into the surrounding country, I 
stopped at a little inn to refresh myself and my horse; and, 
as the landlord was neither a Boniface nor " mine host of the 
garter," I called for a book, by way of killing time while the 
preparations for my repast were going forward. He brought 
ffle a shattered fragment of the second volume of The Spectator^ 


as concentering the brilliant sports of the finest cluster of 
geniuses that ever graced the earth, it surely deserves per- 
petual attention, respect, and consecration. 

There is, methinks, my S , a great fault in the world, 

as it respects this subject: a giddy instability, a light and 
fluttering vanity, a prurient longing after novelty, an impa- 
tience, a disgust, a fastidious contempt of everything that is 
old. You will not understand me as censuring the progress 
of soimd science. I am not so infatuated an antiquarian, not 
so poor a philanthropist, as to seek to retard the expansion of 
the human mind. But I lament the eternal oblivion into which 
our old authors, those giants of literature, are permitted to sink, 
while the world stands open-eyed and open-mouthed to catch 
every modern, tinseled abortion as it falls from the press. In 
the polite circles of America, for instance, perhaps there is no 
want of taste, and even zeal, for letters. I have seen several 
gentlemen who appear to have an accurate, a minute, acquaint- 
ance with the whole range of literature, in its present state of 
improvement ; yet you will be surprised to hear that I have not 
met with more than one or two persons in this country who 
have ever read the works of Bacon or of Boyle. They delight 
to saunter in the upper story, sustained and adorned, as it is, 
with the delicate proportions, the foliage and flourishes, of the 
Corinthian order ; but they disdain to make any acquaintance, 
or hold communion at all, with the Tuscan and Doric plainness 
and strength which base and support the whole edifice. . . . 


It was one Sunday, as I traveled through the county of 
Orange, that my eye was caught by a cluster of horses tied 
near a ruinous old wooden house in the forest, not far from 
the roadside. Having frequently seen such objects before, in 


traveling through those states, I had no difficulty in understand- 
ing that this was a place of religious worship. 

Devotion alone should have stopped me, to join in the duties 
of the congr^ation ; but I must confess that curiosity to hear 
the preacher of such a wilderness was not the least of my 
motives. On entering, I was struck with his preternatural 
appearance. He was a tall and very spare old man; his 
head, which was covered with a white linen cap, his shriveled 
hands, and his voice were all shaking under the influence 
of a palsy ; and a few moments ascertained to me that he was 
perfectly blind. 

The first emotions that touched my breast were those of 
mingled pity and veneration. But how soon were all my 
feelings changed ! The lips of Plato were never more worthy 
of a prognostic swarm of bees than were the lips of this holy 
man ! It was a day of the administration of the sacrament ; 
and his subject was, of course, the passion of our Saviour. I 
have heard the subject handled a thousand times; I had 
thought it exhausted long ago. Little did I suppose that in 
the wild woods of America I was to meet with a man whose 
eloquence would give to this topic a new and more sublime 
pathos than I had ever before witnessed. 

As he descended from the pulpit to distribute the mystic 
symbols, there was a peculiar, a more than human, solemnity 
in his air and manner which made my blood run cold and my 
whole frame shiver. 

He then drew a picture of the sufferings of our Saviour: 
his trial before Pilate, his ascent up Calvary, his crucifixion, 
and his death. I knew the whole history ; but never until then 
had I heard the circumstances so selected, so arranged, so. 
colored ! It was all new ; and I seemed to have heard it for 
the first time in my life. His enunciation was so deliberate that 
his voice trembled on every syllable ; and every heart in the 


assembly trembled in unison. His peculiar phrases had the 
force of description, that the original scene appeared to be at 
that moment acting before our eyes. We saw the very faces 
of the Jews: the staring, frightful distortions of malice and 
rage. We saw the buffet; my soul kindled with a flame of 
indignation, and my hands were involuntarily and convulsively 

But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiving 
meekness of our Saviour ; when he drew, to the life, his blessed 
eyes streaming in tears to heaven, his voice breathing to God 
a soft and gentle prayer of pardon on his enemies, " Father, 
forgive them, for they know not what they do," — the voice 
of the preacher, which had all along faltered, grew fainter and 
fainter, until, his utterance being entirely obstructed by the 
force of his feelings, he raised his handkerchief to his eyes 
and burst into a loud and irrepressible flood of grief. The 
effect is inconceivable. The whole house resounded with the 
mingled groans, and sobs, and shrieks of the congregation. 

It was some time before the tumult had subsided, so far as 
to permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual, but 
fallacious standard of my own weakness,'! began to be very 


uneasy for the situation of the preacher. For I could not 
conceive how he would be able to let his audience down from 
the height to which he had wound them, without impairing the 
solemnity and dignity of his subject, or perhaps shocking them 
by the abruptness of the fall. But — no ; the descent was as 
beautiful and sublime as the elevation had been rapid and 

The first sentence with which he broke the awful silence 
was a quotation from Rousseau : " Socrates died like a phi- 
losopher, but Jesus Christ, like a God 1 " 

I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by 
)rt sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the 


whole manner of the man as well as the peculiar crisis in the 
discourse. Never before did I completely understand what 
Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on delivery. You 
are to bring before you the venerable figure of the preacher; 
his blindness, constantly recalling to your recollection old Homer, 
Ossian, and Milton, and associating with his performance the 
melancholy grandeur of their geniuses; you are to imagine 
that you hear his slow, solemn, well-accented enunciation, and 
his voice of affecting, trembling melody ; you are to remember 
the pitch of passion and enthusiasm to which the congregation 
were raised ; and then the few moments of portentous, death- 
like silence which reigned throughout the house ; the preacher, 
removing his white handkerchief from his aged face (even yet 
wet from the recent torrent of his tears) and slowly stretching 
forth the palsied hand which holds it, begins the sentence, 
" Socrates died like a philosopher," — then, pausing, raising 
his other hand, pressing them both, clasped together, with' 
warmth and energy to his breast, lifting his " sightless balls " 
to heaven, and pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice, 
— " but Jesus Christ — like a God I " If it had indeed and in 
truth been an angel of light, the effect could scarcely have been 
more divine. 


[David Crockett, the noted American pioneer and politician, was 
bom in Tennessee in 1786. He was a typical backwoodsman, un- 
lettered but shrewd, skillful as a hunter, and fond of an out-of-doors 
life. He served under Jackson in the war against the Creek Indians, 
and in 1 826 was elected to Congress. At the close of his third term 
in Congress he enlisted with the Texan forces then at war with 
Mexico, and in 1836 was one of the defenders of the Alamo, where, 
on March 6th, with the rest of the garrison, he was killed by Santa 
Anna's troops.] 



In the morning I left my son at the camp, and we started 
on towards the harricane, and when we had went about a 
mile, we started a very large bear, but we got along mighty 
slow on account of the cracks in the earth occasioned by the 
earthquakes. We, however, made out to keep in hearing of 
the dogs for about three miles, and then we come to the harri- 
cane. Here we had to quit our horses, as old Nick himself 
couldn't have got through it without sneaking it along in the 
form that he put on to make a fool of our old grandmother 
Eve. By this time several of my dogs had got tired and come 
back ; but we went ahead on foot for some little time in the 
harricane, when we met a bear coming straight to us, and not 
more than twenty or thirty yards off. I started my tired dogs 
after him, and McDaniel pursued them, and I went on to 
where my other dogs were. I had seen the track of the bear 
they were dfter, and I knowed he was a screamer. I followed 
on to about the middle of the harricane, but my dogs pursued 
him so close that they made him climb an old stump about 
twenty feet high. I got in shooting distance of him and fired, 
but I was all over in such a flutter from fatigue and running 
that I could n't hold steady; but, however, I broke his shoulder, 
and he fell. I run up and loaded my gun as quick as possible, 
and shot him again and killed him. When I went to take out 
my knife to butcher him, I found that I had lost it in coming 
through the harricane. The vines and briars was so thick that 
I would sometimes have to get down and crawl like a varment 
to get through it all ; and a vine had, as I supposed, caught 
in the handle and pulled it out. While I was standing and 
studying what to do, my friend came to me. He had followed 
my trail through the harricane, and had found my knife, which 
was mighty good news to me, as a hunter hates the worst in 


the world to lose a good dog or any part of his hunting tools. 
I now left McDaniel to butcher the bear, and 1 went after our 
horses and brought them as near as the nature of the case 
would allow. I then took our bags and went back to where 
he was ; and when we skinned the bear, we fleeced off the fat 
and carried it to our horses at several loads. We then packed 
it up on our horses, and had a heavy pack of it on each one. 
We now started and went on till about sunset, when I con- 
cluded we must be near our camp ; so I hollered, and my son 
answered me, and we moved on in the direction to the camp. 
We had gone but a little way when I heard my dogs make a 
warm start again ; and I jumped down from my horse and 
gave him up to my friend, and told him I would follow them. 
He went on to the camp, and I went ahead after my dogs with 
all my might for a considerable distance, till at last night came 
on. The woods were very rough and hilly and all covered over 
with cane. 

I now was compelled to move more slowly, and was fre- 
quently falling over logs and into the cracks made by the 
earthquakes, so I was very much afraid I would break my 
gun. However, I went on about three miles, when I came to 
a good big creek, which I waded. It was very cold, and the 
creek was about knee-deep ; but I felt no great inconvenience 
from it just then, as I was overwet with sweat from running 
and I felt hot enough. After I got over this creek and out of 
the cane, which was very thick on all our creeks, I listened for 
my dogs. I found they had either treed or brought the bear to 
a stop, as they continued barking in the same place. I pushed 
on as near in the direction of the noise as I could, till I found 
the hill was too steep for me to climb, and so I backed and 
went down the creek some distance, till I came to a hollow, 
and then took up that, till I came to a place where I could 
climb up the hill. It was mighty dark, and was difficult to see 


my way, or anything else. When I got up the hill I found I 
had passed the dogs; and so I turned and went to them. I 
found, when I got there, they had treed the bear in a large 
forked poplar, and it was setting in the fork. 

I could see the lump, but not plain enough to shoot with 
any certainty, as there was no moonlight; and so set in to 
hunting for some dry brush to make me a light; but I could 
find none, though I could find that the ground was torn mightily 
to pieces by the cracks. 

At last I thought I could shoot by guess and kill him; so 
I pointed as near the lump as I could and fired away. But the 
bear did n't come ; he only dumb up higher and got out on a 
limb, which helped me to see him better. I now loaded up 
again and fired, but this time he didn't move at all. I com- 
menced loading for a third fire, but the first thing I knowed, 
the bear was down among my dogs, and they were fighting all 
around me. I had my big butcher in my belt, and I had a pair 
of dressed breeches on. So I took out my knife, and stood, 
determined, if he should get hold of me, to defend myself in 
the best way I could. I stood there for some time, and could 
now and then see a white dog I had, but the rest of them, and 
the bear, which were dark-colored, I could n't see at all, it was 
so miserable dark. They still fought around me, and some- 
times within three feet of me ; but at last the bear got down 
into one of the cracks that the earthquakes had made in the 
ground, about four feet deep, and I could tell the biting end 
of him by the hollering of my dogs. So I took my gun and 
pushed the muzzle of it about, till I thought I had it against 
the main part of his body, and fired; but it happened to be 
only the fleshy part of his foreleg. With this he jumped out 
of the crack, and he and the dogs had another hard fight 
around me, as before. At last, however, they forced him back 
into the crack again, as he was when I had shot. 


I had laid down my gun in the dark, and I now began to 
hunt for it; and, while hunting, I got hold of a pole, and I 
concluded I would punch him awhile with that I did so, and 
when I would punch him the dogs would jump in on him, 
when he would bite them badly, and they would jump out 
again. I concluded, as he would take punching so patiently, 
it might be that he would lie still enough for me to get down 
in the crack and feel slowly along till I could find the right 
place to give him a dig with my butcher. So I got down, and 
my dogs got in before him and kept his head towards them, 
till I got along easily up to him ; and placing my hand on his 
rump, felt for his shoulder, just behind where I intended to 
stick him. I made a lunge with my long knife, and fortunately 
struck him right through the heart, at which he just sank down, 
and I crawled out in a hurry. In a little time my dogs all come 
out too, and seemed satisfied, .which was the way they always 
had of telling me that they had finished him. 

I suffered very much that night with cold, as my leather 
breeches and everything else I had on was wet and frozen. 
But I managed to get my bear out of this crack after several 
hard trials, and so I butchered him and laid down to try to 
sleep. But my fire was very bad, and I could n't find anything 
that would bum well to make it any better; and so I concluded 
I should freeze if I did n't warm myself in some way by exer- 
cise. So I got up and hollered awhile, and then I would just 
jump up and down with all my might and throw myself into 
all sorts of motions. But all this would n't do ; for my blood 
was now getting cold, and the chills coming all over me. I was 
so tired too that I could hardly walk; but I thought I would 
do the best I could to save my life, and then if I died, nobody 
would be to blame. So I went up to a tree about two feet 
through, and not a limb on it for thirty feet, and I would climb 
up to the limbs and then lock my arms together around it and 


slide down to the bottom again. This would make the inside 
of my legs and arms feel mighty warm and good. I continued 
this till daylight in the morning, and how often I climbed up 
my tree and slid down I don't know, but I reckon at least a 
hundred times. 

In the morning I got my bear hung up so as to be safe, and 
then set out to hunt for my camp. I found it after a while, 
and McDaniel and my son were very much rejoiced to see me 
get back, for they were about to give me up for lost. We got 
our breakfasts, and then secured our meat by building a high 
scaffold and covering it over. We had no fear of its spoiling, 
for the weather was so cold that it couldn't. 

We now started after my other bear, which had caused me 
so much trouble and suffering ; and before we got him we got 
a start after another, and took him also. We went on to the 
creek I had crossed the night before, and camped, and then 
went to where my bear was that I had killed in the crack. 
When we examined the place, McDaniel said he would n't have 
gone into it, as I did, for all the bears in the woods. 

We then took the meat down to our camp and salted it, and 
also the last one we had killed ; intending in the morning to 
make a hunt in the harricane again. 

We prepared for resting that night, and I can assure the 
reader I was in need of it. We had laid down by our fire, and 
about ten o'clock there came a most terrible earthquake, which 
shook the earth so that we rocked about like we had been in a 
cradle. We were very much alarmed ; for though we were 
accustomed to feel earthquakes, we were now right in the 
region which had been torn to pieces by them in 1812, and we 
thought it might take a notion and swallow us up, like the big 
fish did Jonah. 

In the morning we packed up and moved to the harricane, 
where we made another camp, and turned out that evening 


and killed a very large bear, which made eight we had now 
killed in this hunt 

The next morning we entered the harricane again, and in a 
little or no time my dogs were in full cry. We pursued them, 
and soon came to a thick canebrake, in which they had stopped 
their bear. We got up close to him, as the cane was so thick 
that we could n't see more than a few feet. Here I made my 
friend hold the cane a little open with his gun till I shot the 
bear, which was a mighty large one. I killed him dead in his 
tracks. We got him out and butchered him, and in a little time 
started another and killed him, which now made ten we had 
killed ; and we knowed we could n't pack any more home, as 
we had only five horses along; therefore we returned to the 
camp and salted up all our meat, to be ready for a start home- 
ward next morning. 

The morning came, and we packed our horses with meat, 
and had as much as they could possibly carry, and sure enough 
cut out for home. It was about thirty miles, and we reached 
home the second day. I had now accommodated my neighbor 
with meat enough to do him, and had killed in all, up to that 
time, fifty-eight bears during the fall and winter. 

As soon as the time come for them to quit their houses and 
come out again in the spring, I took a notion to hunt a little 
more, and in about one month I killed forty-seven more, which 
made one hundred and five bears which I had killed in less 
than one year from that time. 


[John James Audubon was bom near New Orleans in 1780 of 
French and Spanish extraction. He was educated in Paris, where 
he had lessons in painting from the celebrated painter J. L. David. 
Returning to America in 1 798, he settled on an estate of his father's 
near Philadelphia, and gave himself up to the study of naturs' 


history, and especially to the drawing of birds. Afterwards he was 
for a time a merchant in various Southern cities. Finally he gave 
up all regular business pursuits and spent his time roaming hither 
and thither in the forests making observations of animal and of bird 
life. His greatest production, " The Birds of America," published 
from 1 83 1 to 1 839, consisted of five volumes of biographies of birds 
and four volumes of portraits of birds, the latter volumes containing 
over four hundred drawings, colored and life-size.] 


Although every European traveler who has glided down the 
Mississippi at the rate of ten miles an hour has told his tale of 
the squatters, yet none has given any other account of them 
than that they are " a sallow, sickly-looking sort of miserable 
being," living in sv^amps and subsisting on pignuts, Indian 
com, and bear's flesh. It is obvious, however, that none but a 
person acquainted with their history, manners, and condition 
can give any real information respecting them. 

The individuals who become squatters choose that sort of 
life of their own free will. They mostly remove from other 
parts of the United States after finding that land has become 
too high in price, and they are persons who, having a family of 
strong and hardy children, are anxious to enable them to pro- 
vide for themselves. They have heard from good authorities 
that the country extending along the great streams of the West 
is of all parts of the Union the richest in its soil, the growth of 
its timber, and the abundance of its game; that, besides, the 
Mississippi is the great road to and from all the markets in 
the world ; and that every vessel borne by its waters affords 
to settlers some chance of selling their commodities, or of ex- 
changing them for otTiers. To these recommendations is added 
another, of even greater weight with persons of the above 
denomination, namely, the prospect of being able to settle on 


land, and perhaps to hold it for a number of years, without 
purchase, rent, or tax of any kind. How many thousands of 
individuals in all parts of the globe would gladly try their for- 
tune with such prospects I leave to you, reader, to determine. 

As I am not disposed too highly to color the picture which I 
am about to submit to your inspection, instead of pitching on 
individuals who have removed from our eastern boundaries, 
and of whom certainly there are a good number, I shall intro- 
duce to you the members of a family from Virginia, first giving 
you an idea of their condition in that country previous to their 
migration to the West. The land which they and their an- 
cestors have possessed for a hundred years, having been con- 
stantly forced to produce crops of one kind or another, is 
completely worn out. It exhibits only a superficial layer of red 
clay, cut up by deep ravines, through which much of the soil 
has been conveyed to some more fortunate neighbor residing 
in a yet rich and beautiful valley. Their strenuous efforts to 
render it productive have failed. They dispose of everything 
too cumbrous or expensive for them to remove, retaining only 
a few horses, a servant or two, and such implements of hus- 
bandry and other articles as may be necessary on their journey 
or useful when they arrive at the spot of their choice. 

I think I see them harnessing their horses and attaching 
them to their wagons, which are already filled with bedding, 
provisions, and the younger children ; while on their outside are 
fastened spinning wheels and looms, and a bucket filled with 
tar and tallow swings betwixt the hind wheels. Several axes 
are secured to the bolster, and the feeding-trough of the horses 
contains pots, kettles, and pans. The servant now becomes a 
driver, riding the near saddled horse; the wife is mounted on 
another ; the worthy husband shoulders his gun ; and his sons, 
clad in plain, substantial homespun, drive the cattle ahead and 
lead the procession, followed by the hounds and other dogs. 


Their day's journey is short and not agreeable. The cattle, 
stubborn or wild, frequently leave the road for the woods, 
giving the travelers much trouble; the harness of the horses 
here and there gives way, and immediate repair is needed. 
A basket which has accidentally dropped must be gone after, 
for nothing that they have can be spared. The roads are bad, 
and now and then all hands are called to push on the wagon or 
prevent it from upsetting. Yet by sunset they have proceeded 
perhaps twenty miles. Fatigued, all assemble around the fire 
which has been lighted ; supper is prepared, and a camp being 
run up, there they pass the night. 

Days and weeks, nay months, of unremitting toil pass before 
they gain the end of the journey. They have crossed both the 
Carolinas, Georgia, and Alabama. They have been traveling 
from the beginning of May to that of September, and with 
heavy hearts they traverse the neighborhood of the Mississippi. 
But now, arrived on the banks of the broad stream, they gaze 
in amazement on the dark, deep woods around them. Boats of 
various kinds they see gliding downward with the current, while 
others slowly ascend against it. A few inquiries are made at 
the nearest dwelling, and assisted by the inhabitants with their 
boats and canoes, they at once cross the river and select their 
place of habitation. 

The exhalations rising from the swamps and morasses 
around them have a powerful effect on these new settlers, but 
all are intent on preparing for the winter. A small patch of 
ground is cleared by the ax and fire, a temporary cabin is 
erected ; to each of the cattle is attached a bell before it is let 
loose into the neighboring canebrake, and the horses remain 
about the house, where they find sufficient food at that season. 
The first trading boat that stops at their landing enables them 
to provide themselves with some flour, fishhooks, and ammuni- 
tion, as well as other commodities. The looms are mounted, 


the spinning wheels soon furnish yam, and in a few .weeks the 
family throw off their ragged clothes and array themselves in 
suits adapted to the climate. The father and sons meanwhile 
have sown turnips and other vegetables, and from some Ken- 
tucky flatboat a supply of live poultry has been purchased 

October tinges the leaves of the forest; the morning dews 
are heavy, the days hot and the nights chill; and the unaccli- 
matized family in a few days are attacked with ague. The 
lingering disease almost prostrates their whole faculties. For- 
tunately the unhealthy season soon passes over, and the 
hoarfrosts make their appearance. Gradually each individual 
recovers strength. The largest ash trees are felled, their trunks 
are cut, split, and corded in front of the building ; a large fire 
is lighted at night on the edge of the water; and soon a 
steamer calls to purchase the wood and thus add to their 
comforts during the winter. This first fruit of their industry 
imparts new courage to them ; their exertions multiply ; and 
when spring returns the place has a cheerful look. Venison, 
bear's flesh, and turkeys, ducks, and geese, with now and then 
some fish, have served to keep up their strength, and now their 
enlarged field is planted with com, potatoes, and pumpkins. 
Their stock of cattle too has augmented ; the steamer which 
now stops there, as if by preference, buys a calf or pig together 
with their wood. Their store of provisions is renewed, and 
brighter rays of hope enliven their spirits. 

Who is he of the settlers on the Mississippi that cannot 
realize some profit ? Truly none who is industrious. When the 
autumnal months return, all are better prepared to encounter 
t'.ie ague which then prevails. Substantial food, suitable cloth- 
ing, and abundant firing repel its attacks ; and before another 
twelvemonth has elapsed the family is naturalized. The sons 
have by this time discovered a swamp covered with excellent 
timber, and as they have seen many great rafts of saw logs, 


bound for the mills of New Orleans, floating past their dwelKi^) 
they resolve to try the success of a little enterprise. ThoT 
industry and prudence have already enhanced their credit A 
few cross-saws are purchased, and some broad-wheeled " canry- 
logs " are made by themselves. Log after log is hauled to the 
bank of the river, and in a short time their first raft is made on 
the shore and loaded with cordwood. When the next freshet 
sets it afloat, it is secured by long grapevines or cables until, 
the proper time being arrived, the husband and sons embark J 
on it and float down the mighty stream. 

After encountering many difficulties they arrive in safety . 
New Orleans, where they dispose of their stock, the mon 
obtained for which may be said to be all profit, supply then, 
selves with such articles as may add to their convenience or 
comfort, and with light hearts procure a passage on the upper | 
deck of a steamer, at a very cheap rate on accovmt of the 
benefit of their labor in taking in wood or otherwise. 

And now the vessel approaches their home. See the joyous 
mother and daughters as they stand on the bank ! A store of 
vegetables lies around them, a large tub of fresh milk is at their 
feet, and in their hands are plates filled with rolls of butter. 
As the steamer stops, three broad straw hats are waved from 
the upper deck, and soon husband and wife, brothers and 
sisters, are in each other's embrace. The boat carries off the 
provisions for which value has been left, and as the captain 
issues his orders for putting on the steam, the happy family 
enter their humble dwelling. The husband gives his bag of 
dollars to the wife, while the sons present some token of affec- 
tion to the sisters. Surely, at such a moment, the squatters are 
richly repaid for all their labors. 

Every successive year has increased their savings. They now 
possess a large stock of horses, cows, and hogs, with abun- 
dance of provisions and domestic comfort of every kind. The 


slaughters have been married to the sons of neighboring 
squatters, and have gained sisters to themselves by the marriage 
of their brothers. The government secures to the family the 
lands on which, twenty years before, they settled in poverty and 
sickness. Larger buildings are erected on piles, secure from 
inundations; where a single cabin once stood, a neat village 
is now to be seen ; warehouses, stores, and workshops increase 
the importance of the place. The squatters live respected, and 
in due time die regretted by all who knew them. 

Thus are the vast frontiers of our country peopled, and thus 
.'X)es cultivation, year after year, extend over the western wilds, 
i^me will no doubt be, when the great valley of the Mississippi, 
,ill covered with primeval forests interspersed with swamps, 
will smile with cornfields and orchards, while crowded cities will 
rise at intervals along its banks, and enlightened nations will 
rejoice in the bounties of Providence. 


[William Elliott was born in Beaufort, South Carolina, in 1 788. 
After graduating from Harvard, he returned to South Carolina. 
Except for some early incursions into politics, he chiefly devoted 
himself to the management of his estates, and, as a writer and lec- 
turer on agricultural and other subjects, became widely known. He 
contributed to one of the newspapers of Charleston the series of 
sporting sketches which were collected and published in 1 846 under 
the title of " Carolina Sports by Land and Water." He died in 
Charleston, South Carolina, in 1863.] 


It was a glorious winter's day — sharp, but bracing. The sun 
looked forth with dazzling brightness, as he careered through a 
cloudless sky ; and his rays came glancing back from many an 
ice-covered lagoon that lay scattered over the face of the ground. 


The moan of an expiring northwester was faintly heard from 
the tops of the magnificent forest pines. Three sportsmen, 
while it was yet early, met at their trysting place, to perpetrate 
a raid against the deer! They were no novices, those hunts- 
men ; they had won trophies in many a sylvan war, and they 
now took the field " of malice prepense " with all the appliances 
of destruction at their beck — practiced drivers of the pack, 
often proved, and now refreshed by three days' rest. Brief was 
their interchange of compliment ; they felt that such a day was 
not to be trifled away in talk ; and they hallooed their hounds 
impatiently into the drive — yet not as greenhorns would have 
done. " Keep clear of the swamps " was the order of the 
drivers — "leave the close covers — ride not where the ice 
crackles under the horse's hoof, but look closely into the 
sheltered knolls, where you will find the deer sunning them- 
selves after the last night's frost." The effect of this order was 
soon evident, for in the second knoll entered by the hounds a 
herd of deer were found thawing themselves in the first beams 
of the ascending sun. Ho 1 what a burst 1 with what fury the 
hounds dash in among them I Now they sweep along the 
thickets that skirt the drive and climb the summit of that ele- 
vated piny ridge — destined one day to become a summer 

settlement and to bear the name of . But not imfore- 

seen or unprovided for was the run which the deer had taken. 
Frisky Geordy was in their path, and crack went the sound of 
his gun, and loud and vaunting was the twang of his horn that 
followed the explosion 1 And now the frozen earth reechoed to 
the tramp of horses' hoofs, as the huntsmen hurried to the call 
that proclaims that a deer has fallen. There was Geordy, his 
gun against a pine, his knee upon the still heaving flank of a 
pricket buck, his right hand clenched upon his dripping knife, 
his left flourishing a horn, which ever and anon was given to 
his mouth and filled the air with its boastful' notes. 


" Halloo, Geordy I you have got him fast, I see. W^ere are 
the dogs ? " 

" Gone," said Geordy. 

" There 's Ruler in the east — what 's he after ? " 

" A deer," says Geordy. 

" And Rouser to the south — what 's he after ? " 

" Another deer," says Geordy. 

" And Nimrod to the southwest — I need not ask what he 's 
after, for he follows nothing but deer. Your second barrel 
snapped, of course ? " 

" I don't say that," says Geordy ; " I had wounded the six 
last deer I'd fired at, so I thought I'd kill one to-day, and 
while I looked to see if that was really dead the others slipped 
by me." 

" Done like a sportsman, Geordy ; one dead deer is worth a 
dozen crippled ones. I remember once your powder was too 
weak ; and next, your shot were too small ; and next, yoiir aim 
was somewhat wild; and one went off bored of an ear, and 
another nicked of a tail. You are bound to set up an infirmary 
across the river for the dismembered deer you have dispatched 
there! You have done well to kill — let it grow into a habit. 
Nimrod to the southwest, said you.? That rascal is a bom 
economist ; and not a foot will he budge in pursuit of a living 
deer after your horn has told him there is venison in the rear I 
Ruler will drive his deer across the river; Rouser, to the 
marshes. Nimrod 's quarry is the only one likely to halt and 
give us another chance." 

And sure enough, there came Nimrod trotting back on his 
track, his nose cocked up in air as if to indorse and verify the 
inferences of his ear^ his tail curled and standing out from his 
body at an angle of forty-five degrees. 

"This is the safe play — hang up the deer — sound your horn 
till the hounds come in from their several chases — and then 


for Nimrod's lead 1 to Chapman's bays, I think ! — there are 
some sheltered nooks in which they will stop and bask when 
they find themselves unpursued." 

" I '11 go in with the boys," says Loveleap, with an uncon- 
cerned air, but a sly twinkle of the eye, which did not escape 
his comrades. 

"As you like. Geordy and I will mind the stands." 

Some time was lost before the hounds could be drawn from 
their several chases ; yet, as emulation did not " prick them 
on," they came the sooner for being scattered. Loveleap heads 
the drivers, and it was just what we had anticipated, when, 
before a single dog had given tongue, we heard him fire ; then 
came a burst, and then a second barrel ; but to our great 
surprise no horn announced the expected success. The report 
of that gun went unquestioned in our sporting circle ; it was 
in a manner axiomatic in woodcraft mysteries, and passed 
current with all who heard it for thus much — "a deer is 
killed." Loveleap did an extraordinary thing that day — he 
missedX But the drivers could not understand and the hoimds 
would not believe it ; so they rushed madly away in pursuit, as 
if it was not possible for the quarry long to escape. 

*^ Push on," says Geordy, " they make for the river I " and 
away we went. We reined in for a minute at the ford; and 
finding that they had already outstripped us and were bearing 
down for Chapman's fort, — a mile to the west of our position, 
— we struck across for the marshes south of us, where we 
might, if he was a young deer, intercept him on his return to 
his accustomed haunts. In an old buck we had no chance ; he 
is sure to set a proper value on his life, and seldom stops until 
he has put a river between his pursuer and himself. 

Taking advantage of a road that lay in our way, we soon 
cleared the woods and entered an old field that skirted the 
marsh. It was a large waving plain of rank bnx>m grass, 


chequered here and there by strips of myrde and marsh 

" So far, Geordy," said I, " we have kept one track ; now 
let us separate. The hounds are out of hearing, and we have 
little chance of any game but such as we may rouse without 
their help. How delightfully sheltered is this spot I how com- 
pletely is it shut in by that semicircle of woods from the sweep 
of the northwest winds ! How genially the sun pours down 
upon it ! Depend upon it, we shall find some luxurious rogues 
basking in this warm nook, for, next to your Englishman, a 
deer is the greatest epicure alive ! Now, then, by separate 
tracks let us make across the old field ; a blast of the horn will 
bring us together when we reach the marsh." 

By separate tracks then we moved, and had not advanced 
two hundred yards, when crack went Geordy's gun. I looked 
in the direction of the report, and his head only was visible 
above the sea of marsh mallows. The direction of his /aa I 
could see, and fAat was pointed toward me. Toward me, then, 
thought I, runs the deer. I reined in my horse and turned his 
head in that direction. It was such, a thickly woven mass of 
mallows and myrtie — high as my shoulders as I sat in the 
saddle — that there was littie hope of being able to see the 
game. I trusted to my ear to warn me of his approach, and 
soon heard the rustling of the leaves and the sharp, quick leap 
which mark the movement of a deer at speed. I saw him not 
until he appeared directly under my horse's nose, in act to leap; 
he vaulted, and would have dropped upon my saddle had he 
not seen the horse while yet poised in air, and, by an effort 
like that of the tumbler who throws a somersault, twisted him- 
self suddenly to my right. He grazed my knee in his descent ; 
and as he touched the earth I brought my gun down, pistol- 
fashion, with a rapid twitch, and sent the whole charge through 
his backbone. It was so instantaneous — so like a flash 


lightning — that I could scarcely credit it when I saw the deer 
twirling and turning over at my horse's heels. Dismounting 
to secure him, it was some time before his muscular action 
was sufficiently overcome to allow me to use my knife. He 
struggled and kicked ; I set down my gun, the better to master 
him. In the midst of -my employment, crack went Geordy's 
second barrel, nearer than the first, and ^^ mind I tnindV^ 
followed the discharge. Before I could drop my knife and gain 
my feet another deer was upon me 1 He followed directly in 
the track of the former and passed between my horse and me, 
so near that I might have bayoneted him ! Where was my gun? 
Lost in the broom grass 1 What a trial 1 I looked all around in 
an instant, and spying it where it lay, caught it eagerly up — 
the deer had disappeared 1 It flashed across me that underneath 
these myrtles the limbs excluded from the sun had decayed, 
and that in the vistas thus formed a glimpse of the deer might 
yet be gained. In an instant I am on my knees, darting the 
most anxious glances along the vista ; the flash of a tail is seen 
— I fire — a struggle is heard — I press forward through the 
interlacing branches — and to my joy and surprise, another iUer 
is mine I Taking him by the legs, I drag him to the spot where 
the other lay. Then it was my turn to sound a "vaunty" peall 
Geordy pealed in answer, and soon appeared dragging a deer 
of his own (having missed one of those that I had killed). 
Three deer were started — they were all at our feet — and 
that without the aid of a dog 1 It was the work of five minutes ! 
We piled them in a heap, covered them with branches and 
myrtle bushes, and tasked our horns to the uttermost to recall 
the field. One by one the hounds came in, smelt at the myrtle 
bushes, seemed satisfied, though puzzled, wagged their tails, 
and coiling themselves each in his proper bed, lay down to 
sleep. Yet had any stranger approached that myrtle-covered 
mound every back would have bristled, and a fierce cry of 


defiance would have broken forth from every tongue, then 
so mute. 

At last came Loveleap, fagged and somewhat fretted by his 
ill success. 

" I have been blowing till I Ve split my wind, and not a dog 
has come to my horn. How came you thrown out ? and why 
have you kept such an incessant braying of horns J Why, how 
is this ? the dogs are here ? " 

" Yes I they have shown their sense in coming to us ; there 's 
been butchery hereabouts 1 " 

'* One of P 's cattle killed by the runaways, I suppose." 

" Will you lend us your boy to bring a cart ? " I said. 

" Certainly," says Loveleap ; " it will make such a feast for 
the dogs ; but where is the cow ? " 

" Here I " says Geordy, kicking off the myrtle screen and 
revealing to the sight of his astonished comrade our three layers 
of venison 1 Oh, you should have seen Loveleap's face 1 

The cart is brought, and our four deer are soon on their way 
home. Do you think we accompanied them ? No 1 We were so 
merciless as to meditate still further havoc. The day was so 
little spent — and as our hands were in, and there was just 
in the next drive an overgrown old buck who often had the 
insolence to baffle us — no 1 we must take a drive at him ! 
Again the hounds are thrown into cover, headed by our remain- 
ing driver ; but in the special object of our move we failed — 
the buck had decamped. Still, the fortune of the day attended 
us\ and an inquisitive old turkey gobbler, having ventured to 
peep at Geordy where he lay in ambush, was sprawled by a 
shot from his gun and was soon seen dangling from his 

This closed our hunt. And now that we have a moment's 
breathing time, tell me, brother sportsmen who may chance to 
read this veritable history, has it ever been your fortune, in a 


single day's hunt and as the spoils of two gunners only, to 
bring home four deer and a wild turkey ? Ye gastronomes ! 
who relish the proceeds of a hunt better than its toils and 
perils — a glance at that larder, if you please I Look at that 
fine bird, so carefully hung up by the neck ; his spurs are an 
inch and a half in length, his beard eight inches; what an 
ample chest 1 what glossy plumage 1 — his weight is twenty-five 
pounds 1 And see that brave array of haunches ! that is a buck 
of two years, — juicy, tender, but not fat, — capital for steaks I 
But your eye finds something yet more attractive — the saddle 
of a four-year-old doe, kidney covered, as you see; a morsel 
more savoury smokes not upon a monarch's board. How 
pleasant to eat! Shall I say it? — how much pleasanter to 
give away I Ah, how such things do win their way to hearts 
— men's and women^s too I My young sporting friends, a word 
in your ear : the worst use you can make of your game is to 
eat it yourselves. 



[Edgar Allan Poe was bom, it is supposed, in Boston in 1809. 
His mother and father having died when he was three years old, he 
was adopted by Mrs. John Allan of Richmond, Virginia. He was 
educated in England and at the University of Virginia and West 
Point. In January, 1831, he 
was dismissed from the Military 
Academy on account of neglect 
of duties, and went to New 
York to embark upon a literary 
career. His life from this time 
was very erratic, being passed in 
various cities — Richmond and 
Baltimore especially. Poe be- 
came connected with several 
magazines, but on account of 
the irregularities of his charac- 
ter — especially drinking — and 
ill health, he was unable to hold 
any of these positions for any 
length of time. In May, 1836, 
he was married to Miss Virginia 
Clemm, his cousin, who at the time of the marriage was but fourteen 
years old. In 1 846, while the Poes were living in a small cottage at 
Fordham, she died of consumption under distressing conditions of 
poverty. This bereavement so affected Poe that it is hardly possible 
to believe that he was himself mentally during the remaining few 
years of his life. In the early part of October, 1*849, he went to 
Baltimore, and shortly afterwards was found lying senseless in a 
saloon which was being used as a voting place. He was removed to 




a hospital where he died on the morning of the 7th of October. 
The mystery surrounding the circumstances of his death has never 
been unraveled. 

Poe challenges attention in literature because of three notable 
contributions — critical essays, short stories, and poems. As the 
critical essays are not represented in this volume, they may be dis- 
missed with the brief statement that in spite of personal bias and 
, jealousies, Poe's criticism is independent and suggestive, and his 
judgments have in the main proved to be those of posterity. His 
poetic contribution is discussed in another place in this book. Of his 
short stories, or " tales," as he called them, it may be said that these 
are among the best examples of this form of literature in the English 
language. In range of subject matter Poe was narrow, but on the 
constructive side of story writing he yields to few writers.] 


During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the 
autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in 
the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through 
a singularly dreary tract of country, and at length found my- 
self, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the 
melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was — but 
with the first glimpse of the building a sense of insufferable 
gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable ; for the feeling 
was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, 
sentiment with which the mind usually receives even the stern- 
est natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon 
the scene before me — upon the mere house and the simple 
landscape features of the domain, upon the bleak walls, upon 
the vacant eyelike windows, upon a few rank sedges, and upon 
a few white trunks of decayed trees — with an utter depression 
of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more 
properly than to the after-dream of the reveler upon opium: 
the bitter lapse into everyday life, the hideous dropping off of 


the veil. There was an idness, a sinking, a sickening of the 
heart, an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading 
of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. 
What was it — I paused to think — what was it that so un- 
nerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher? It 
was a mystery all insoluble; nor could I grapple with the 
shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I pondered. I was 
forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclusion that 
while, beyond doubt, there are combinations of very simple 
natural objects which have the power of thus affecting us, still 
the analysis of this power lies among considerations beyond 
our depth. It was possible, I reflected, that a mere different 
arrangement of the particulars of the scene, of the details of 
the picture, would be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to anni- 
hilate, its capacity for sorrowful impression; and acting upon 
this idea, I reined my horse to the precipitous brink of a black 
and lurid tarn that lay in unruffled luster by the dwelling, and 
gazed down — but with a shudder even more thrilling than 
before — upon the remodeled and inverted images of the gray 
sedge, and the ghastly tree-stems, and the vacant and eyelike 

Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom I now proposed to 
myself a sojourn of some weeks. Its proprietor, Roderick 
Usher, had .been one of my boon companions in boyhood ; but 
many years had elapsed since our last meeting. A letter, how- 
ever, had lately reached me in a distant part of the country — 
a letter from him — which in its wildly importunate nature had 
admitted of no other than a personal reply. The MS. gave 
evidence of nervous agitation. The writer spoke of acute bodily 
illness, of a mental disorder which oppressed him, and of an 
earnest desire to see me, as his best and indeed his only per- 
sonal friend, with a view of attempting, by the cheerfulness of 
my society, some alleviation of his malady. It was the manner 


in which all this, and much more, was said — it was the 
apparent heart that went with his request — which allowed me 
no room for hesitation; and I accordingly obeyed forthwith 
what I still considered a very singular summons. 

Although as boys we had been even intimate associates, yet 
I really knew little of my friend. His reserve had been always 
excessive and habitual. I was aware, however, that his very 
ancient family had been noted, time out of mind, for a peculiar 
sensibility of temperament, displaying itself, through long ages, 
in many works of exalted art, and manifested of late in repeated 
deeds of munificent yet unobtrusive charity, as well as in a 
passionate devotion to the intricacies, perhaps even more than 
to the orthodox and easily recognizable beauties, of musical 
science. I had learned, too, the very remarkable fact that the 
stem of the Usher race, all time-honored as it was, had put 
forth at no period any enduring branch ; in other words, that 
the entire family lay in the direct line of descent, and had 
always, with very trifling and very temporary variation, so lain. 
It was this deficiency, I considered, while rurming over in 
thought the perfect keeping of the character of the premises 
with the accredited character of the people, and while speculat- 
ing upon the possible influence which the one, in the long lapse 
of centuries, might have exercised upon the other — it was this 
deficiency, perhaps, of collateral issue, and the consequent un- 
deviating transmission from sire to son of the patrimony with 
the name, which had, at length, so identified the two as to 
merge the original title of the estate in the quaint and equivocal 
appellation of the *' House of Usher," an appellation which 
seemed to include, in the minds of the peasantry who used it, 
both the family and the family mansion. 

I have said that the sole effect of my somewhat childish 
experiment, that of looking down within the tarn, had been to 
deepen the first singular impression. There can be no doubt 


that the consciousness of the rapid increase of my superstition 
— for why should I not so term it ? — served mainly to accel- 
erate the increase itself. Such, I have long known, is the para- 
doxical law of all sentiments having terror as a basis. And it 
might have been for this reason only, that when I again uplifted 
my eyes to the house itself, from its image in the pool, there 
grew in my mind a strange fancy — a fancy so ridiculous, 
indeed, that I but mention it to show the vivid force of the 
sensations which oppressed me. I had so worked upon my im- 
agination as really to believe that about the whole mansion and 
domain there hung an atmosphere peculiar to themselves and 
their immediate vicinity — an atmosphere which had no affinity 
with the air of heaven, but which had reeked up from decayed 
trees, and the gray wall, and the silent tarn ; a pestilent and 
mystic vapor, dull, sluggish, faintly discernible, and leaden-hued. 
Shaking off from my spirit what must have been a dream, I 
scanned more narrowly the real aspect of the building. Its 
principal feature seemed to be that of an excessive antiquity. 
The discoloration of ages had been great. Minute fungi over- 
spread the whole exterior, hanging in a fine tangled webwork 
from the eaves. Yet all this was apart from any extraordinary 
dilapidation. No portion of the masonry had fallen ; and there 
appeared to be a wild inconsistency between its still perfect 
adaptation of parts and the crumbling condition of the individual 
stones. In this there was much that reminded one of the spe- 
cious totality of old woodwork which has rotted for long years 
in some neglected vault, with no disturbance from the breath 
of the external air. Beyond this indication of extensive decay, 
however, the fabric gave little token of instability. Perhaps the 
eye of a scrutinizing observer might have discovered a barely 
perceptible fissure, which, extending from the roof of the build- 
ing in front, made its way down the wall in a zigzag direction, 
until it became lost in the sullen waters of the tarn. 


Noticing these things, I rode over a short causeway to the 
house. A servant in waiting took my horse, and I entered the 
Gothic archway of the hall. A valet, of stealthy step, thence 
conducted me, in silence, through many dark and intricate 
passage in my progress to the studio of his master. Much 
that I encountered on the way contributed, I know not how, to 
heighten the vague sentiments of which I have already spoken. 
While the objects around me — while the carvings of the ceil- 
ings, the somber tapestries of the walls, the ebon blackness of 
the floors, and the phantasmagoric armorial trophies which 
rattled as I strode — were but matters to which, or to such as 
which, I had been accustomed from my infancy — while I hesi- 
tated not to acknowledge how familiar was all this — I still 
wondered to find how unfamiliar were the fancies which ordi- 
nary images were stirring up. On one of the staircases I met 
the physician of the family. His countenance, I thought, wore a 
mingled expression of low cunning and perplexity. He accosted 
me with trepidation and passed on. The valet now threw open 
a door and ushered me into the presence of his master. 

The room in which I found myself was very large and lofty. 
The windows were long, narrow, and pointed, and at so vast a 
distance from the black oaken floor as to be altogether inacces- 
sible from within. Feeble gleams of encrimsoned light made 
their way through the trellised panes, and served to render 
sufficiently distinct the more prominent objects around; the 
eye, however, struggled in vain to reach the remoter angles of 
the chamber, or the recesses of the vaulted and fretted ceiling. 
Dark draperies hung upon the walls. The general furniture 
was profuse, comfortless, antique, and tattered. Many books 
and musical instruments lay scattered about, but failed to give 
any vitality to the scene. I felt that I breathed an atmosphere 
of sorrow. An air of stem, deep, and irredeemable gloom hung 
over and pervaded all. 


Upon my entrance, Usher arose from a sofa on which he 
had been lying at full length, and greeted me with a vivacious 
warmth which had much in it, I at first thought, of an over- 
done cordiality — of the constrained effort of the ennuye man 
of the world. A glance, however, at his countenance convinced 
me of his perfect sincerity. We sat down; and for some 
moments, while he spoke not, I gazed upon him with a feeling 
half of pity, half of awe. Surely man had never before so 
terribly altered, in so brief a period, as had Roderick Usher I 
It was with difficulty that I could bring myself to admit the 
identity of the wan being before me with the companion of my 
early boyhood. Yet the character of his face had been at all 
times remarkable. A cadaverousness of complexion; an eye 
large, liquid, and luminous beyond comparison ; lips somewhat 
thin and very pallid, but of a surpassingly beautiful curve ; a 
nose of a delicate Hebrew model, but with a breadth of nostril 
unusual in similar formations ; a finely molded chin, speaking, 
in its want of prominence, of a want of moral energy ; hair of 
a more than weblike softness and tenuity ; these features, with 
an inordinate expansion above the regions of the temple, made 
up altogether a countenance not easily to be forgotten. And 
now in the mere exaggeration of the prevailing character of 
these features, and of the expression they were wont to convey, 
lay so much of change that I doubted to whom I spoke. The 
now ghastly pallor of the skin, and the now miraculous luster of 
the eye, above all things startled and even awed me. The silken 
hair, too, had been suffered to grow all unheeded, and as, in its 
wild gossamer texture, it floated rather than fell about the face, 
I could not, even with effort, connect its arabesque expression 
with any idea of simple humanity. 

In the manner of my friend I was at once struck with an 
incoherence, an inconsistency; and I soon found this to arise 
from a series of feeble and futile struggles to overcome an 


habitual trepidancy, an excessive nervous agitation. For some- 
thing of this nature I had indeed been prepared, no less by his 
letter than by reminiscences of certain boyish traits, and by 
conclusions deduced from his peculiar physical conformation 
and temperament. His action was alternately vivacious and 
sullen. His voice varied rapidly from a tremulous indecision 
(when the animal spirits seemed utterly in abeyance) to that 
species of energetic concision — that abrupt, weighty, imhurried, 
and hollow-sounding enunciation — that leaden, self-balanced 
and perfectly modulated guttural utterance — which may be 
observed in the lost drunkard, or the irreclaimable eater of 
opium, during the periods of his most intense excitementr 

It was thus that he spoke of the object of my visit, of his 
earnest desire to see me, and of the solace he expected me to 
afford him. He entered, at some length, into what he con- 
ceived to be the nature of his malady. It was, he said, a con- 
stitutional and a family evil, and one for which he despaired 
to find a remedy— r- a mere nervous affection, he immediately 
added, which would undoubtedly soon pass off. It displayed 
itself in a host of unnatural sensations. Some of these, as he 
detailed them, interested and bewildered me ; although, per- 
haps, the terms and the general manner of the narration had 
their weight. He suffered much from a morbid acuteness of 
the senses; the most insipid food was alone endurable; he 
could wear only garments of certain texture ; the odors of all 
flowers were oppressive; his eyes were tortured by even a 
faint light ; and there were but peculiar sounds, and these from 
stringed instruments, which did not inspire him with horror. 

To an anomalous species of terror I found him a bounden 
slave. " I shall perish," said he, "I must perish in this deplor- 
able folly. Thus, thus, and not otherwise, shall I be lost I 
dread the events of the future, not in themselves, but in their 

suits. I shudder at the thought of any, even the most trivial, 


incident, which may operate upon this intolerable agitation of 
soul. I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its 
absolute effect — in terror. In this unnerved — in this pitiable 
condition, I feel that the period will sooner or later arrive when 
I must abandon life and reason together in some struggle with 
the grim phantasm. Fear." 

I learned moreover at intervals, and through broken and 
equivocal hints, another singular feature of his mental condi- 
tion. He was enchained by certain superstitious impressions 
in regard to the dweUing which he tenanted, and whence, for 
many years, he had never ventured forth — in regard to an 
influence whose supposititious force was conveyed in terms 
too shadowy here to be restated — an influence which some 
peculiarities in the mere form and substance of his family 
mansion had, by dint of long sufferance, he said, obtained over 
his spirit — an effect which the physique of the gray walls and 
turrets, and of the dim tarn into which they all looked down, 
had, at length, brought about upon the morale of his existence. 

He admitted, however, although with hesitation, that much 
of the peculiar gloom which thus afflicted him could be traced 
to a more natural and far more palpable origin — to the severe 
and long-continued illness, indeed to the evidently approaching 
dissolution, of a tenderly beloved sister — his sole companion 
for long years,^ his last and only relative on earth. " Her 
decease," he said, with a bitterness which I can never forget, 
" would leave him (him the hopeless and the frail) the last of 
the ancient race of the Ushers." While he spoke, the lady 
Madeline (for so was she called) passed slowly through a 
remote portion of the apartment, and, without having noticed 
my presence, disappeared. I regarded her with an utter aston- 
ishment not unmingled with dread, and yet I found it impossible 
to account for such feelings. A sensation of stupor oppressed 
me, as my eyes followed her retreating steps. When a door, at 


length, closed upon her, my glanqe sought instinctively and 
eagerly the countenance of the brother ; but he had buried his 
face in his hands, and I could only perceive that a far more 
than ordinary wanness had overspread the emaciated fingers 
through which trickled many passionate tears. 

The disease of the lady Madeline had long baffled the skill 
of her physicians. A settled apathy, a gradual wasting away 
of the person, and frequent although transient affections of 
a partially cataleptical character, were the unusual diagnosis. 
Hitherto she had steadily borne up against the pressure of her 
malady, and had not betaken herself finally to bed; but on 
the closing in of the evening of my arrival at the house she 
succumbed (as her brother told me at night with inexpressible 
agitation) to the prostrating power of the destroyer; and I 
learned that the glimpse I had obtained of her person would 
thus probably be the last I should obtain — that the lady, at 
least while living, would be seen by me no more. 

For several days ensuing, her name was unmentioned by 
either Usher or myself; and during this period I was busied 
in earnest endeavors to alleviate the melancholy of my friend. 
We painted and read together ; or I listened,' as if in a dream, 
to the wild improvisations of his speaking guitar. And thus, 
as a closer and still closer intimacy admitted me more unre- 
servedly into the recesses of his spirit, the more bitterly did I 
perceive the futility of all attempt at cheering a mind. from 
which darkness, as if an inherent positive quality, poured forth 
upon all objects of the moral and physical universe, in one 
unceasing radiation of gloom. 

I shall ever bear about me a memory of the many solemn 
hours I thus spent alone with the master of the House of 
Usher. Yet I should fail in any attempt to convey an idea of 
the exact character of the studies, or of the occupations, in 
which he involved me, or led me the way. An excited and 


highly distempered ideality threw a sulphureous luster over all. 
His long improvised dirges will ring forever in my ears. 
Among other things, I hold painfully in mind a certain singu- 
lar perversion and amplification of the wild air of the last 
waltz of Von Weber. From the paintings over which his elabo- 
rate fancy brooded, and which grew, touch by touch, into 
vaguenesses at which I shuddered the more thrillingly because 
I shuddered knowing not why — from these paintings (vivid 
as their images now are before me) I would in vain endeavor 
to educe more than a small portion which should lie within the 
compass of merely written words. By the utter simplicity, by 
the nakedness of his designs, he arrested and overawed atten- 
tion. If ever mortal painted an idea, that mortal was Roderick 
Usher. For me at least, in the circumstances then surrounding 
me, there arose, out of the pure abstractions which the hypo- 
chondriac contrived to throw upon his canvas, an intensity of 
intolerable awe, no shadow of which felt I ever yet in the con- 
templation of the certainly glowing yet too concrete reveries 
of Fuseli. 

One of the phantasmagoric conceptions of my friend, par- 
taking not so rigidly of the spirit of abstraction, may be 
shadowed forth, although feebly, in words. A small picture 
presented the interior of an immensely long and rectangular 
vault or tunnel, with low walls, smooth, white, and without 
interruption or device. Certain accessory points of the design 
served well to convey the idea that this excavation lay at an 
exceeding depth below the surface of the earth. No outlet 
was observed in any portion of its vast extent, and no torch or 
other artificial source of light was discernible ; yet a flood of 
intense rays rolled throughout, and bathed the whole in a 
ghastly and inappropriate splendor. 

I have just spoken of that morbid condition of the auditory 
nerve which rendered all music intolerable to the sufferer, w' * 


the exception of certain effects of stringed instruments. It 
was, perhaps, the narrow limits to which he thus confined him- 
self upon the guitar, which gave birth, in great measure, to the 
fantastic character of his performances. But the fervid facility 
of his impromptus could not be so accounted for. They must 
have been, and were, in the notes as well as in the words of 
his wild fantasias (for he not unfrequently accompanied him- 
self with rhymed verbal improvisations), the result of that 
intense mental collectedness and concentration to which I have 
previously alluded as observable only in particular moments of 
the highest artificial excitement. The words of one of these 
rhapsodies I have easily remembered. I was, perhaps, the 
more forcibly impressed with it, as he gave it, because, in the 
under or mystic current of its meaning, I fancied that I per- 
ceived, and for the first time, a full consciousness, on the part 
of Usher, of the tottering of his lofty reason upon her throne. 
The verses, which were entitled " The Haunted Palace," ran 
very nearly, if not accurately, thus : 


In the greenest of our valleys 

By good angels tenanted, 
Once a fair and stately palace — 

Radiant palace — reared its head. 
In the monarch Thought's dominion 

It stood there ; 
Never seraph spread a pinion 

Over fabric half so fair. 


Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 

On its roof did float and flow, 
(This — all this — was in the olden 

Time long ago) 


And every gentle air that dallied, 

In that sweet day, 
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

A wing^ odor went away. 


Wanderers in that happy valley 

Through two luminous windows saw 
Spirits moving musically 

To a lute's well-tun^d law, 
Round about a throne where, sitting, 

In state his glory well befitting. 

The ruler of the realm was seen. 


And all with pearl and ruby glowing 

Was the fair palace door, 
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, 

And sparkling evermore, 
A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty 

Was but to sing. 
In voices of surpassing beauty. 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 

But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 

Assailed the monarch's high estate ; 
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow 

Shall dawn upon him, desolate !) 
And round about his home the glory 

That blushed and bloomed 
Is but a dim-remembered story 

Of the old time entombed. 



And travelers now within that valley 

Through the red-litten windows see 
Vast forms that move fantastically 

To a discordant melody ; 
While, like a ghastly rapid river, 

Through the pale door 
A hideous throng rush out forever. 

And laugh — but smile no more. 

I well remember that suggestions arising from this ballad 
led us into a train of thought, wherein there became manifest 
an opinion of Usher^s which I mention not so much on account 
of its novelty (for other men^ have thought thus) as on ac- 
count of the pertinacity with which he maintained it. This 
opinion, in its general form, was that of the sentience of all 
vegetable things. But in his disordered fancy the idea had 
assumed a more daring character, and trespassed, under certain 
conditions, upon the kingdom of inorganization. I lack words 
to express the full extent or the earnest abandon of his jjer- 
suasion. The belief, however, was connected (as I have pre- 
viously hinted) with the gray stones of the home of his fore- 
fathers. The conditions of the sentience had been here, he 
imagined, fulfilled in the method of collocation of these stones 
— in the order of their arrangement, as well as in that of the 
many fungi which overspread them, and of the decayed trees 
which stood around — above all, in the long undisturbed en- 
durance of this arrangement, and in its reduplication in the 
still waters of the tarn. Its evidence — the evidence of the 
sentience — was to be seen, he said (and I here started as he 
spoke), in the gradual yet certain condensation of an atmos- 
phere of their own about the waters and the walls. The result 

1 Watson, Dr. Percival, Spallanzani, and especially the Bishop of Landaff. — 
See " Chemical Essays," Vol. V. 


was discoverable, he added, in that silent, yet importunate and 
terrible, influence which for centuries had molded the destinies 
of his family, and which made him what I now saw him — 
what he was. Such opinions need no comment, and I will 
make none. 

Our books — the books which, for years, had formed no 
small portion of the mental existence of the invalid — were, 
as might be supposed, in strict keeping with this character of 
phantasm. We pored together over such works as the Ververt 
and Chartreuse of Gresset ; the Belphegor of Machiavelli ; the 
Heaven and Hell of Swedenborg ; the Subterranean Voyage of 
Nicholas Klimm by Holberg ; the Chiromancy of Robert Flud, 
of Jean Dlndagin^, and of De la Chambre ; the Journey into 
the Blue Distance of Tieck ; and the City of the Sun of Cam- 
panella. One favorite volume was a small octavo edition of 
the Diredorium Inguisitorum, by the Dominican Eymeric de 
Gironne ; and there were passages in Pomponius Mela, about 
the old African Satyrs and -^gipans, over which Usher would 
sit dreaming for hours. His chief delight, however, was found 
in the perusal of an exceedingly rare and curious book in 
quarto Gothic — the manual of a forgotten church — the Vigilue 
Mortuorum secundum Chorum Ecclesice Maguntince. 

I could not help thinking of the wild ritual of this work, and 
of its probable influence upon the hypochondriac, when one 
evening, having informed me abruptly that the lady Madeline 
was no more, he stated his intention of preserving her corpse 
for a fortnight (previously to its final interment) in one of the 
numerous vaults within the main walls of the building. The 
worldly reason, however, assigned for this singular proceeding 
was one which I did not feel at liberty to dispute. The brother 
had been led to his resolution (so he told me) by consideration 
of the unusual character of the malady of the deceased, of 
certain obtrusive and eager inquiries on the part of her medical 


men, and of the remote and exposed situation of the burial 
ground of the family. I will not deny that when I called to 
mind the sinister countenance of the person whom I met upon 
the staircase, on the day of my arrival at the house, I had no 
desire to oppose what I regarded as at best but a harmless, 
and by no means an unnatural, precaution. 

At the request of Usher I personally aided him in the ar- 
rangements for the temporary entombment The body having 
been encoffined, we two alone bore it to its rest. The vault in 
which we placed it (and which had been so long unopened that 
our torches, half smothered in its oppressive atmosphere, gave 
us little opportunity for investigation) was small, damp, and 
entirely without means of admission for light, lying, at great 
depth, immediately beneath that portion of the building in 
which was my own sleeping apartment. It had been used, 
apparently, in remote feudal times, for the worst purposes of a 
donjon keep, and in later days as a place of deposit for powder, 
or some other highly combustible substance, as a portion of its 
floor, and the whole interior of a long archway through whidi 
we reached it, were carefully sheathed with copper. The door, 
of massive iron, had been, also, similarly protected. Its im- 
mense weight caused an unusually sharp, grating sound as it 
moved upon its hinges. 

Having deposited our mournful burden upon tressels within 
this region of horror, we partially turned aside the yet un- 
screwed lid of the coffin and looked upon the face of the 
tenant. A striking similitude between the brother and sister 
now first arrested my attention ; and Usher, divining, perhaps, 
my thoughts, murmured out some few words from which I 
learned that the deceased and himself had been twins, and 
that sympathies of a scarcely intelligible nature had always 
existed between them. Our glances, however, rested not long 
upon the dead — for we could not regard her imawed The 


disease which had thus entombed the lady in the maturity of 
youth had left, as usual in all maladies of a strictly cataleptical 
character, the mockery of a faint blush upon the bosom and 
the face, iind that suspiciously lingering smile upon the lip 
which is so terrible in death. We replaced and screwed down 
the lid, and, having secured the door of iron, made our way, 
with toil, into the scarcely less gloomy apartments of the upper 
portion of the house. 

And now, some days of bitter grief having elapsed, an 
observable change came over the features of the mental dis- 
order of my friend. His ordinary manner had vanished. His 
ordinary occupations were neglected or forgotten. He roamed 
from chamber to chamber with hurried, unequal, and objectless 
step. The pallor of his countenance had assumed, if possible, 
a more ghastly hue — but the luminousness of his eye had 
utterly gone out. The once occasional huskiness of his tone 
was heard no more ; and a tremulous quaver, as if of extreme 
terror, habitually characterized his utterance. There were times, 
indeed, when I thought his unceasingly agitated mind was 
laboring with some oppressive secret, to divulge which he 
struggled for the necessary courage. At times, again, I was 
obliged to resolve all into the mere inexplicable vagaries of 
madness, for I beheld him gazing upon vacancy for long hours, 
in an attitude of the profoundest attention, as if listening to 
some imaginary sound. It was no wonder that his condition 
terrified — that it infected me. I felt creeping upon me, by 
slow yet certain degrees, the wild influences of his own fantas- 
tic yet impressive superstitions. 

It was, especially, upon retiring to bed late in the night of 
the seventh or eighth day after the placing of the lady Madeline 
within the donjon that I experienced the full power of such feel- 
ings. Sleep came not near my couch, while the hours waned 
and waned away. I struggled to reason off the nervousn< 


which had dominion over me. I endeavored to believe that 
much, if not all, of what I felt was due to the bewilder- 
ing influence of the gloomy furniture of the room — of the 
dark and tattered draperies which, tortured into .motion by 
the breath of a rising tempest, swayed fitfully to and fro upon 
the walls and rustled uneasily about the decorations of the 
bed. But my efforts were fruitless. An irrepressible tremor 
gradually pervaded my frame ; and at length there sat upon 
my very heart an incubus of utterly causeless alarm. Shaking 
this off with a gasp and a struggle, I uplifted myself upon the 
pillows, and, peering earnestly within the intense darkness of 
the chamber, hearkened — I know not why, except that an 
instinctive spirit prompted me — to certain low and indefinite 
sounds which came, through the pauses of the storm, at long 
intervals, I knew not whence. Overpowered by an intense 
sentiment of horror, unaccountable yet unendurable, I threw 
on my clothes with haste (for I felt that I should sleep no 
more during the night) and endeavored to arouse myself from 
the pitiable condition into which I had fallen, by pacing rapidly 
to and fro through the apartment. 

I had taken but few turns in this manner when a light step 
on an adjoining staircase arrested my attention. I presently 
recognized it as that of Usher. In an instant afterward he 
rapped, with a gentle touch, at my door, and entered, bearing 
a lamp. His countenance was, as usual, cadaverously wan; 
but, moreover, there was a species of mad hilarity in his eyes, 
an evidently restrained hysteria in his whole demeanor. His 
air appalled me — but anything was preferable to the solitude 
which I had so long endured, and I even welcomed his 
presence as a relief. 

'* And you have not seen it ? '* he said abruptly, after having 
stared about him for some moments in silence — " you have 
not then seen it? — but, stay ! you shall.'' Thus speaking, and 


having carefully shaded his lamp, he hurried to one of the 
casements and threw it freely open to the storm. 

The impetuous fury of the entering gust nearly lifted us 
from our feet. It was, indeed, a tempestuous yet sternly beau- 
tiful night, and one wildly singular in its terror and its beauty. 
A whirlwind had apparently collected its force in our vicinity ; 
for there were frequent and violent alterations in the direction 
of the wind ; and the exceeding density of the clouds (which 
hung so low as to press upon the turrets of the house) did not 
prevent our perceiving the lifelike velocity with which they flew 
careering from all points against each other, without passing 
away into the distance. I say that even their exceeding density 
did not prevent our perceiving this ; yet we had no glimpse of 
the moon or stars, nor was there any flashing forth of the light- 
ning. But the under surfaces of the huge masses of agitated 
vapor, as well as all terrestrial objects immediately around us, 
were glowing in the unnatural light of a faintly luminous and 
distinctly visible gaseous exhalation which hung about and 
enshrouded the mansion. 

"You must not — you shall not behold this 1 " said I, shud- 
deringly, to Usher, as I led him with a gentle violence from 
the window to a seat. " These appearances, which bewilder 
you are merely electrical phenomena not uncommon — or it 
may be that they have their ghastly origin in the rank miasma 
of the tarn. Let us close this casement ; the air is chilling and 
dangerous to your frame. Here is one of your favorite 
romances. I will read, and you shall listen ; and so we will 
pass away this terrible night together." 

The antique volume which I had taken up was the ** Mad 
Trist " of Sir Launcelot Canning ; but I had called it a favorite 
of Usher's more in sad jest than in earnest ; for, in truth, there 
is little in its uncouth and unimaginative prolixity which could 
have had interest for the lofty and spiritual ideality of my 


friend. It was, however, the only book immediately at hand ; 
and I indulged a vague hope that the excitement which now 
agitated the hypochondriac might find relief (for the history 
of mental disorder is full of similar anomalies) even in the 
extremeness of the folly which I should read. Could I have 
judged, indeed, by the wild overstrained air of vivacity with 
which he hearkened, or apparently hearkened, to the words 
of the tale, I might well have congratulated myself upon the 
success of my design. 

I had arrived at that well-known portion of the story where 
Ethelred, the hero of the Trist, having sought in vain for 
peaceable admission into the dwelling of the hermit, proceeds 
to make good an entrance by force. Here, it will be remem- 
bered, the words of the narrative run thus: 

" And Ethelred, who was by nature of a doughty heart, and who 
was now mighty withal, on account of the powerfulness of the wine 
which he had drunken, waited no longer to hold parley with the 
hermit, who, in sooth, was of an obstinate and maliceful turn, but, 
feeling the rain upon his shoulders, and fearing the rising of the 
tempest, uplifted his mace outright, and with blows made quickly 
room in the plankings of the door for his gauntleted hand ; and now 
pulling therewith sturdily, he so cracked, and ripped, and tore 
all asunder, that the noise of the dry and hollow-sounding wood 
alarumed and reverberated throughout the forest" 

At the termination of this sentence I started, and for a 
moment paused; for it appeared to me (although I at once 
concluded that my excited fancy had deceived me) — it 
appeared to me that from some very remote portion of the 
mansion there came, indistinctiy, to my ears, what might have 
been, in its exact similarity of character, the echo (but a stifled 
and dull one certainly) of the very cracking and ripping sound 
which Sir Launcelot had so particularly described. It was, 
beyond doubt, the coincidence alone which had arrested my 


attention ; for, amid the rattling of the sashes of the casements 
and the ordinary commingled noises of the still increjtsing 
storm, the sound, in itself, had nothing, surely, which should 
have interested or disturbed me. I continued the story: 

" But the good champion Ethelred, now entering within the door, 
was sore enraged and amazed to perceive no signal of the maliceful 
hermit ; but, in the stead thereof, a dragon of a scaly and prodigious 
demeanor, and of a fiery tongue, which sate in guard before a palace 
of gold, with a floor of silver ; and upon the wall there hung a shield 
of shining brass with this legend en written — 

Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin ; 
Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win. 

And Ethelred uplifted his mace, and struck upon the head of the 
dragon, which fell before him, and gave up his pesty breath, with a 
shriek so horrid and harsh, and withal so piercing, that Ethelred had 
fain to close his ears with his hands against the dreadful noise of it, 
the like whereof was never before heard." 

Here again I paused abruptly, and now with a feeling of 
wild amazement; for there could be no doubt whatever that, 
in this instance, I did actually hear (although from what 
direction it proceeded I found it impossible to say) a low and 
apparently distant, but harsh, protracted, and most unusual 
screaming or grating sound — the exact counterpart of what 
my fancy had already conjured up for the dragon's unnatural 
shriek as described by the romancer. 

Oppressed, as I certainly was, upon the occurrence of this 
second and most extraordinary coincidence, by a thousand 
conflicting sensations, in which wonder and extreme terror 
were predominant, I still retained sufficient presence of mind 
to avoid exciting, by any observation, the sensitive nervousness 
of my companion. I was by no means certain that he had 
noticed the sounds in question; although, assuredly, a strange 
alteration had during^ tb^ Jasf: few minutes taken place in his 


demeanor. From a position fronting my own, he had gradu- 
ally brought round his chair so as to sit with his face to tiie 
door of the chamber ; and thus I could but partially perceive 
his features, although I saw that his lips trembled as if he were 
murmuring inaudibly. His head had dropped upon his breast 
— yet I knew that he was not asleep, from the wide and rigid 
opening of the eye as I caught a glance of it in profile. The 
motion of his body, too, was at variance with this idea, for hc 
rocked from side to side with a gentle yet constant and unifomi^ 
sway. Having rapidly taken notice of all this, I resumed the 
narrative of Sir Launcelot, which thus proceeded : 

" And now, the champion, having escaped from the terrible fury 
of the dragon, bethinking himself of the brazen shield, and of the 
breaking up of the enchantment which was upon it, removed the 
carcass from out of the way before him, and approached valor- 
ously over the silver pavement of the castle to where the shield 
was upon the wall ; which in sooth tarried not for his full coming, 
but fell down at his feet upon the silver floor, with a mighty great 
and terrible ringing sound." 

No sooner had these syllables passed my lips than — as if 
a shield of brass had indeed, at the moment, fallen heavity 
upon a floor of silver — I became aware of a distinct, hollow, 
metallic, and clangorous, yet apparently muffled, reverberation. 
Completely unnerved, I leaped to my feet ; but the measured 
rocking movement of Usher was undisturbed. I rushed to the 
chair in which he sat. His eyes were bent fixedly before him, 
and throughout his whole countenance there reigned a stony 
rigidity. But as I placed my hand upon his shoulder there 
came a strong shudder over his whole person ; a sickly smile 
quivered about his lips ; and I saw that he spoke in a low, 
hurried, and gibbering murmur, as if unconscious of my pres- 
sence. Bending closely over him, I at length drank in the 
hideous import of his words. 


" Not hear it ? — yes, I hear it, and have heard it Long — 

long — long — many minutes, many hours, many days, have 

I heard it — yet I dared not — oh, pity me, miserable wretch 

that I am 1 — I dared not — I dared not speak 1 We have put 

her living in the tomb/ Said I not that my senses were acute? 

I now tell you that I heard her first feeble movements in the 

lioUow coffin. I heard them — many, many days ago — yet I 

dared not — / dared not speak I And now — to-night — 

Ethelred — ha 1 ha ! — the breaking of the hermit's door, and 

the death cry of the dragon, and the clangor of the shield ! — 

say, rather, the rending of her coffin, and the grating of the 

iron hinges of her prison, and her struggles within the coppered 

archway of the vault ! Oh, whither shall I fly ? Will she not 

he here anon ? Is she not hurrying to upbraid me for my 

haste ? Have I not heard her footstep on the stair ? Do I not 

distinguish that heavy and horrible beating of her heart? 

Madman ! " — here he sprang furiously to his feet, and 

shrieked out his syllables, as if in the effort he were giving 

up his soul — ''^Madman! I tell you that she now stands 

without the door!''' 

As if in the superhuman energy of his utterance there had 
been found the potency of a spell, the huge antique panels to 
which the speaker pointed threw slowly back, upon the instant, 
^heir ponderous and ebony jaws. It was the work of the rush- 
ng gust — but then without those doors there did stand the 
ofty and enshrouded figure of the lady Madeline of Usher. 
There was blood upon her white robes, and the evidence of 
ome bitter struggle upon every portion of her emaciated 
rame. For a moment she remained trembling and reeling to 
irid f ro upon the threshold — then, with a low moaning cry, 
ell heavily inward upon the person of her brother, and, in 
ler Violent and now final death agonies, bore him to the floor 
L corpsb, and a victim to the terrors he had anticipated. 


From that chamber, and from that mansion, I fled aghast 
The storm was still abroad in all its wrath as I found myself 
crossing the old causeway. Suddenly there shot along the 
path a wild light, and I turned to see whence a gleam so 
unusual could have issued ; for the vast house and its shadows 
were alone behind me. The radiance was that of the full, 
setting, and blood-red moon, which now shone vividly through 
that once barely discernible fissure, of which I have before 
spoken as extending from the roof of the building, in a zigzag 
direction, to the base. While I gazed, this fissure rapidly 
widened — there came a fierce breath of the whirlwind — Ac 
entire orb of the satellite burst at once upon my sight — my 
brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder — 
there was a long, tumultuous, shouting sound like the voice of 
a thousand waters — and the deep and dank tarn at my feet 
closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of the ** House 
of Usher." 


[John Pendleton Kennedy was bom in Baltimore, Maryland, in 
1 795. After graduating from a local college he studied law and b^an 
to practice his profession. For the rest of his life he divided his 
attention among law, politics, and literature. In 1852 he became 
Secretary of the Navy under President Fillmore. He died at Newport, 
Rhode Island, in 1870.] 


Swallow Barn, an Old Virginia Estate 

Swallow Bam is an aristocratical old edifice which sits, like a 
brooding hen, on the southern bank of the James River. It 
looks down upon a shady pocket or nook, formed by an inden- 
tation of the shore, from a gentle acclivity thinly sprinkled with 


oaks whose magnificent branches afford habitation to sundiy 
friendly colonies of squirrels and woodpeckers. 

This time-honored mansion was the residence of the family 
of Hazards. But in the present generation the spells of love and 
mortgage have translated the possession to Frank Meriwetlier, 
who, having married Lucretia, the eldest daughter of my late 
Uncle Walter Hazard, and 
lifted some gentiemanlike en- 
cumbrances which had been 
sleeping for years upon the 
domain, was thus inducted 
into the proprietary rights. 
The adjacency of his own 
estate gave a territorial fea- 
ture to this alliance, of which 
the fruits were no less dis- 
cernible in the multiplication 
of negroes, cattle, and poul- 
try than in a flourishing clan 
of Meriwethers. 

The main building is more 
than a century old. It is built 
with thick brick walls, but 
one story in height, and surmounted by a double-faced or 
hipped roof, which gives the idea of a ship bottom upwards. 
Later buildings have been added to this as the wants or am- 
bition of the family have expanded. These are all constructed 
of wood, and seem to have been built in defiance of all laws 
of congruity, just as convenience required. But they form alto- 
gether an agreeable picture of habitation, suggesting the idea 
of comfort in the ample space they fill and in their conspicuous 
adaptation to domestic uses. 

The hall door is an ancient piece of wabut, which has grown 



too heavy for its hinges and by its daily travel has furrowed Ae 
floor in a quadrant, over which it has an uneasy journey. It is 
shaded by a narrow porch, with a carved pediment upheld by 
massive columns of wood, somewhat split by the sun. An ample 
courtyard, inclosed by a semicircular paling, extends in front 
of the whole pile, and is traversed by a gravel road leading from 
a rather ostentatious iron gate, which is swung between twc 
pillars of brick surmounted by globes of cut stone. Betweci 
the gate and the house a large willow spreads its arched an< 
pendent drapery over the grass. A bridle rack stands withi 
the inclosure, and near it a ragged horse-nibbled plum tree— 
the current belief being that a plum tree thrives on ill usag 
— casts its skeleton shadow on the dust. 

Some Lombardy poplars, springing above a mass of shrubbei) 
partially screen various supernumerary buildings at a short dif 
tance in the rear of the mansion. Amongst these is to be see 
the gable end of a stable, with the date of its erection stiffl 
emblazoned in black bricks near the upper angle, in figures s< 
in after the fashion of the work on a girl's sampler. In th 
same quarter a pigeon box, reared on a post and resembling 
huge teetotum, is visible, and about its several doors and wii 
dows a family of pragmatical pigeons are generally strutting 
bridling, and bragging at each other from sunrise imtil dari 

Appendant to this homestead is an extensive tract of Ian 
which stretches some three or four miles along the rive 
presenting alternately abrupt promontories mantied with pin 
and dwarf oak, and small inlets terminating in swamps. Som 
sparse portions of forest vary the landscape, which, for the moj 
part, exhibits a succession of fields clothed with Indian con 
some small patches of cotton or tobacco plants, with the usuj 
varieties of stubble and fallow grounds. These are inclosed b 
worm fences of shrunken chestnut, where lizards and groun 
squirrels are perpetually running races along the rails. 


A few hundred steps from the mansion a brook glides at a 

snail's pace towards the river, holding its course through a 

wilderness of laurel and alder, and creeping around islets covered 

with green mosses. Across this stream is thrown a rough bridge, 

which it would delight a painter to see'; and not far below it an 

aged sycamore twists its roots into a grotesque framework to 

the pure mirror of a spring, which wells up its cool waters from 

a bed of gravel and runs gurgling to the brook. There it aids 

in furnishing a cruising ground to a squadron of ducks who, in 

defiance of all nautical propriety, are incessantly turning up 

their stems to the skies. On the grass which skirts the margin 

of the spring I observe the family linen is usually spread out 

by some three or four negro women, who chant shrill music 

Over their washtubs, and seem to live in ceaseless warfare with 

Sundry little besmirched and bow-legged blacks, who are never 

tired of making somersaults and mischievously pushing each 

other on the clothes laid down to dry. 

Beyond the bridge, at some distance, stands a prominent 
object in the perspective of this picture, — the most venerable 
appendage to the establishment, — a huge bam with an immense 
roof hanging almost to the ground and thatched a foot thick 
with sunburnt straw, which reaches below the eaves in ragged 
flakes. It has a singularly drowsy and decrepit aspect. The 
yard around it is strewed knee-deep with litter, from the midst 
of which arises a long rack resembling a chevaux-de-frise, which 
is ordinarily filled with fodder. This is the customary lounge of 
half a score of oxen and as many cows, who sustain an imper- 
turbable companionship with a sickly wagon, whose parched 
tongue and drooping swingletrees, as it stands in the sun, give 
it a most forlorn and invalid character; whilst some sociable 
carts under the sheds, with their shafts perched against the 
walls, suggest the idea of a set of gossiping cronies taking their ' 
ease in a tavem porch. Now and then a clownish hobbledehoy 


colt, with long fetlocks and disordered mane, and a thousand 
burs in his tail, stalks through this company. But as it is for- 
bidden ground to all his tribe, he is likely very soon to encounter 
a shower of corncobs from some of the negro men ; upon which 
contingency he makes a rapid retreat across the bars which 
imperfectly guard the entrance to the yard, and with an uncouth 
display of his heels bounds away towards the brook, where he 
stops and looks back with a saucy defiance ; and after affecting 
to drink for a moment, gallops away with a braggart whinny tc 
the fields. 

The Master of Swallow Barn 

The master of this lordly domain is Frank Meriwether, fl 
is now in the meridian of life — somewhere about forty-fiv 
Good cheer and an easy temper tell well upon him. The fil" 
has given him a comfortable, portly figure, and the latter 
contemplative turn of mind, which inclines him to be lazy ar 

He has some right to pride himself on his personal appearanc 
for he has a handsome face, with a dark-blue eye and a fii 
intellectual brow. His head is growing scant of hair on tl 
crown, which induces him to be somewhat particular in tl 
management of his locks in that locality, and these are assumii 
a decided silvery hue. 

It is pleasant to see him when he is going to ride to tl 
Court House on business occasions. He is then apt to ma] 
his appearance in a coat of blue broadcloth, astonishingly gloss 
and with an unusual amount of plaited ruffle strutting throu| 
the folds of a Marseilles waistcoat. A worshipful finish is giv 
to this costume by a large straw hat, lined with green silk. The 
is a magisterial fullness in his garments which betokens conditk 
in the world, and a heavy bunch of seals, suspended by a chain 
gold, jingles as he moves, pronouncing him a man of superfiuiti< 


[He is too lazy to try to go into politics, but did once make a 
pretence of studying law in Richmond, and is a somewhat auto- 
, cratic justice of the peace.] 

... Having in this way qualified himself to assert and main- 

t tain his rights, he came to his estate, upon his arrival at age, a 

t very model of landed gentlemen. Since that time his avocations 

have had a certain literary tincture ; for having settied himself 

down as a married man, and got rid of his superfluous foppery, 

he rambled with wonderful assiduity through a wilderness of 

romances, poems, and dissertations, which are now collected in 

his library, and, with their battered blue covers, present a lively 

^e of an army of continentals at the close of the war, or a 

hospital of invalids. These have all, at last, given way to the 

newspapers — a miscellaneous study very attractive and engross- 

f ^ng to country gentlemen. This line of study has rendered 

Meriwether a most perilous antagonist in the matter of legisla- 

^ve proceedings. 

A landed proprietor, with a good house and a host of servants, 
^ naturally a hospitable man. A guest is one of his daily wants. 
A friendly face is a necessary of life, without which the heart 


^ apt to starve, or a luxury without which it grows parsimoni- 
Pus. Men who are isolated from society by distance feel these 
^ants by an instinct, and are grateful for the opportunity to 
relieve them. In Meriwether the sentiment goes beyond this. 
It has, besides, something dialectic in it. His house is open to 
everybody, as freely almost as an inn. But to see him when he 
has had the good fortune to pick up an intelligent, educated 
gentieman, — and particularly one who listens well I — a re- 
spectable, assentatious stranger! All the better if he has been 
in the Legislature, and better still, if in Congress. Such a per- 
son caught within the purlieus of Swallow Bam may set down 
one week's entertainment as certain, — inevitable, — and as 


many more as he likes — the more the merrier. He will know 
something of the quality of Meriwether's rhetoric before he 
is gone. 

Then again, it is very pleasant to see Frank's kind and con- 
siderate bearing towards his servants and dependents. His 
slaves appreciate this and hold him in most affectionate rever- 
ence, and, therefore, are not only contented, but happy under 
his dominion. . . . 

He is somewhat distinguished as a breeder of blooded horses ; 
and ever since the celebrated race between Eclipse and Henry 
has taken to this occupation with a renewed zeal, as a matter 
affecting the reputation of the state. It is delightful to hear him 
expatiate upon the value, importance, and patriotic bearing of 
this employment, and to listen to all his technical lore touching 
the mystery of horsecraft. He has some fine colts in training, 
which are committed to the care of a pragmatical old negro, 
named Carey, who, in his reverence for the occupation, is the 
perfect shadow of his master. He and Frank hold grave and 
momentous consultations upon the affairs of the stable, in such 
a sagacious strain of equal debate that it would puzzle a spec- 
tator to tell which was the leading member of the council. Carey 
thinks he knows a great deal more upon the subject than his 
master, and their frequent intercourse has begot a familiarity in 
the old negro which is almost fatal to Meriwether's supremacy. 
The old man feels himself authorized to maintain his positions 
according to the freest parliamentary form, and sometimes with 
a violence of asseveration that compels his master to abandon 
his ground, purely out of faint-heartedness. Meriwether gets a 
little nettled by Carey's doggedness, but generally turns it off 
in a laugh. I was in the stable with him, a few mornings after 
my arrival, when he ventured to expostulate with the venerable 
groom upon a professional point, but the controversy terminated 
in its customary way. " Who sot you up. Master Frank, to tell 


me how to fodder that 'ere cretur, when I as good as nursed 
you on my knee?" 

"Well, tie up your tongue, you old mastiff," replied Frank, 
as he walked out of the stable, " and cease growling, since you 
will have it your own way " ; and then, as we left the old 
man's presence, he added, with an affectionate chuckle, "a 
faithful old cur, too, that snaps at me out of pure honesty ; he 
has not many years left, and it does no harm to humor him." 

The Mistress of Swallow Barn 

Whilst Frank Meriwether amuses himself with his quiddities, 
and floats through life upon the current of his humor, his dame, 
my excellent cousin Lucretia, takes charge of the household 
affairs, as one who has a reputation to stake upon her adminis- 
tration. She has made it a perfect science, and great is her 
fame in the dispensation thereof! 

Those who have visited Swallow Barn will long remember 
the morning stir, of which the murmurs arose even unto the 
chambers and fell upon the ears of the sleepers : the dry rub- 
bing of floors, and even the waxing of the same until they were 
like ice; and the grinding of coffee mills; and the gibber of 
ducks, and chickens, and turkeys ; and all the multitudinous 
concert of homely sounds. And then, her breakfasts ! I do not 
wish to be counted extravagant, but a small regiment might 
march in upon her without disappointment ; and I would put 
them for excellence and variety against anything that ever was 
served upon platter. Moreover, all things go like clockwork. 
She rises with the lark and infuses an early vigor into the whole 
household. And yet she is a thin woman to look upon, and a 
feeble; with a sallow complexion, and a pair of animated 
black eyes which impart a portion of fire to a countenance 
otherwise demure from the paths worn across it in the frequent 


travel of a low-country ague. But, although her life has 
somewhat saddened by such visitations, my cousin is too spi 
a woman to give up to them ; for she is therapeutical ir 
constitution, and considers herself a full match for any re; 
able tertian in the world. Indeed, I have sometimes the 
that she took more pride in her leechcraft than becom 
Christian woman ; she is even a little vainglorious. For, t( 
nothing of her skill in compounding simples, she has occa 
ally brought down upon her head the sober remonstrana 
her husband by her pertinacious faith in the efficacy of ce 
spells in cases of intermittent. But there is no reasoning ag 
her experience. She can enumerate the cases — " and men 
say what they choose about its being contrary to reason, ai 
that : it is their way 1 But seeing is believing — nine scoo 
water in the hollow of the hand, from the sycamore sprinj 
three mornings, before sunrise, and a cup of strong coffee 
lemon juice, will break an ague, try it when you will." In s 
as Frank says, '* Lucretia will die in that creed." 

I am occasionally up early enough to be witness t( 
morning regimen, which, to my mind, is rather tyrann 
enforced against the youngsters of her numerous family, 
white and black. She is in the habit of preparing some c 
routing decoction for them, in a small pitcher, and administ 
it to the whole squadron in succession, who severally sw 
the dose with a most ineffectual effort at repudiation, and | 
off with faces all rue and wormwood. 

Everything at Swallow Bam that falls within the suj 
tendence of my cousin Lucretia is a pattern of industr} 
fact, I consider her the very priestess of the American sy 
for, with her, the protection of manufactures is even mon 
passion than a principle. Every here and there, over the e 
may be seen, rising in humble guise above the shrubber) 
rude chimney of a log cabin, where all the livelong da; 


plaintive moaning of the spinning wheel rises fitfully upon the 
breeze, like the fancied notes of a hobgoblin, as they are some- 
times imitated in the stories with which we frighten children. 
In these laboratories the negro women are employed in pre- 
paring yam for the loom, from which is produced not only a 
comfortable supply of winter clothing for the working people 
but some excellent carpets for the house. 

It is refreshing to behold how affectionately vain our good 
hostess is of Frank, and what deference she shows to his judg- 
ment in all matters except those that belong to the home de- 
partment ; for there she is confessedly, and without appeal, the 
paramount power. It seems to be a dogma with her that he is 
the very " first man in Virginia," an expression which in this 
region has grown into an emphatic provincialism. Frank, in re- 
^m, is a devout admirer of her accomplishments, and although 
^^ does not pretend to an ear for music, he is in raptures at 
ber skill on the harpsichord when she plays at night for the 
children to dance ; and he sometimes sets her to singing " The 
Twins of Latona," and " Old Towler," and " The Rose-Tree in 
I^uU Bearing " (she does not study the modem music) for the 
entertainment of his company. On these occasions he stands 
by the instmment, and nods his head as if he comprehended 
the airs. 

Traces of the Feudal System 

The gentiemen of Virginia live apart from each other. They 
^e surrounded by their bondsmen and dependents ; and the 
^tomaiy intercourse of society familiarizes their minds to 
the relation of high and low degree. They frequently meet in the 
interchange of a large and thriftless hospitality, in which the 
forms of society are foregone for its comforts, and the business 
of life thrown aside for the enjoyment of its pleasures. Their 
halls are large, and their boards ample; and surrounding the 


great family hearth, with its immense burthen of blazing wood 
casting a broad and merry glare over the congregated house- 
hold and the numerous retainers, a social winter party in 
Virginia affords a tolerable picture of feudal mimificence. 

Frank Meriwether is a good specimen of the dass I have 
described. He seeks companionship with men of ability, and i^ 
a zealous disseminator of the personal fame of individuals wh< 
have won any portion of renown in the state. Sometimes '. 
even think he exaggerates a little, when descanting upon th' 
prodigies of genius that have been reared in the Old Dominion 
and he manifestly seems to consider that a young man wh* 
has astonished a whole village in Virginia by the splendor o 
his talents must, of course, be known throughout the Unite< 
States ; for he frequently opens his eyes at me with an air o 
astonishment when I happen to ask him who is the marvel h 
is speaking of. 

I observe, moreover, that he has a constitutional fondnes 
for paradoxes and does not scruple to adopt and republish an 
apothegm that is calculated to startle one by its novelty. H 
has a correspondence with several old friends who were wit 
him at college, and who have now risen into an extensiv 
political notoriety in the state; these gentlemen furnish hii 
with many new currents of thought, along which he glides wit 
a happy velocity. He is essentially meditative in his charact£ 
and somewhat given to declamation ; and these traits hav 
communicated a certain measured and deliberate gesticulado 
to his discourse. I have frequently seen him after dinner strid 
backward and forward across the room for some moment 
wrapped in thought, and then fling himself upon the sofa an 
come out with some weighty doubt, expressed with a solem 
emphasis. In this form he lately began a conversation, c 
rather a speech, that for a moment quite disconcerted m< 
** After all,'' said he, as if he had been talking to me befon 


although these were the first words he uttered — then making 

a parenthesis, so as to qualify what he was going to say — 

**I don't deny that the steamboat is destined to produce 

valuable results, but after all, I much question (and here he 

bit his upper lip, and paused an instant) if we are not better 

without it I declare, I think it strikes deeper at the supremacy 

of the states than most persons are willing to allow. This 

annihilation of space, sir, is not to be desired. Our protection 

agamst the evils of consolidation consists in the very obstacles 

to our intercourse. Splatterthwaite Dubbs of Dinwiddle [or 

some such name ; Frank is famous for quoting the opinions of 

his contemporaries. This Splatterthwaite, I take it, was some 

old college chum who had got into the legislature and, I dare 

say, made pungent speeches] made a good remark — that the 

home material of Virginia was never so good as when her 

roads were at their worst." And so Frank went on with quite 

a harangue, to which none of the company replied one word 

^or fear we might get into a dispute. Everybody seems to 

understand the advantage of silence when Meriwether is in- 

^^Hed to be expatiatory. 

This strain of philosophizing has a pretty marked influence 


^ the. neighborhood, for I perceive that Frank's opinions are 
^^ry much quoted. There is a set of under-talkers about these 
l^rge country establishments who are very glad to pick up 
^e crumbs of wisdom which fall from a rich man's table ; 
Secondhand philosophers, who trade upon other people's stock. 
Some of these have a natural bias to this venting of upper 
opinions, by reason of certain dependences in the way of trade 
and favor ; others have it from affinity of blood, which works 
like a charm over a whole county. Frank stands related, by 
some tie of marriage or mixture of kin, to an infinite train of 
connections, spread over the state ; and it is curious to learn 
what a decided hue this gives to the opinions of the district 


We had a notable example of this one morning not long aft( 
my arrival at Swallow Bam. Meriwether had given sever 
indications immediately after breakfast of a design to pour oi 
upon us the gathered ruminations of the last twenty-four hour 
but we had evaded the storm with some caution, when tl 
arrival of two or three neighbors, — plain, homespun farmer 
— who had ridden to Swallow Bam to execute some pape 
before Frank as a magistrate, furnished him with an occasic 
that was not to be lost. After dispatching their business I 
detained them, ostensibly to inquire about their crops and oth 
matters of their vocation, but, in reality, to give them that ve 
flood of politics which we had escaped. We, of course, listen 
without concem, since we were assured of an auditory tt 
would not flinch. In the course of this disquisition he ma 
use of a figure of speech which savored of some previous stuc 
or, at least, was highly in the oratorical vein. " Mark n 
gentlemen," said he, contracting his brow over his fine thoug! 
ful eye and pointing the forefinger of his left hand directly 
the face of the person he addressed — " mark me, gentleme 
you and I may not live to see it, but our children will see 
and wail over it — the sovereignty of this Union will be as t 
rod of Aaron ; it will turn into a serpent and swallow up 
that struggle with it.'' Mr. Chub was present at this soler 
denunciation and was very much affected by it. He rubbed 1 
hands with some briskness and uttered his applause in a sh< 
but vehement panegyric, in which were heard only the detach 
words — " Mr. Burke — Cicero." 

The next day Ned and myself were walking by the sdio 
house and were hailed by Rip from one of the windows, wl 
in a sly undertone, as he beckoned us to come close to hi 
told us, "if we wanted to hear a regular preach, to stand fas 
We could look into the schoolroom unobserved, and there ¥i 
our patriotic pedagogue haranguing the boys with a violence 


action that drove an additional supply of blood into his face. 
It was apparent that the old gentleman had got much beyond 
the depth of his hearers and was pouring out his rhetoric more 
from oratorical vanity than from any hope of enlightening his 
audience. At the most animated part of his strain he brought 
himself, by a kind of climax, to the identical sentiment uttered 
by Meriwether the day before. He warned his young hearers 
— the oldest of them was not above fourteen — "to keep a 
lynx-eyed gaze upon that serpentlike ambition which would 
convert the government at Washington into Aaron's rod, to 
swallow up the independence of their native state." 

This conceit immediately ran through all the lower circles 
at Swallow Bam. Mr. Tongue, the overseer, repeated it at 
the blacksmith's shop in the presence of the blacksmith and 
Mr. Absalom Bulrush, a spare, ague-and-feverish husbandman 
who occupies a muddy slip of marshland on one of the river 
Attorns, which is now under a mortgage to Meriwether; and 
from these it has spread far and wide, though a good deal 
diluted, until in its circuit it has reached our veteran groom 
Carey, who considers the sentiment as importing something of 
^ awful nature. With the smallest encouragement, Carey will 
put on a tragi-comic face, shake his head very slowly, turn up 
"^ eyeballs, and open out his broad, scaly hands, while he 
^^peats with labored voice, " Look out. Master Ned I Aaron's 
^^ a black snake in Old Virginny ! " Upon which, as we fall 
^to a roar of laughter, Carey stares with astonishment at our 


Reverence. But having been set to acting this scene for us 
^nce or twice, he now suspects us of some joke and asks " if 
^here is n't a copper for an old negro," which if he succeeds in 
getting, he runs off, telling us "he is too 'cute to make a fool 
of himself." 

Meriwether does not dislike this trait in the society around 
him. I happened to hear two carpenters one day, who were 


making some repairs at the stable, in high conversatioE 
of them was expounding to the other some oracular opi 
Frank's touching the political aspect of the country, and 
the moment when the speaker was most animated, Mer 
himself came up. He no sooner became aware of the 1 
discussion than he walked off in another direction, affect 
to hear it, although I knew he heard every word. He t 
afterwards that there was "a wholesome tone of 
amongst the people in that part of the country." 

The Quarter 

Having dispatched these important matters at the sta 
left our horses in charge of the servants and walked t 
the cabins, which were not more than a few hundrec 
distant. These hovels, with their appurtenances, fon 
exceedingly picturesque landscape. They were scatter© 
out order, over the slope of a gentle hill; and many c 
were embowered under old and majestic trees. The n 
of their construction rather enhanced the attractiveness 
scene. Some few were built after the fashion of the 
sort of cottages, but age had stamped its heavy trace 
their exterior; the green moss had gathered upon the 
and the coarse weatherboarding had broken, here and 
into chinks. But the more lowly of these structures, i 
most numerous, were nothing more than plain log cabin 
pacted pretty much on the model by which boys build pj 
traps, being composed of the trunks of trees, still cloth* 
their bark, and knit together at the comers with so little 
to neatness that the timbers, being of unequal lengths, 
beyond each other, sometimes to the length of a foot. I 
none of these latter sort were more than twelve feet 
and not ^bove seven in height. A door swung upon ^ 


J, and a small window of two narrow panes of glass were, 
neral, the only openings in the front. The intervals 
en the logs were filled with clay, and the roof, which was 
ncted of smaller timbers, laid lengthwise along it and 
:ting two or three feet beyond the side or gable walls, 
:ened, in a very marked degree, the rustic effect. The 
ays communicated even a droll expression to these habi- 
s. They were, oddly enough, built of billets of wood, 
J a broad foundation of stone, and growing narrower as 
"ose, each receding gradually from the house to which it 
Lttached, until it reached the height of the roof. These 
istible materials were saved from the access of the fire 
thick coating of mud, and the whole structure, from its 
ng form, might be said to bear some resemblance to the 
of a teakettle; indeed, this domestic implement would 
h no unapt type of the complete cabin, 
•m this description, which may serve to illustrate a whole 
s of habitations very common in Virginia, it will be seen 
on the score of accommodation, the inmates of these 
Qgs were furnished according to a very primitive notion 
nfort. Still, however, there were little garden patches 
ed to each, where cymblings, cucumbers, sweet potatoes, 
nelons, and cabbages flourished in unrestrained luxuri- 
Add to this that there were abundance of poultry domes- 
l about the premises, and it may be perceived that, 
ver might be the inconveniences of shelter, there was no 
)f what, in all countries, would be considered a reasonable 
' of luxuries. 

hing more attracted my observation than the swarms of 
legroes that basked on the sunny sides of these cabins 
jngregated to gaze at us as we surveyed their haunts. 
were nearly all in that costume of the golden age which 
J heretofore described, and showed their slim shanks and 


long heels in all varieties of their grotesque natures 
predominant love of sunshine, and their lazy, listless ; 
and apparent content to be silently looking abroad, m 
afford a comparison to a set of terrapins luxuriatin, 
genial warmth of summer on the logs of a mill pond. 

And there, too, were the prolific mothers of this r< 
brood — a number of stout negro women who throi 
doors of the huts, full of idle curiosity to see us. Ai 
to these are added a few reverend, wrinkled, decrepit 
with faces shortened as if with drawing strings, nc 
seemed to have run all to nostril, and with feet of th 
uration of a mattock, my reader will have a tolerabl; 
idea of this negro quarter, its population, buildings, 
appearance, situation, and extent. 

Meriwether, I have said before, is a kind and co 
master. It is his custom frequently to visit his slaves, 
to inspect their condition and, where it may be nece 
add to their comforts or relieve their wants. His 
amongst them, therefore, is always hailed with pleasi 
has constituted himself into' a high court of appeal, an 
it a rule to give all their petitions a patient hearing a 
justice in the premises. This, he tells me, he com 
indispensably necessary. He says that no overseer is 
to be trusted ; that there are few men who have the t< 
administer wholesome laws to any population, howev 
without some omissions or irregularities, and that this 
emphatically true of those who administer them er 
their own will. On the present occasion, in almost eve 
where Frank entered, there was some boon to be ask 
I observed that, in every case, the petitioner was either 
or refused in such a tone as left no occasion or dispc 
murmur. Most of the women had some bargains to 
fowls or eggs or other commodities of the household 


Meriwether generally referred them to his wife, who, I found, 
relied almost entirely on this resource for the supply of such 
commodities, the negroes being regularly paid for whatever 
was offered in this way. 

One old fellow had a special favor to ask — a little money 
• to get a new padding for his saddle, which, he said, " galled his 
cretur's back." Frank, after a few jocular passages with the 
veteran, gave him what he desired, and sent him off rejoicing. 

'* That, sir," said Meriwether, "is no less a personage than 
Jupiter. He is an old bachelor and has his cabin here on the 
Ml. He is now near seventy and is a kind of King of the 
Quarter. He has a horse, which he extorted from me last 
Christmas, and I seldom come here without finding myself 
involved in some new demand as a consequence of my dona- 
^on. Now he wants a pair of spurs, which, I suppose, I must 
give him. He is a preposterous coxcomb, and Ned has admin- 


istered to his vanity by a present of a chapeau de bras^ a relic 
^f my military era, which he wears on Sundays with a conceit 
"^at has brought upon him as much envy as admiration — the 
usual condition of greatness." 

The air of contentment and good humor and kind family 
^ttachn^ent, which was apparent throughout this little commu- 
^7, and the familiar relations existing between them and the 
proprietor struck me very pleasantly. I came here a stranger, 


^ great degree, to the negro character, knowing but little of 
"^e domestic history of these people, their duties, habits, or 
temper, and somewhat disposed, indeed, from prepossessions, 
to look upon them as severely dealt with, and expecting to have 
^y sympathies excited 'towards them as objects of commisera- 
tion. I have had, therefore, rather a special interest in observing 
them. The contrast between my preconceptions of their condi- 
tion and the reality which I have witnessed, has brought me a 
most agreeable surprise. I will not say that, in a high state of 


cultivation and of such self-dependence as they might possibly 
attain in a separate national existence, they might not become 
a more respectable people, but I am quite sure they never 
could become a happier people than I find them here. Per- 
haps they are destined, ultimately, to that national existence 
in the clime from which they derive their origin — that this is a 
transition state in which we see them in Virginia. If it be so, 
no tribe of people have ever passed from barbarism to civiliza- 
tion whose middle stage of progress has been more secure from 
harm, more genial to their character, or better supplied witii 
mild and beneficent guardianship, adapted to the actual state of 
their intellectual feebleness, than the negroes of Swallow Bam. 
And, from what I can gather, it is pretty much the same on 
the other estates in this region. I hear of an unpleasant excep- 
tion to this remark now and then, but under such conditions as 
warrant the opinion that the unfavorable case is not more 
common than that which may be found in a survey of any 
other department of society. The oppression of apprentices, of 
seamen, of soldiers, of subordinates, indeed, in every relation, 
may furnish elements for a bead-roll of social grievances quite 
as striking, if they were diligently noted and brought to view. 


Horseshoe Robinson 

It was about two o'clock in the afternoon of a day towards 
the end of July, 1780, when Captain Arthur Butler, now hold- 
ing a brevet, some- ten days old, of major in the Continental 
army, and Galbraith Robinson were seen descending the long 
hill which separates the South Garden from the Cove. They 
had just left the rich and mellow scenery of the former district, 
id were now passing into the picturesque valley of the latter. 


It was evident from the travel-worn appearance of their horses, 
as well as from their equipments, that they had journeyed many 
a mile before they had reached this spot. ... 

Arthur Butier was now in the possession of the vigor of 
early manhood, with apparently some eight and twenty years 
upon his head. His frame was well proportioned, light, and 
active. His face, though distinguished by a smooth and almost 
beardless cheek, still presented an outline of decided manly 
beauty. The sun and wind had tanned his complexion, except 
where a rich volume of black hair upon his brow had preserved 
the original fairness of a high, broad forehead. A hazel eye 
sparkled under the shade of a dark lash and indicated, by its 
alternate playfulness and decision, an adventurous as well as a 
cheerful spirit. His whole bearing, visage, and figure seemed 
to speak of one familiar with enterprise and fond of danger ; 
they denoted gentie breeding predominating over a life of toil 
and privation. 

Notwithstanding his profession, which was seen in his erect 
and peremptory carriage, his dress at this time was, with- some 
slight exceptions, merely civil. He was habited in the costume 
of a gentleman of the time, with a round hat pretty much of 
the fashion of the present day — though then but little used 
except amongst military men — with a white cockade to show 
his party, while his saddlebow was fortified by a brace of horse- 
man's pistols stowed away in large holsters covered with bear- 
skin; for in those days, when hostile banners were unfurled 
and men challenged each other upon the highways, these pistols 
were a part of the countenance (to use an excellent old phrase) 
of a gentieman. 

Galbraith Robinson was a man of altogether rougher mold. 
Every lineament of his body indicated strength. His stature 
was rather above six feet; his chest broad; his limbs sinewy, 
and renlarkable for their symmetry. There seemed to be no 


useless flesh upon his frame to soften the prominent surface of 
his muscles, and his ample thigh, as he sat upon horseback, 
showed the working of its texture at each step, as if part of the 
animal on which he rode. His was one of those iron forms that 
might be imagined almost bullet-proof. With all these advan- 
tages of person there was a radiant, broad good nature upon 
his face ; and the glance of a large, clear, blue eye told of arch 
thoughts, and of shrewd homely wisdom. A ruddy complexion 
accorded well with his sprightly but massive features, of whi(^ 
the prevailing expression was such as silentiy invited friendship 
and trust. If to these traits be added an abundant shock of 
yellow, curly hair, terminating in a luxuriant queue, confined by 
a narrow strand of leather cord, my reader will have a tolerably 
correct idea of the person I wish to describe. 

Robinson had been a blacksmith at the breaking out of ti*^ 
Revolution. He was the owner of a little farm in the Waxha-'^ 
settlement on the Catawba, and having pitched his habitatiC^^ 
upon a promontory, around whose base the Waxhaw-cre^^ 
swept with a regular but narrow circuit, this locality, taken i^ 
connection with his calling, gave rise to a common prefix t^^ 
his name throughout the neighborhood, and he was therefor^^ 
almost exclusively distinguished by the sobriquet of Horseshor^ 
Robinson. This familiar appellative had followed him int^ 
the army. 

The age of Horseshoe was some seven or eight years if 
advance of that of Butler. On the present occasion his dress 
was of the plainest and most rustic description : a spherical 
crowned hat with a broad brim, a coarse gray coatee of mixed 
cotton and wool, dark linsey-woolsey trousers adhering closely 
to his leg, hobnailed shoes, and a red cotton handkerchief tied 
carelessly round his neck with a knot upon his bosom. This 
costume and a long rifle thrown into the angle of the right arm, 
with the breech resting on his pommel, and a pouch of deerskin. 


with a powderhom attached to it, suspended on his right side, 
might have warranted a spectator in taking Robinson for a 
woodsman or hunter from the neighboring mountains. 

Such were the two personages who now came " pricking 

o'er the hill." The period at which I have presented them to 

my reader was, perhaps, the most anxious one of the whole 

struggle for independence. Without falling into a long narrative 

of events which are familiar, at least to every American, I may 

recall the fact that Gates had just passed southward to take 

<^onimand of the army destined to act against Comwallis. It 

^as now within a few weeks of that decisive battle which sent 

^^e hero of Saratoga " bootless home and weatherbeaten back," 

^ ponder over the mutations of fortune and, in the qiiiet 

^'^a.des of Virginia, to strike the balance of fame between 

Northern glory and Southern discomfiture. 

f On his way South, Captain Butler passed by Dove Cote, in 

ixginia, where lived Mildred Lindsay, with whom he was in 

'^Ve. Mildred Lindsay's father was loyal to the king and did 

^^t look with favor upon Butler's suit since he had entered the 

Continental army. Mildred's father favored Tyrrel, who had 

*^^en sent from England to look after the king's interest. 

^nder these circumstances it was impossible for Butler to do 

^ore than to see Mildred secretly on the river bank. At 

^rs. Dimock's inn, where Butler and Horseshoe were to spend 

the night, they met with James Curry, an attendant of Tyrrel, 

who was carefully watched by Horseshoe under the suspicion 

that he might be a spy. A quarrel ensued, followed by a fight 

in which Curry was worsted. The next morning the captain 

and his companion left early, and after a journey of a week 

they reached the headquarters of General Gates. Finding no 

need for his services there, Butler continued his way, according 

to instructions, to join Colonel Clarke, who was in the mountains 


of South Carolina raising troops. Horseshoe conducted him by 
a circuitous route to the house of Wat Adair, a well-known 
mountaineer, whose good will they wished to obtain. But Adair 
gave the travelers away to the Tories in spite of the efforts of i 
Mar\- Musgrove, a mountain girl, to warn Butler. Adair accom- i 
panied Horseshoe and Buder on their departure, in order to 
show them the road.] 

Captl're of Butler and Horseshoe 

^Meantime Butler and Robinson advanced at a wearied pace* 
The twilight had so far faded as to be only discernible on the 
western sky. The stars were twinkling through the leaves ^^ 
the forest, and the light of the firefly spangled the wildem^^ 
The road might be descried, in the most open parts of ^ 
wood, for some fift}^ paces ahead ; but where the shrubb^^ 
was more dense, it was lost in utter darkness. Our travels ^ 
like most wayfarers towards the end of the day, rode silei^ 
along, seldom exchanging a word and anxiously computing t^ 
distance which they had yet to traverse before they reach ^ 
their appointed place of repose. A sense of danger, and t^ 
necessity for vigilance, on the present occasion, made them t^ 
more silent. 

" I thought I heard a wild sort of yell just now — peop^ 
laughing a great way off," said Robinson, " but there *s such 
hooting of owls and piping of frogs that I mought have bee^ 
mistaken. Halt, major. Let me listen — there it is again." 

"It is the crying of a panther, sergeant ; more than a mil^ 
from us, by my ear." 

" It is mightily like the scream of drunken men," replied 
the sergeant ; " and there, too ! I thought I heard the clatter 
of a hoof." 

The travelers again reined up and listened. 


"It is more like a deer stalkit^ through the bushes, Gal- 

"No," exclaimed the sergeant, "that's the gallop of ; 
oise making down the road ahead of us, as sure as yoi 

Reproduction of vignette on title-page of original edition of 

s alive ; I heard the shoe strike a stone. You must have 

am it, too." 

" I would n't be sure," answered Butler. 

"Look to your pistols, major, and prime afresh." 

" We seem to have ridden a great way," said Butler, as he 

ncluded the inspection of his pistols and now held one o' 


them ready in his hand. " Can we have lost ourselves ? Should 
we not have reached the Pacolet before this ? " 

" I have seen no road that could take us astray," replied 
Robinson, " and, by what we were told just before sundown, I 
should guess that we could n't be far off the ford. We haven't 
then quite three miles to Christie's. Well, courage, major! 
supper and bed were never spoiled by the trouble of getting 
to them." 

" Wat Adair, I think, directed us to Christie's ? " said Butler. 

"He did ; and I had a mind to propose to you, since ^ 
caught him in a trick this morning, to make for some other 
house, if such a thing was possible, or else to spend the lU^^ 
in the woods." 

" Perhaps it would be wise, sergeant ; and if you think ^ 
still, I will be ruled by you." 

"If we once got by the riverside, where our horses mou^ 
have water, I almost think I should advise a halt there. ^ 
though I have made one observation. Major Butler — tJ^ 
running water is lean fare for a hungry man. Howsever^ 
won't hurt us, and if you say the word we will stop ther^" 

" Then, sergeant, I do say the word." 

" Is n't that the glimmering of a light yonder in the bushes ? 
inquired Horseshoe, as he turned his gaze in the direction ^' 
the bivouac, "or is it these here lightning bugs that keep S^ 
busy shooting about ? " 

" I thought I saw the light you speak of, Galbraith ; but it 
has disappeared." 

" It is there again, major ; and I hear the rushing of the 
river — we are near the ford. Perhaps this light comes from 
some cabin on the bank." 

" (j()d send that it should turn out so, Galbraith I for I am 
very wear)'." 

" There is some devilment going on in these woods, major. 




LW a figure pass in front of the light through the bushes, 
ould be willing to swear it was a man on horseback, 
baps we have, by chance, fallen on some Tory muster ; or, 
t's not so likely, they may be friends. I think I will ride 
^ard and challenge." 

Better pass unobserved, if you can, sergeant," interrupted 
ler. " It will not do for us to run the risk of being sepa- 
d. Here we are at the river; let us cross, and ride some 
ance; then, if any one follow us, we shall be more certain- 
lis design." 

'hey now cautiously advanced into the river, which, though 
d, was shallow ; and having reached the middle of the 
am, they halted to allow their horses water. 
Captain Peter is as thirsty as a man in a fever," said 
•seshoe. " He drinks as if he was laying in for a week. 
7y major, since we are here in the river, look up the stream. 
I't you see, from the image in the water, that there 's a fire 
the bank .? And there, by my soul ! there are men on 
eback. Look towards the light. Spur, and out on the 
r side 1 Quick — quick — they are upon us I " 
t the same instant that Horseshoe spoke a bullet whistled 
5 by his ear, and in the next, six or eight men galloped 
the river from different points. This was succeeded by a 
p report of firearms from both parties, and the vigorous 
ge of Robinson, followed by Butler, through the array of 
assailants. They gained the opposite bank and now di- 
;d all their efforts to outrun their pursuers ; but in the very 
3 of their escape Butler's horse, bounding under the prick 
le spur, staggered a few paces from the river and fell dead. 
iUet had lodged in a vital part, and the energy of the brave 
i was spent in the effort to bear his master through the 
im. Butler fell beneath the stricken animal, from whence 
/as unable to extricate himself. The sergeant, seeing 


comrade's condition, sprang from his hor^^ and ran to Us 
assistance, and, in the same interval, tbfe ruffian followers 
gained the spot and surrounded their prisoners. An ineffectual 
struggle ensued over the prostrate hoi^e and rider, in which 
Robinson bore down more than one of his adversaries, but was 
obliged, at last, to yield to the overwhelming power that pressed 
upon him. 

" Bury your swords in both of them to the hilts ! " shouted 
Habershaw ; " I don't want to have that work to do to-morrow.'' 

" Stand off ! " cried Gideon Blake, as two or three of th^ 
gang sprang forward to execute their captain's order ; " stand 
off I the man is on his back, and he shall not be murdered ii» 
cold blood " ; and the speaker took a position near Butier, 
prepared to make good his resolve. The spirit of Blake had 
its desired effect, and the same assailants now turned upon 

*' Hold ! " cried Peppercorn, throwing up his sword and 
warding off the blows that were aimed by these men at the 
body of the sergeant. " Hold, you knaves 1 this is my prisoner. 
I will deal with him to my liking. Would a dozen of you strike 
one man when he has surrendered } Back, ye cowards ; leave 
him to me. How now, old Horseshoe ; are you caught, with 
your gay master here.? Come, come, wc know you both. So 
yield with a good grace, lest, peradvcnture, I might happen to 
blow out your brains." 

** Silence, fellows 1 You carrion crows I " roared Habershaw. 
" Remember the discipline I taught you. No disorder, nor con- 
fusion, but take the prisoners, since you hav'n't the heart to 
strike; take them to the rendezvous. And do it quietly — do you 
hear? Secure the baggage; and about it quickly, you hounds 1*' 

Butler was now lifted from the ground, and, with his com- 
panion, was taken into the custody of Blake and one or two of 
his companions, who seemed to share in his desire to prevent the 



shedding of blood. The prisoners were each mounted behind 
one of the troopers, and in this condition conducted across the 
nver. The saddle and other equipments were stripped from 
the major's dead steed ; and Robinson's horse, Captain Peter, 
was burdened with the load of two wounded men, whose 
own horses had escaped from them in the fray. In this guise 
the band of freebooters, with their prisoners and spoils, slowly 
^d confusedly made their way to the appointed place of re- 
^sembling. In a few moments they were ranged beneath the 
chestnut, waiting for orders from their self-important and vain 

[The next day Horseshoe Robinson managed to escape and 
•^nt all his ingenuity to bring about the freedom of Butler. 
*^^le endeavoring to accomplish this, he meets with the fol- 
lowing adventure.] 

Horseshoe captures Five Prisoners 

t)avid Ramsay's house was situated on a byroad, between 

"^e and six miles from Musgrove's mill, and at about the 

"^^tance of one mile from the principal route of travel between 

^itiety-Six and Blackstock's. In passing from the military post 

^*^^t had been established at the former place, towards the 

^^tter, Ramsay's lay off to the left, with a piece of dense wood 

^^tervening. The byway, leading through the farm, diverged 

^^om the main road and traversed this wood until it reached 

^ne cultivated grounds immediately around Ramsay's dwelling. 

*n the journey from Musgrove's mill to this point of diver- 

§^ence the traveler was obliged to ride some \:^o or three miles 

^pon the great road leading from the British garrison, a road 

^hat, at the time of my story, was much frequented by military 

parties, scouts, and patrols, that were concerned in keeping 

up the communication between the several posts which we 


established by the British authorities along that frontier. 
Amongst the Whig parties, also, there were various occasions 
which brought them under the necessity of frequent passage 
through this same district, and which, therefore, furnished op- 
portunities for collision and skirmish with the opposite forces. 

On the morning that succeeded the night in which Horse- 
shoe Robinson arrived at Musgrove's, the stout and honest 
sergeant might have been seen, about eight o'clock, leaving the 
main road from Ninety-Six, at the point where that leading to 
David Ramsay's separated from it, and cautiously urging his 
way into the deep forest by the more private path into which 
he had entered. The knowledge that Innis was encamped 
along the Ennoree within a short distance of the mill ha< 
compelled him to make an extensive circuit to reach Ramsay' 
dwelling, whither he was now bent; and he had experience* 
considerable delay in his morning journey by finding himsd 
frequently in the neighborhood of small foraging parties o 
Tories whose motions he was obliged to watch for fear of a] 
encounter. He had once already been compelled to use hi 
horse's heels in what he called "fair flight," and once t 
ensconce himself a full half hour under cover of the thicke 
afforded him by a swamp. He now, therefore, according to hi 
own phrase, "dived into the little road that scrambled dowi 
through the woods towards Ramsay's, with all his eyes abou 
him, looking out as sharply as a fox on a foggy morning" 
and with this circumspection he was not long in arriving withi 
view of Ramsay's house. Like a practiced soldier, whor 
frequent frays has taught wisdom, he resolved to reconnoite 
before he advanced upon a post that might be in possession o 
an enemy. He therefore dismounted, fastened his horse in 
fence corner, where a field of corn concealed him from notia 
and then stealthily crept forward until he came immediate!; 
behind one of the outhouses. 


The barking of a house dog brought out a negro boy, to 
whom Robinson instantly addressed the query, 

" Is your master at home ? " 

" No, sir. He 's got his horse, and gone off more than an 
hour ago." 

" Where is your mistress ? " 

" Shelling beans, sir." 

" I didn't ask you," said the sergeant, *^ what she is doing, 
but where she is." 

"In course, she is in the house, sir," replied the negro 
with a grin. 

" Any strangers there ? " 

"There was plenty on 'em a little while ago, but they've 
been' gone a good bit." 

Robinson, having thus satisfied himself as to the safety of his 
visit, directed the boy to take his horse and lead him up to the 
door. He then entered the dwelling. 

" Mistress Ramsay," said he, walking up to the dame, who 
was occupied at a table, with a large trencher before her, in 
which she was plying that household thrift which the negro 
fecribed ; " luck to you, ma'am, and all your house ! I hope 
you have n^ none of these clinking and clattering bullies about 
you, that are as thick over this country as the frogs in the 
kneading troughs, that they tell of." 

" Good lack, Mr. Horseshoe Robinson," exclaimed the 
^natron, offering the sergeant her hand. '* What has brought 
you here ? What news .? Who are with you ? For patience' 
sake, teU me I " 

" I am alone," said Robinson, " and a little wettish, mistress," 
be added, as lie took off his hat and shook the water from it; 
"it has just sot up a rain, and looks as if it was going to give 
"s enough on 't. You don't mind doing a little dinner work of 
a Sunday, I see — shelling of beans, I s'pose, is tantamoimt to 


dragging a sheep out of a pond, as the preachers allow on t 
Sabbath — ha, ha 1 — Where 's Davy ? " 

" He 's gone over to the meetinghouse on Ennoree, hopi 
to hear something of the army at Camden ; perhaps you c 
tell us the news from that quarter ? " 

" Faith, that 's a mistake, Mistress Ramsay. Though I do 
doubt that they are hard upon the scratches by this time. B 
at this present speaking, I command the flying artillery. ^ 
have but one man in the corps — and that's myself; and 
the guns we have got is this piece of ordinance that hangs 
this old belt by my side (pointing to his sword), and that I c 
tured from the enemy at Blackstock's. I was hoping I mouj 
find John Ramsay at home — I have need of him as a recni 

'* Ah, Mr. Robinson, John has a heavy life of it over th 
with Sumpter. The boy is often without his natural rest, c 
meaFs victuals, and the general thinks so much of him t 
he can't spare him to come home. I haven't the heart 
complain as long as John's service is of any use, but it d 
seem, Mr. Robinson, like needless tempting of the mercies 
Providence. We thought that he might have been here to-d 
yet I am glad he didn't come, for he would have been • 
tain to get into trouble. Who should come in this momi 
just after my husband had cleverly got away on his horse, 
a young cock-a-whoop ensign that belongs to Ninety-Six, i 
four great Scotchmen with him, all in red coats ; they had b 
out thieving, I warrant, and were now going home again. 1 
who but they 1 Here they were, swaggering all about my hoi 
and calling for this, and calling for that as if they owned 
feesimple of everything on the plantation. And it made 
blood rise, Mr. Horseshoe, to see them run out in the yard ; 
catch lip my chickens and ducks, and kill as many as t 
could string about them — and I not daring to say a w< 
though I did give them a piece of my mind, too." 


Who is at home with you ? " inquired the sergeant, eagerly. 
Nobody but my youngest boy, Andrew," answered the 
dame. "And then the filthy, toping rioters — " she continued, 
exalting her voice. 

**What arms have you in the house?" asked Robinson, 
without heeding the dame's rising anger. 

"We have a rifle, and a horseman's pistol that belongs to 
John. They must call for drink, too, and turn my house of a 
Sunday morning into a tavern." 

" They took the route towards Ninety-Six, you said. Mistress 
Ramsay ? " 

"Yes; they went straight forward upon the road. But, 
look you, Mr. Horseshoe, you 're not thinking of going after 

"Isn't there an old field, about a mile from this, on that 
road ? " inquired the sergeant, still intent upon his own 

" There is," replied the dame ; "with the old schoolhouse 
upon it." 

"A lopsided, rickety, log cabin in the middle of the field. 
Ani I right, good woman ? " 

" Yes." 

" And nobody lives in it ? It has no door to it ? " 

"There ha'n't been anybody in it these seven years." 

"I know the place very well," said the sergeant, thought- 
fully; " there is woods just on this side of it." 

" That 's true," replied the dame ; " but what is it you are 
thinking about, Mr. Robinson ? " 

" How long before this rain began was it that they quitted 
this house ? " 

" Not above fifteen minutes." 

" Mistress Ramsay, bring me the rifle and pistol both — and 
the powderhom and bullets." 


** As you say, Mr. Horseshoe," answered the dame, as she 
turned round to leave the room; "but I am sure I cant 
suspicion what you mean to do." 

In a few moments the woman returned with the weapons, 
and gave them to the sergeant. 

" Where is Andy } " asked Horseshoe. 

The hostess went to the door and called her son, and almost 
immediately afterwards a sturdy boy of about twelve or four- 
teen years of age entered the apartment, his clothes dripping 
with rain. He modestly and shyly seated himself on a ch^tf 
near the door, with his soaked hat flapping down over a fac^ 
full of freckles, and not less rife with the expression of ^ 
open, dauntless hardihood of character. 

" How would you like a scrummage, Andy, with the^ 
Scotchmen that stole your mother's chickens this morning ? 
asked Horseshoe. 

" I'm agreed," replied the boy, " if you will tell me wh^* 
to do." 

" You are not going to take the boy out on any of yoU^ 
desperate projects, Mr. Horseshoe ? " said the mother, with th^ 
tears starting instantly into her eyes. " You would n't taK^ 
such a child as that into danger?" 

" Bless your soul, Mrs. Ramsay, there ar'n't no danger 
about it 1 Don't take on so. It 's a thing that is either done at 
a blow, or not done, — and there's an end of it. I want the 
lad only to bring home the prisoners for me, after I have 
took them." 

*' Ah, Mr. Robinson, I have one son already in these wars 
— (jod protect him ! — and you men don't know how a 
mother's heart yearns for her children in these times. I can- 
not give another," she added, as she threw her arms over the 
shoulders of the youth and drew him to her bosom. 

" Oh 1 it ain't nothing," said Andrew, in a sprightly tone. 


*It's only snapping of a pistol, mother, — pooh! If I'm not 
afraid, you oughtn't to be." 
'' I give you my honor, Mistress Ramsay," said Robinson, 
[ that I will bring or send your son safe back in one hour ; and 
that he sha'n't be put in any sort of danger whatsomedever ; 
come, that 's a good woman 1 " 

"You are not deceiving me, Mr. Robinson?" asked the 
J^atron, wiping away a tear. " You would n't mock the suffer- 


"igs of a weak woman in such a thing as this ? " 

"On the honesty of a sodger, ma'am," replied Horseshoe, 
the lad shall be in ho danger, as I said before — what- 

" Then I will say no more," answered the mother. " But 
Andy, my child, be sure to let Mr. Robinson keep before you." 

Horseshoe now loaded the firearms, and having slung the 
pouch across his body, he put the pistol into the hands of 
me boy ; then, shouldering his rifle, he and his young ally left the 
room. Even on this occasion, serious as it might be deemed, 
the sergeant did not depart without giving some manifestation 
^f that light-heartedness which no difficulties ever seemed to 
have the power to conquer. He thrust his head back into the 
room, after he had crossed the threshold, and said with an 
^^couraging laugh. "Andy and me will teach them. Mistress 
Ramsay, Pat's point of war — we will surround the ragamuffins."' 

" Now, Andy, my lad," said Horseshoe, after he had mounted 
Captain Peter, "you must get up behind me. Turn the lock 
of your pistol down," he continued, as the boy sprang upon 
Ae horse's rump, " and cover it with the flap of your jacket, to 
keep the rain off. It won't do to hang fire at such a time as this." 

The lad did as he was directed, and Horseshoe, having 
secured his rifle in the same way, put his horse up to a gallop, 
and took the road in the direction that had been pursued by 
the soldiers. 


As soon as our adventurers had gained a wood, at the dis- 
tance of about half a mile, the sergeant relaxed his speed, and 
advanced at a pace a litde above a walk. 

" Andy," he said, " we have got rather a ticklish sort of a 
job before us, so I must give you your lesson, which you ^ 
understand better by knowing something of my plaa As soon 
as your mother told me that these thieving villains had left her 
house about fifteen minutes before the rain came on, and that 
they had gone along upon this road, I remembered the old fidd 
up here, and the little log hut in the middle of it ; and it was 
natural to suppose that they had just got about near that hut 
when this rain came up ; and then, it was the most supposabic 
case in the world that they would naturally go into it, as Ac 
dryest place they could find. So now, you see, it 's my cakula^ 
tion that the whole batch is there at this very point of time 
We will go slowly along, until we get to the other end. of this - 
wood, in sight of the old field, and then, if there is no one o>* 
the lookout, we will open our first trench ; you know what tb^ 
• means, Andy ? " 

** It means, I s'pose, that we '11 go right smack at them, 
replied Andrew. 

" Pretty exactly," said the sergeant " But listen to x^c* 
Just at the edge of the woods you will have to get down 2U*^ 
put yourself behind a tree. I '11 ride forward, as if I had a whol^ 
troop at my heels, and if I catch them, as I expect, they ^ 
have a little fire kindled, and, as likely as not, they 'U be cooking 
some of your mother's fowls." 

" Yes, I understand," said the boy eagerly, — 

" No, you don't," replied Horseshoe, " but you will when you 
hear what I am going to say. If I get at them onaware^, they 11 
be mighty apt to think they are surrounded, and will beUow, 
like fine fellows, for quarter. And thereupon, Andy, IT! cry 
out * stand fast,' as if 1 was speaking to my own men, and 


when you hear that, you must come up full tilt, because it will 
be a signal to you that the enemy has surrendered. Then it 
will be your business to run into- the house and bring out the 
muskets, as quick as a rat runs through^ a kitchen ; and when 
you have done that, why, all 's done. But if you should hear 
any popping of firearms — that is, more than one shot, which 
I may chance to let off — do you take that for a bad sign, and 
get away as fast as you can heel it. You comprehend." 

" Oh I yes," replied the lad, " and 1 11 do what you want, and 
more too, maybe, Mr. Robinson." 

" Captain Robinson, — remember, Andy, you must call me 

captain, in the hearing of these Scotsmen." 

" I '11 not forget that neither," answered Andrew. 

By the time that these instructions were fully impressed upon 

^e boy, our adventurous forlorn hope, as it may fitly be called, 

had arrived at the place which Horseshoe Robinson had 

designated for the commencement of active operations. They 

"ad a clear view of the old field, and it afforded them a strong 

durance that the enemy was exactly where they wished him 

*^ be, when they discovered smoke arising from the chimney 

^^ the hovel. Andrew was soon posted behind a tree, and 

Robinson only tarried a moment to make the boy repeat the 

^^als agreed on, in order to ascertain that he had them correctly 

^^ his memory. Being satisfied from this experiment that the 

intelligence of his young companion might be depended upon, 

^e galloped across the intervening space, and, in a few seconds, 

abruptly reined up his steed in the very doorway of the hut. 

The party within was gathered around a fire at the further end, 

and, in the comer near the door, were four muskets thrown 

together against the wall. To spring from his saddle and thrust 

himself one pace within the door was a movement which the 

sergeant executed in an instant, shouting at the same time : — 

" Halt I File off right and left to both sides of the hou 


and wait orders. I demand the surrender of all here," he sai 
as he planted himself between the party and their weapor 
'* I will shoot down the first man who budges a foot." 

'* Leap to your arms," cried the young officer who command 
the little party inside of the house. " Why do you stand } " 

" I don^t want to do you or your men any harm, young mar 
said Robinson, as he brought his rifle to a level, "but, by n 
father's son, I will not leave one of you to be put upon 
muster roll if you raise a hand at this moment" 

Both parties now stood, for a brief space, eyeing each oth 
in a fearful suspense, during which there was an expression 
doubt and irresolution visible on the countenance of the soldie: 
as they surveyed the broad proportions and met the ste 
glance of the sergeant, whilst the delay, also, began to rai 
an apprehension in the mind of Robinson that his stratage 
would be discovered. 

" Shall I let loose upon them, captain ? " said Andn 
Ramsay, now appearing, most unexpectedly to Robinson, 
the door of the hut. " Come on, boys I " he shouted, as 
turned his face towards the field. 

" Keep them outside of the door — stand fast," cried t 
doughty sergeant, with admirable promptitude, in the new ai 
sudden posture of his affairs caused by this opportune appej 
ance of the boy. " Sir, you see that it 's not worth wh 
fighting five to one ; and I should be sorry to be the death 
any of your brave fellows; so take my advice, and surrend 
to the Continental Congress and this scrap of its army whi 
I command." 

During this appeal the sergeant was ably seconded by t 
lad outside, who was calling out first on one name and then < 
another, as if in the presence of a troop. The device succeedc 
and the officer within, believing the forbearance of Robinson 
be real, at length said : 


'' Lower your rifle, sir. In the presence of a superior force, 
taken by surprise and without arms, it is my duty to save 
bloodshed. With the promise of fair usage, and the rights of 
prisoners of war, I surrender this little foraging party under 
my command." 

"I'll make the terms agreeable," replied the sergeant. 
"Never doubt me, sir. Right hand file, advance, and receive 
the amis of the prisoners I " 

"I'm here, captain," said Andrew, in a conceited tone, as 
if it were a near occasion of merriment ; and the lad quickly 
entered the house and secured the weapons, retreating with 
them some paces from the door. 

" Now, sir," said Horseshoe to the ensign, " your sword, and 
whatever else you mought have about you of the ammunitions 
of war ! " 

The officer delivered up his sword and a pair of pocket pistols. 

As Horseshoe received these tokens of victory, he asked, with 
^ lambent smile and what he intended to be an elegant and 
condescending composure, " Your name, sir, if I mought take 
Ae freedom ? " 

'' Ensign St. Jermyn, of his Majesty's seventy-first i'egiment 
of light infantry." 

''Ensign, your servant," added Horseshoe, still preserving 
^s unusual exhibition of politeness. " You have defended your 
post like an old sodger, although you ha' n't much beard on your 
chin; but, seeing you have given up, you shall be treated like 
^ nian who has done his duty. You will walk out now and 
lorm yourselves in line at the door. I '11 engage my men 
shall do you no harm ; they are of a marciful breed." 

When the little squad of prisoners submitted to this command 
and came to the door, they were stricken with equal astonish- 
ment and mortification to find, in place of the detachment of 
cavalry which they expected to see, nothing but a man, a boy, 


and a horse. Their first emotions were expressed in curses 
which were even succeeded by laughter from one or two o 
the number. There seemed to be a disposition on the part c 
some to resist the authority that now controlled them; an 
sundry glances were exchanged which indicated a purpose 1 
turn upon their captors. The sergeant no sooner perceive 
this than he halted, raised his rifle to his breast, and, at d 
same instant, gave Andrew Ramsay an order to retire a ft 
paces and to fire one of the captured pieces at the first m- 
who opened his lips. 

'* By my hand," he said, " if I find any trouble in taki: 
you all five safe away from this here house, I will thin your nu: 
bers with your own muskets I And that 's as good as if I h 
sworn to it." 

" You have my word, sir," said the ensign ; " lead on." 

" By your leave, my pretty gendeman, you will lead, a: 
I *11 follow I " replied Horseshoe. " It may be a new pie 
of drill to you ; but the custom is to give the prisoners t 
post of honor." 

" As you please, sir," answered the ensign. " Where do y 
take us to ? " 

" You will march back by the road you came," said 1 

Finding the conqueror determined to execute summary mart 
law upon the first who should mutiny, the prisoners submitt« 
and marched in double file from the hut back towards Ramsa 
— Horseshoe, with Captain Peter's bridle dangling over 
arm, and his gallant young auxiliary Andrew, laden with dou 
the burden of Robinson Crusoe (having all the firearms pack 
upon his shoulders), bringing up the rear. In this order vict 
and vanquished returned to David Ramsay's. 

" Well, I have brought you your ducks and chickens ba 
mistress," said the sergeant, as he halted the prisoners at t 


door; '' and what 's more, I have brought home a young sodger 
that's worth his weight in gold." 

" Heaven bless my child I my brave boy ! " cried the mother, 
sozmg the lad in her arms, unheeding anything else in the 
present perturbation of her feelings. " I feared ill would come 
of it ; but Heaven has preserved him. Did he behave hand- 
somely, Mr. Robinson ? But I am sure he did." 

"A. little more venturesome, ma'am, than I wanted him to 
be," replied Horseshoe ; " but he did excellent service. These 
are his prisoners. Mistress Ramsay ; I should never have got 
them if it had n't been for Andy. In these drumming and fifing 
times the babies suck in quarrel with their mother's milk. Show 
"^e another boy in America that 's made more prisoners than 
there was men to fight them with, that 's all I " 

[This capture of the British ensign Horseshoe Robinson was 
able to turn to good account as a means of saving Butler. He 
exacted from the ensign a letter to his British companions telling 
them of his capture and begging them to be lenient with their 
Pnsoner, Major Butler, in order that his life might not be for- 
feit for any harsh treatment to Butler. This letter reached the 
British just in time to stay a sentence of death from being 
P^'onounced upon Butler. The next day brought the news of a 
decisive defeat of the Americans under General Gates, and this 
^ed the British to think that they might carry out the sentence 
^nst Butler without endangering the life of Ensign Jermyn. 
Accordingly Butler was notified that he would be executed 
two days hence. Horseshoe, however, brought up a small force 
^* Americans to attack the British camp just in time to save 
Sutler's life, but after the defeat of the British Buder could not 
"^ found. James Curry had succeeded in conducting him from 
^he camp at the beginning of the engagement and eventually 
^^ed him to Allen Musgrove's mill. Through the aid of 


Mary Musgrovc, Butler effected his escape, but in a short time 
was captured by another Tory party. 

In the meantime Mildred Lindsay, hearing of Butler's cap- 
ture through letters brought from him by Horseshoe Robinson, 
had started from her home at Dove Cote with her brother for- 
Comwallis' headquarters in the hope of securing her lover's 
safety. While in Comwallis' camp she learned of Butler's 
escape and started on her return to Virginia. On her way she 
met Mary Musgrove and her father, who had been driven fro**^ 
their home and were fleeing to the North, and learned froi^ 
them of Butler's recapture. Immediately she turned back ^ 
follow and join Butler, accompanied by her brother Henty» 
Horseshoe Robinson, Mary Musgrove, and Allen MusgrC^^ 
This party journeyed toward Gilbert-town unconscious of ^^ 
fact that military developments were bringing the British troOP 
under Ferguson, whose prisoner Butler was, in the same dif^^ 
tion. In the meantime, events had been leading up to "t** 
battle of King's Mountain, in which the threads of the st^^^ 
are dramatically brought together into an effective dimaxj 

The Battle of King's Mountain 

Towards noon the army reached the neighborhood ^ 
King's Mountain. The scouts and parties of the advance 
brought information that Ferguson had turned aside from 
direct road and taken post upon this eminence, where, it 
evident, he meant to await the attack of his enemy. Campb^'^ 
therefore, lost no time in pushing forward and was soon 
warded with a view of the object of his pursuit Some two 
three miles distant, where an opening through the forest fif^ 
gave him a sight of the mass of highland, he could indistincC^' 
discern the array of the adverse army perched on the ve^^ 
summit of the hill. 


The mountain consists of an elongated ridge rising out of 
the bosom of an uneven country to the height of perhaps five 
hundred feet, and presenting a level line of summit, or crest, 
from which the earth slopes down, at its southward termination 
and on each side, by an easy descent ; whilst northward it is 
detached from highlands of inferior elevation by a rugged valley, 
thus giving it the character of an insulated promontory not 
Acceding half a mile in length. At the period to which our 
story refers it was covered, except in a few patches of barren 
field or broken ground, with a growth of heavy timber, which 
^as so far free from underwood as in no great degree to em- 
^^rrass the passage of horsemen ; and through this growth the 
^ye might distinguish, at a considerable distance, the occasional 
'Masses of gray rock that were scattered in huge bowlders over 
^^s Summit and sides. 

The adjacent region lying south from the mountain was 

*^^^ally cleared and in cultivation, presenting a limited range 

^* open ground, over which the march of Campbell might have 

^^n revealed in frequent glimpses to the British partisan for 

^e three or four miles. We may suppose, therefore, that 

^^ two antagonists watched each other during the advance 

^ the approaching army across this district with emotions 

^ Various and deep interest. Campbell drew at length into 

^avine which, bounded by low and short hills and shaded 

y detached portions of the forest, partly concealed his troops 

^^rn the view of the enemy, who was now not more than 

^^f a mile distant. The gorge of this dell, or narrow valley, 

opened immediately towards the southern termination of the 

fountain; and the column halted a short distance within, 

^bere a bare knoll, or round, low hill, crowned with rock, 

lotted abruptly over the road and constituted the only im- 

P^iment that prevented each party from inspecting the array 

^* his opponent. 


It was an hour after noon, and the present halt was improved 
by the men in making ready for battle. Meanwhile the chief 
officers met together in front and employed their time in sur- 
veying the localities of the ground upon whidi they were soon 
to be brought to action. The knoll I have described fumishfid 
a favorable position for this observation, and thither they had 
already repaired. I 

I turn from the graver and more important matters whki 
may be supposed to have occupied the thoughts of the leaders, 
as they were grouped together on the broad rock, to a subject 
which was at this moment brought to their notice by the un- 
expected appearance of two females on horseback, on the to^ 
a full half mile in the rear of the army, and who were now ap- 
proaching at a steady pace. They were attended by a man who, 
even thus far off, showed the sedateness of age ; and a short 
space behind them rode a few files of troopers in military array- 
It was with mingled feelings of surprise and admiration ^t 
the courage which could have prompted her at sudi a time W 
visit the army that the party recognized Mildred Lindsay ano 
her attendants in the approaching cavalcade. These emotions 
were expressed by them in the rough and hearty phrase ^^ 
their habitual and familiar intercourse. 

" Let me beg, gentlemen," said Campbell, interrupting tbc^^^ 
" that you speak kindly and considerately of yonder lady. ^-^ 
my honor, I have never seen man or woman with a t^^^\ 
devoted or braver heart. Poor girl ! — she has nobly foUo^^^ 
Butler through his afflictions and taken her share of suffer*^ 
with a spirit that should bring us all to shame. Horsesl^ 
Robinson, who has squired her to our camp, even from t^ 
father's house, speaks of a secret between her and our capti"* 

friend that tells plainly enough to my mind of sworn faith aX^ 
long-tried love. As men and soldiers we should reverence ^ 
Williams, look carefully to her comfort and safety. Go, 


once and meet her on the road. God grant that this day 
ly bring an end to her grief 1 " . . . 

It was three o'clock before these arrangements were com- 
5ted. I have informed my reader that the mountain termi- 
ted immediately in front of the outlet from the narrow dell in 
lich Campbell's army had halted, its breast protruding into 
e plain only some few hundred paces from the head of the 
lumn, whilst the valley, that forked both right and left, af- 
rded an easy passage along the base on either side. Ferguson 
cupied the very summit, and now frowned upon his foe from 
c midst of a host confident in the strength of their position 
d exasperated by the pursuit which had driven them into 
s fastness. 

Campbell resolved to assail this post by a spirited attack, at 
• Same moment, in front and on the flanks. With this intent 
army was divided into three equal parts. The center was 
^rved to himself and Shelby; the right was assigned to 
•^er and M'Dowell; the left, to Cleveland and Williams, 
^se two latter parties were to repair to their respective sides 
the mountain, and the whole were to make the onset by 
Ung the heights as nearly as possible at the same instant. 
I^he men, before they marched out of the ravine, had dis- 
Vmted and picketed their horses under the winding shelter 
the hills, and, being now separated into detached columns 
tned in solid order, they were put in motion to reach their 
>tted posts. The Amherst Rangers were retained on horse- 
-k for such duty as might require speed and were stationed 
Se in the rear of Campbell's own division, which now merely 
Tched from behind the shelter of the knoll and halted in the 
w of the enemy until sufficient delay should be afforded to 
i flanking divisions to attain their ground. 
Mildred, attended by Allen Musgrove and his daughter, still 
intained her position on the knoll and from this height 


surveyed the preparations for combat with a beating heart. The 
scene within her view was one of intense occupation. The air 
of stem resolve that sat upon every brow ; the silent but onward 
movement of the masses of men advancing to conflict ; the few 
brief and quick words of command that fell from the distance 
upon her ear ; the sullen beat of the hoof upon the sod, as an 
occasional horseman sped to and fro between the more remote 
bodies and the center division, which yet stood in compact 
phalanx immediately below her at the foot of the hill ; then the 
breathless anxiety of her companions near at hand, and the short 
note of dread and almost terror that now and then escaped 
from the lips of Mary Musgrove, as the maiden looked eagerly 
and fearfully abroad over the plain — all these incidents wrought 
upon her feelings and caused her to tremble. Yet amidst these 
novel emotions she was not insensible to a certain lively and 
even pleasant interest arising out of the picturesque character 
of the spectacle. I'he gay sunshine striking aslant these mov- 
ing battalions, lighting up their fringed and many-colored- 
hunting-shirts and casting a golden hue upon their brown and. 
weather-beaten faces, brought out into warm relief the chief 
characteristics of this peculiar woodland army. And Mildred. 
sometimes forgot her fears in the fleeting inspiration of the 
sight, as she watched the progress of an advancing column — at 
one time moving in close ranks, with the serried thicket of rifles 
above their heads, and at another deploying into files to pass 
some narrow path, along which, with trailed arms and bodies 
bent, they sped with the pace of hunters beating the hillside 
for game. The tattered and service-stricken banner that shoolc 
its folds in the wind above these detached bodies likewise lent 
its charm of association to the field in the silence and stead- 
fastness of the array in which it was borne, and its constant 
onward motion, showing it to be encircled by strong arms and 
stout hearts. 


Turning from these, the lady's eye was raised, with a less 
joyous glance, towards the position of the enemy. On the most 
prominent point of the mountain's crest she could descry the 
standard of England fluttering above a concentrated body whose 
scarlet uniforms, as the sun glanced upon them through the 
forest, showed that here Ferguson had posted his corps of 
regulars and held them ready to meet the attack of the center 
division of the assailants; whilst the glittering of bayonets 
amidst the dark foliage, at intervals, rearward along the line of 
the summit, indicated that heavy detachments were stationed 
in this quarter to guard the flanks. The marching and coun- 
tennarching of the frequent corps from various positions on 
the summit, the speeding of officers on horseback, and the occa- 
sional movement of small squadrons of dragoons, who were at 
one moment seen struggling along the sides of the mountain 
and, at another, descending towards the base or returning to 
the summit, disclosed the earnestness and activity of the pref>- 
aration with which a courageous soldier may be supposed to 
make ready for his foe. 

It was with a look of sorrowful concern which brought tears 
mto her eyes that Mildred gazed upon this host and strained 
her vision in the vain endeavor to catch some evidences of the 
presence of Arthur Butler. . . . 

Meanwhile Campbell and Shelby, each at the head of his 
^^n in the center division of the army, steadily commenced 
^^ ascent of the mountain. A long interval ensued, in which 
nothing was heard but the tramp of the soldiers and a few 
^ords of almost whispered command, as they scaled the 
height; and it was not until they had nearly reached the 
^^nimit that the first peal of battle broke upon the sleeping 
^*oes of the mountain. 

Campbell here deployed into line, and his men strode briskly 
upwards until they had come within musketshot of the British 


regulars, whose sharp and prolonged volleys, at this instant, 
suddenly burst forth from the crest of the hilL Peal after 
peal rattled along the mountain side, and volumes of smoke, 
silvered by the light of the sun, rolled over -and envebped the 

When the breeze had partially swept away this doud, and 
opened glimpses of the battle behind it, the troops of Camp- 
bell were seen recoiling before an impetuous charge of ^^ 
bayonet, in which Ferguson himself led the way. A sudden 
halt by the retreating \\Tiigs, and a stern front steadfastly 
opposed to the foe, checked the ardor of his pursuit at a^ 
early moment, and, in turn, he was discovered retiring towarfs 
his original ground, hotly followed by the mountaineers. Ag^ 
the same vigorous onset from the royalists was repeated, and 
again the shaken bands of Campbell rallied and turned baC»^ 
the rush of battle towards the summit. At last, panting ^^ 
spent with the severe encounter, both parties stood for a sp^^ 
eyeing each other with deadly rage and waiting only to gatJ*^ 
breath for the renewal of the strife. 

At this juncture the distant firing heard from either fl^-^ 
furnished evidence that Sevier and Cleveland had both a>^^ 
in contact with the enemy. The uprising of smoke above iJ^l 
trees showed the seat of the combat to be below the sumT^^ 
on the mountain sides and that the enemy had there halfw^^ 
met his foe, whilst the shouts of the soldiers, alternating 
tween the parties of either army, no less distinctly proclaiim 
the fact that at these remote points the field was dispuC 
with bloody resolution and various success. 

It would overtask my poor faculty of descriptbn to give 
reader even a faint picture of this rugged battlefield. Duri"^^ 
the pause of the combatants of the center Campbell and Shel 
were seen riding along the line and by speech and gesture 
couraging their soldiers to still more determined efforts. 




need was there for exhortation ; rage seemed to have refreshed 

the strength of the men, who, with loud and fierce huzzas, 

rushed again to the encounter. They were met with a defiance 

not less eager than their own, and for a time the battle was again 

obscured under the thick haze engendered by the incessant 

discharges of firearms. From this gloom a yell of triumph was 

sometimes heard, as momentary success inspired those who 

struggled within; and the frequent twinkle of polished steel 

glimmering through the murky atmosphere, and the occasional 

apparition of a speeding horseman, seen for an instant as he 

^^^e into the clear light, told of the dreadful earnestness and 

^ with which the unseen hosts had now joined in conflict. 

The impression of this contact was various. Parts of each force 

hroke before their antagonists, and in those spots where the 

j2j| ^ay of the fight might be discerned through the shade of the 

^^rest or the smoke of battle, both royalists and Whigs were 

^^und, at the same instant, to have driven back detached frag- 

i^l ^ents of their opponents. Foemcn were mingled hand to hand, 

^ough and among their adverse ranks, and for a time no 

^^jecture might be indulged as to the side to which victory 

^^uld turn.. 

The flanking detachments seemed to have fallen into the same 

^^fusion aAd might hgve been seen retreating and advancing 

Pon the rough slopes of the mountain in partisan bodies, 

^Parated from their lines, thus giving to the scene an air 

^ bloody riot, more resembling the sudden insurrection of 

^^tdneers from the same ranks than the orderly war of trained 


Through the din and disorder of this fight it is fit that I 

*^Oiild take time to mark the wanderings of Galbraith Robin- 

^^^, whose exploits this day would not ill deserve the pen of 

^oissart The doughty sergeant had, for a time, retained his 

J^st in the ranks of the Amherst Rangers, and with them had 


traveled towards the mountain top, dose in the rear of Camp- 
bell's line. But when the troops had recoiled before the fre- 
quent charges of the royalists, finding his station, at best, but 
that of an inactive spectator, he made no scruple of deserting 
his companions and trying his fortune on the field in such form 
of adventure as best suited his temper. With ho other weapon 
than his customary rifle, he stood his ground when others re- 
treated, and saw the ebb and flow of " flight arid chase " swell 
round him, according to the varying destiny of the day. In 
these difficulties it was his good fortune to escape unhurt, a 
piece of luck that may, perhaps, be attributed to the coolness 
with which he either galloped over an adversary or around 
him, as the emergency rendered most advisable. 

In the midst of this busy occupation, at a monient when one 
of the refluxes of battle brought him almost to the summit, he 
descried a small party of British dragoons, stationed some dis- 
tance in the rear of Ferguson's line, whose detached positior 
seemed to infer some duty unconnected with the general fight 
In the midst of these he thought he recognized the figure anc 
dress of one familiar to his eye. The person thus singled oul 
by the sergeant's glance stood bareheaded upon a project 
ing mass of rock, apparently looking with an eager gaa 
towards the distant combat. No sooner did the conjecture thai 
this might be Arthur Butler flash across his thought than h< 
turned his steed back upon the path by which he had ascendec 
and rode with haste towards the Rangers. 

" Stephen Foster," he said, as he galloped up to the Keu 
tenant and drew his attention by a tap of the hand upon his 
shoulder, " I have business for you, man — you are but wasting 
your time here — pick me out a half dozen of your best fellows 
and bring them with you after me. Quick — Stephen — quick!" 

The lieutenant of the Rangers collected the desired par^ 
and rode after the sergeant, who now conducted this handful 


of men, with as much rapidity as the broken character of the 
ground allowed, by a circuit for considerable distance along 
the right side of the mountain until they reached the top. The 
point at which they gained the summit brought them between 
Ferguson's line and the dragoons, who, it was soon perceived, 
were the party charged with the custody of Butler, and who 
had been thus detached in the rear for the more safe guardian- 
ship of the prisoner. Horseshoe's maneuver had completely 
cut them off from their friends in front, and they had no re- 
source but to defend themselves against the threatened assault 
or fly towards the parties who were at this moment engaged 
with the flanking division of the Whigs. They were taken by 
surprise, and Horseshoe, perceiving the importance of an 
"Immediate attack, dashed onwards along the ridge of the moun- 
^ >yith precipitate speed, calling out to his companions to 
follow. In a moment the dragoons were engaged in a desperate 
pell-mell with the Rangers. 

" Upon them, Stephen 1 Upon them bravely, my lads I Huzza 
^or Major Butler ! Fling the major across your saddle — the 
^t that reaches him," shouted the sergeant, with a voice that 
was heard above all the uproar of battle. " What ho — James 
Curry 1" he cried out, as soon as he detected the presence 
of his old acquaintance in this throng ; " stand your ground, 
^ you, are a man I " 

The person to whom this challenge was directed had made 
^n effort to escape towards a party of his friends whom he was 
^hout summoning to his aid, and in the attempt had already 
^^den some distance into the wood, whither the sergeant had 
^erly followed him. 

** Ah, ha, old Truepenny, are you there ? " exclaimed Curry, 

^niing short upon his pursuer and affecting to laugh as if in 

scorn. " Horseshoe Robinson, well met I " he added sternly, 

^ have not seen a better sight to-day than that fool's head of 


yours upon this hill. No, not even when just now Patri< 
Ferguson sent your yelping curs back to hide themselves t 
hind the trees." 

" Come on, James I " cried Horseshoe, " I have no time 
talk. We have an old reckoning to settle, which perhaps y 
mought remember. I am a man of my word, and, besides , 
have set my eye upon Major Buder," he added, with a to 
and look that were both impressed with the fierce passion 
the scene around him. 

'^ The devil blast you and Major Butler to boot I " exclaim. 
Curry, roused by Horseshoe's air of defiance. " To it, bull 
It shall be short work between us, and bloody," he shouted, 
he discharged a pistol shbt at the sergeant's breast; whJ 
failing to take effect, he flung the weapon upon the grouK 
brandished his sword, and spurred immediately against 1 
challenger. The sweep of the broadsword fell upon the bar 
of Horseshoe's uplifted rifle, and in the next instant the bio 
hand of our lusty yeoman had seized the trooper by the col 
and dragged him from his horse. The two soldiers came to t 
ground, locked in a mutual embrace, and for a brief momc 
a desperate trial of strength was exhibited in the effort to gs 
their feet. 

" I have you there," said Robinson, as at length, with 
flushed cheek, quick breath, and bloodshot eye, he rose frc 
the earth and shook the dragoon from him, who fell backwar 
on his knee. " Curse you, James Curry, for a fool and villai 
You almost drive me, against my will, to the taking of your li: 
I don't want your blood. You are beaten, man, and must s 
so. I grant you quarter upon condition " 

" Look to yourself ! I ask no terms from you," interrupt 
Curry, as suddenly springing to his feet, he now made a seccK 
pass, which was swung with such unexpected vigor at the he 
of his adversary that Horseshoe had barely time to catch t 


blow, as before, upon his rifle. The broadsword was broken 

by the stroke, and one of the fragments of the -blade struck the 

sergeant upon the forehead, inflicting a wound that covered his 

face with blood. Horseshoe reeled a step or two from his 

STound and clubbing the rifle, as it is called, by grasping the 

"^rrel towards the muzzle, he paused but an instant to dash 

^^^ blood from his brow with his hand and then with one lusty 

s^eep, to which his sudden anger gave both precision and 

^^ergy, he brought the piece full upon the head of his foe with 

^ch fatal effect as to bury the lock in the trooper's brain, 

whilst the stock was shattered into splinters. Curry, almost 

^^thout a groan, fell dead across a ledge of rock at his feet. 

** The grudge is done and the fool has met his desarvings," 

^^s Horseshoe's brief comment upon the event, as he gazed 

Sullenly, for an instant, upon the dead body. He had no time 

^^ tarry. The rest of his party were still engaged with the 

^oopers of the guard, who now struggled to preserve the 

^^stody of their prisoner. The bridle rein of Captain Peter had 

^^n caught by one of the Rangers, and the good steed was 

^Oav quickly delivered up to his master, who, flinging himself 

^^n into his saddle, rushed into the throng of combatants. 

"*■ he few dragoons, dispirited by the loss of their leader and 

stricken with panic at this strenuous onset, turned to flight, 

^^ving Butler in the midst of his friends. 

*' God bless you, major I " shouted Robinson, as he rode up 

^ his old comrade, who, unarmed, had looked upon the 

^^^ggle with an interest corresponding to the stake he had in 

*^e event. " Up, man — here, spring across the pommel. Nov/, 

^^ys, down the mountain, for your lives 1 Huzza, huzza! we 

*^^Ve won him back ! " he exclaimed, as, seizing Butler's arm, 

^^ lifted him upon the neck of Captain Peter and bounded 

^Vray at full speed towards the baao, of the mountain, foUQwod 

y Foster and his party. 


The reader may imagine the poignancy of Mildred's emodoi 
as she sat beside Allen Musgrove and his daughter on th 
knoll and watched the busy and stirring scene before her. Th 
center division of the assailing army was immediately in he 
view on the opposite face of the mountain, and no incident c 
the battle in this quarter escaped her notice. She could di 
tinctly perceive the motions of the Amherst Rangers, to whoi 
she turned her .eyes with a frequent and eager glance as tt 
corps with which her brother Henry was associated, and whe 
the various fortune of the fight disclosed to her the occasion 
retreat of her friends before the vigorous sallies of the eneni 
or brought to her ear the renewed and ang^ volleys of mu 
ketry, she clenched Mary Musgrove's arm with a nervo' 
grasp and uttered short and anxious ejaculations that show* 
the terror of her mind. 

" I see Mister Henry yet," said Mary, as Campbell's troo; 
rallied from the last shock, and again moved towards tl 
summit. " I see him plainly, ma'am — for I know his grei 
dress and caught the glitter of his brass bugle in the sun. Ar 
there now — all is smoke again. Mercy, how stubborn a 
these men I And there is Mister Henry once more — ne 
the top. He is safe, ma'am." 

" How earnestly," said Mildred, unconsciously speaking aid 
as she surveyed the scene, " Oh, how earnestly do I wish th 
battle was done! I would rather, Mr. Musgrove, be in tl 
midst of yonder crowd of angry men, could I but have th< 
recklessness, than here in safety to be tortured with my prese 

" In God is our trust, madam," replied the miller. " His ai 
is abroad over the dangerous paths, for a shield and buck] 
to them that put their trust in him. Ha ! there is FeiTgusor 
white horse rushing, with a dangling rein and empty sadd 
down the mountain through Campbell's ranks; the rider h 


faflen, and there, madam — there, look on it ! — is a white flag 
waving in the hands of a British officer. The fight is done. 
Hark, our friends are cheering with a loud voice 1 " 

" Thank Heaven — thank Heaven ! " exclaimed Mildred, as 
she sprang upon her feet ^* It is even so ! " 

The loud huzzas of the troops rose upon the air ; the firing 
ceased ; the flag of truce fluttered in the breeze ; and the con- 
federated bands of the mountaineers, from every quarter of the 
^te battle, were seen hurrying towards the crest of the moun- 
^ and mingling amongst the ranks of the conquered foe. 
Again and again the clamorous cheering of the victors broke 
lorth from llie mountain top and echoed along the neighboring 

Inuring this wild clamor and busy movement a party of 
horsemen were seen^ through the occasional intervals of the 
'ow wood that skirted the valley on the right, hastening from 
^e field with an 'eager swiftness towards the spot where 
Mildred and her companions were stationed. 

As they swept along the base of ,the mountain and approached 
"^e knoll they were lost to view behind the projecting angles of 
"^e low hills that formed the ravine, through which, my reader 
^ aware, the road held its course. When they reappeared it 
^s in ascending the abrupt acclivity of the knoll and within 
"ty paces of the party on the top of it. 

It was now apparent that the approaching party consisted 
^^ Stephen Foster and three or four of the Rangers led by 
"Orseshoe Robinson, with Butler still seated before him as 
^"cn the sergeant first caught him up in the fight. These 
^ere at the same nwment overtaken by Henry Lindsay, who 
had turned back from the mountain at the first announcement 
^^ victory to bring the tidings to his sister. 

Mildred's cheek grew deadly pale and her frame shook as 
^ cavalcade rushed into her presence. 



T > 

" There — take him ! " cried Horseshoe, with an efifort to 
laugh, but which seemed to be half converted into a quaver by 
the agitation of his feelings, as, springing to the ground, be 
swung Butler from the horse, with scarce more effort tban 
he would have used in handling a child ; " take him, ma'am. ^ I^k 
promised myself to-day that Td give him to you. And now 
you 've got him. That 's a good reward for all your troubles.-' 
God bless us — but I'm happy to-day." 

" My husband 1 — my dear husband 1" were the only af^^ 
ulate words that escaped Mildred's lips, as she fell senseless 
into the arms of Arthur Butler. 


[William Gilmore Simms was born at Charleston, South Caroli^ 
in 1 806. He received but a limited education, and at the age of tw^*" 
became apprenticed to a druggist. But as this occupation did »^ 
appeal to him, he began at eighteen the study of law. This pro^^^ 
sion he abandoned in a short time to become editor of a newly es*^ 
lished literary magazine, and from this time on he devoted his a^-"*^ - 
time to literary work. He was a most prolific writer and not C^^* 
produced numerous volumes of poetry and fiction but edited ^^ 
short-lived periodical after another and contributed to various oth.^^^^ 
The war made the close of his life a sad one. His home was pa-^*"^^ 
burned in 1862, and in 1865 it, together with his fine library, 
entirely destroyed. During the years of the war his wife and sev< 
of his children died. He found also that the public was beginni: 
lose its relish for the type of story he wrote. The words of 
epitaph he left behind at his death in Charleston in 1870 suggest 
essentially brave spirit of the man, " Here lies one who, 
reasonably long life, distinguished chiefly by unceasing labors, 
left all his better work undone.*' 

To attempt an enumeration of Simms's many volumes is im 
siblc, the total being, according to one count, above eighty. Sui 
it to say that besides fiction he wrote numerous volumes of 




11, biography, history, and other forms of writing. The re- 
sult of this literary endeavor is summed up in the words of Professor 
W. P. Trent : "Although he left behind little that is permanent, he 
did write half a dozen or more romances of colonial and Revolu- 
tionary Carolina that are interesting and valuble for the light they 
throw upon an important period of Southern history."] 

The Attack on the Block House 

! place 
when the V 

[The incidents are supposed t 
■^aufort, South Carolina, in 1715, w 
*ho had been friendly 
•** the English of South 
Carolina, joined with the 
Spaniards in making war 
**Pon them. 

The story opens with 
Captain Gabrie! Harrison 
\W?ho is really Governor 
*-raven of South Carolina 
*»i disguise) learning of 
"^e plans of the Indians 
^*^ endeavoring to succor 
**^e white people from the 
**"pending general mas- 
f^re. Captain Harrison 
J^ Particularly interested 

Saving his sweetheart, Bess Matthews, and her father, a 

^'itan preacher. He urges them either to go to Charleston 

to go to the neighboring blockhouse for safety, but the 

•^ ^acher declines to do so, insisting that the Indians intend 

Mischief. Captain Harrison urges the other frontiersmen 



to preparations, and the old blockhouse is repaired and made 
ready for a siege. 

When the English try to buy additional land from the Indians, 
Sanutee, one of the older chiefs, and a few others refuse to as* 
sent to the sale, and succeed in having the chiefs who did con- 
sent condemned to become outcasts. Among these is Occon- 
estoga, a young chief and the son of Sanutee, who, with the 
aid of his mother, Matiwan, makes his escape to the whites. 
Made reckless by drink, Occonestoga consents to return to ws 
people in order to spy upon them for the English. He is caught 
and condemned to an accursed death. In a thrilling scene ^ 
mother kills him in order that he may not die ignominiously- 

As Occonestoga had failed to return. Captain Harrison g^ 
himself to spy upon the Indians and is captured. Matiwan, *** 
mother of Occonestoga, aids him to escape from prison beca^ 
he had shown kindness to her son. Shortly after this *"* 
Indians, aided by the Spaniards and certain pirates, begin W^ 
fare on the whites and bring torture and devastation upon s^^ 
of the settlements as had not heeded Captain Harrison's w^^ 
ing. Bess Matthews and her father are saved from the Indi^ 
by Chorley, a Spaniard, who has fallen in love with her, thoi^^ 
he virtually holds them as his prisoners. The Indians sho^""^ 
afterwards concentrated their forces on the blockhouse, '•^ 
attack on which is described in the selection that follows.] 

The inmates of the Block House, as we remember, had 
warned by Hector of the probable approach of danger, 
preparation was the word in consequence. But what was 
preparation meant? Under no distinct command, everyf^* 
had his own favorite idea of defense, and all was confusion 
their councils. The absence of Harrison, to whose direction 
parties would most willingly have turned their ears, was now 
the most injurious tendency, as it left them unprovided with a ^ 




head, and just at the moment when a high degree of excitement 
prevailed against the choice of any substitute. Great bustle and 
Httle execution took the place of good order, calm opinion, 
deliberate and decided action. The men were ready enough to 
fight, and this readiness was an evil of itself, circumstanced as 
5 "c| they were. To fight would have been madness then ; to protract 
^e issue and gain time was the object, and few among the 
defenders of the fortress at that moment were sufficiently 
collected to see this truth. In reason, there was really but a 
single spirit in the Block House sufficiently deliberate for the 
caf ^casion. That spirit was a woman's — the wife of Granger. 
^'1 ^he had been the child of poverty and privation ; the severe 
^hool of that best tutor, necessity, had made her equable in 
'^ind and intrepid in spirit. She had looked suffering so long 
^^ the face that she now regarded it without a tear. Her parents 
^d never been known to her, and the most trying difficulties 
^'ung to her from infancy up to womanhood. So exercised, her 
'^ind grew strong in proportion to its trials, and she had learned 
^'^ the end to regard them with a degree of fearlessness far 
^yond the capacities of any well-bred heir of prosperity and 
^^oring fortune. The same trials attended her after marriage, 
*^ce the pursuits of her husband carried her into dangers 
^ Avhich even he could oppose far less ability than his wife. 
^r genius soared infinitely beyond his own, and to her teachings 
^^ he indebted for many of those successes which brought him 
^alth in after years. She counseled his enterprises, prompted 
^ persuaded his proceedings, managed for him wisely and 
^^^omically, in all respects proved herself unselfish; and, if 
*^^ did not at any time appear above the way of life they had 
^^<)pted, she took care to maintain both of them from falling 
•^^neath it — a result too often following the exclusive pursuit 
^* gain. Her experience throughout life, hitherto, served her 
^^mirably now, when all was confusion among the councils of 


the men. She descended to the court below, where they made 
a show of deUberation, and, in her own manner, with a just 
knowledge of human nature, proceeded to give her aid in their 
general progress. Knowing that any direct suggestion from a 
woman, and under circumstances of strife and trial, would 
necessarily offend the amour propre of the nobler animal and 
provoke his derision, she pursued a sort of management which 
an experienced woman is usually found to employ as a kind of 
familiar — a wily little demon, that goes unseen at her bidding 
and does her business, like another Ariel, the world all the while 
knowing nothing about it. Calling out from the crowd pne oi 
those whom she knew to be not only the most collected, but 
the one least annoyed by any unnecessary self-esteem, she was 
in a moment joined by Wat Grayson, and leading him aside 
she proceeded to suggest various measures of preparation and 
defense, certainly the most prudent that had yet been made 
This she did with so much unobtrusive modesty that the worth) 
woodman took it for granted all the while that the ideas 
were properly his own. She concluded with insisting upor 
his taking the command. 

" But Nichols will have it all to himself. That 's one of oui 
difficulties now." 

"What of that? You may easily manage him, Mastei 

" How ? " he asked. 

" The greater number of the men here are of the ' Green 
Jackets ' ? " 

"Yes — " 

" And you are their lieutenant — next in command to Captain 
Harrison, and their first officer in his absence ? " 

" That 's true." 

" Command them as your troop exclusively and don't mind 
the rest." 


But they will be offended." 

And if they are, Master Grayson, is this a time to heed 

their folly when the enemy *s upon us ? Let them. You do 

with your troop without heed to them, and they will fall into 

your ranks — they will work with you when the time comes." 

**You are right," was the reply; and immediately going 

forward, with a voice of authority, Grayson, calling only the 

"Green Jackets" around him, proceeded to organize them 

and put himself in command, as first lieutenant of the only 

volunteer corps which the parish knew. The corps received the 

annunciation with a shout, and the majority readily recognized 

him. Nichols alone grumbled a little, but the minority was too 

small to offer any obstruction to Grayson's authority, so that he 

soon submitted with the rest. The command, all circumstances 

considered, was not improperly given. Grayson, though not 

, overwise, was decisive in action ; and, in matters of strife, 

wisdom itself must be subservient to resolution. Resolution in 

^ is wisdom. The new commander numbered his force, 

placed the feeble and the young in the least trying situations, 

assigned different bodies to different stations, and sent the 

• women and children into the upper and most sheltered 

apartment. In a few moments things were arranged for the 

approaching conflict with tolerable precision. 

The force thus commanded by Grayson was small enough ; 
the whole number of men in the Block House not exceeding 
twenty-five. The women and children within its shelter were 
probably twice that number. The population had been assembled 
^ great part from the entire extent of country lying between 
the Block House and the Indian settlements. From the Block 
House downward to Port Royal Island there had been no 
gathering to this point, the settlers in that section, necessarily, 
in the event of a like difficulty, seeking a retreat to the fort od 
the island, which had its garrison already, and was more secur 


and in another respect much more safe, as it lay more cont 
to the sea. The greater portion of the country imme 
endangered from the Yemassees had been duly wame 
none but the slow, the indifferent, and the obstinate bi 
taken sufficient heed of the many warnings given them a 
themselves in safety. Numbers, however, coming und« 
or other of these classes had fallen victims to thei*" f< 
temerity in the sudden onslaught which followed th* 
movement of the savages among them, who, scattering 
selves over the country, had made their attack so nei 
the same time as to defeat anything like unity of act 
the resistance which might have been offered them. 

Grayson's first care in his new command was to g 
women and children fairly out of the way. The dose 
apartment of the Block House had been especially as 
them, and there they had assembled generally. But some 
the old ladies were not to be shut up, and his own good 1 
mother gave the busy commandant no little trouble. Sh 
to and fro, interfering in this, preventing that, and altc 
annoying the men to such a degree that it became abs 
necessary to put on a show of sternness which, in a mon 
less real danger and anxiety, would have been studious 
borne. With some difficulty, and the assistance of Gn 
wife, he at length got her out of the way, and, to the 
satisfaction of all parties, she worried herself to sleep 
midst of a Psalm, which she crooned over to the drearie 
in her whole collection. Sleep had also fortunately seize< 
the children generally, and but few in the room assigned 
women were able to withstand the approaches of that 
magician. The wife of the trader, almost alone, cor 
watchful — thoughtful in emergency, and with a ready dq 
common sense to contend with trial and to prepare aga 
The confused cluster of sleeping forms, in all positions . 


all sorts and sizes, that hour, in the apartment so occupied, was 
grotesque enough. One figure alone, sitting in the midst and 
musing with a concentrated mind, gave dignity to the ludicrous 
grouping — the majestic figure of Mary Granger, her dark 
eye fixed upon the s^ent and sleeping collection in doubt and 
pity, her black hair bound closely upon her head, and her 
broad forehead seeming to enlarge and grow with the busy 
thought at work within it. Her hand, too — strange association 
^- rested upon a hatchet. . . . 

The watchers of the fortress, from their several loopholes, 
looked forth, east and west, yet saw no enemy. All was soft in 
the picture, all was silent in the deep repose of the forest. The 
mght was clear and lovely, and the vague and dim beauty with 
^hich, in the imperfect moonlight, the foliage of the woods 
spread away in distant shadows or clung and clustered together 
^ in groups, shrinking for concealment from her glances, 
touched the spirits even of those rude foresters. With them 
^e poetry of the natural world is a matter of feeling ; with the 
refined it is an instrument of art. Hence it is, indeed, that the 
P^try of the early ages speaks in the simplest language, while 
that of civilization, becoming only the agent for artificial en- 


joyment, is ornate in its dress and complex in its form and 

The night wore on, still calm and serene in all its aspects 
ahout the Block House. Far away in the distance, like glimpses 
°^ a spirit, little sweeps of the river in its crooked windings 
flashed upon the eye, streaking with a sweet relief the somber 
foliage of the swampy forest through which it stole. A single 
note — the melancholy murmur of the chuck-will's-widow, 
4e Carolina whippoorwill — broke fitfully upon the silence, to 
which it gave an added solemnity. That single note indicated 
to the keepers of the fortress a watchfulness corresponding with 
^eir own, of another living creature. Whether it were human 


or not — whether it were the deceptive lure and signal of the__ 
savage or, in reality, the complaining cry of the solitary and sad 
night bird which it so resembled, was, however, matter of nice 
question with those who listened to the strain. 

" They are there — they are there, hidden in that wood," 
cried Grayson ; " I '11 swear it. I Ve heard them quite too 
often not to know their cunning now. Hector was right after 
all, boys." 

" What, where ? " asked Nichols. 

^* There, in the bush to the left of the blasted oak — now 
down to the bluff — and now by the bay on the right. They 
are all round us." 

" By what do you know, Wat ? " 

" The whippoorwill — that is their cry — their signal" 

" It is the whippoorwill," said Nichols, — " there is but on^ 
of them ; you never hear more than one at a time." 

" Pshaw I " responded Grayson, — " you may hear half a, 
dozen at a time, as I have done a thousand times. But that iS' 
from no throat of bird. It is the Indian. There is but a single 
note, you perceive, and it rises from three different quarters. 
Now it is to the Chief's Bluff — and now — it comes immedi- 
ately from the old grove of scrubby oak. A few shot there 
would get an answer." 

" Good I that is just my thought — let us give them a broad- 
side and disperse the scoundrels," cried Nichols. 

" Not so fast, Nichols — you swallow your enemy without 
asking leave of his teeth. Have you inquired first whether we 
have powder and shot to throw away upon bushes that may be 
empty ? " now exclaimed the blacksmith, joining in the questicm. 

" A prudent thought, that, Grimstead," said Grayson ; " we 
have no ammunition to spare in that way. But I have a notion 
that may prove of profit. Where is the captain's straw man — 
here, Granger, bring out Dugdale's trainer." 

w;lliam gilmore simms 113 

The stuffed figure . . . was brought forward, the window 
looking in the direction of the grove supposed to shelter the 
savages was thrown open, and the perfectiy indifferent head 
of the automaton thrust incontinently through the opening. 
The ruse was completely successful. The foe could not well 
resist this temptation, and a flight of arrows, penetrating the 
figure in every portion of its breast and face, attested the 
presence of the enemy and the truth of his aim. A wild and 
shuddering cry rang through the forest at the same instant — 
that cry, well known as the fearful war whoop, the sound of 
which made the marrow curdle in the bones of the frontier 
settler and prompted the mother, with a nameless terror, to hug 
closer to her bosom the form of her unconscious infant. It was 
at once answered from side to side, wherever their several 
parties had been stationed, and it struck terror even into the shel- 
tered garrison which heard it — such terror as the traveler feels 
by night, when the shrill rattle of the lurking serpent, with that 
ubiquity of sound which is one of its fearful features, vibrates 
^ around him, leaving him at a loss to say in what quarter his 
enemy lies in waiting, and teaching him to dread that the very 
next step which he takes may place him within the coil of death. 

"Ay, there they are, sure enough — fifty of them at least, 
^d we shall have them upon us after this monstrous quick, in 
some way or other," was the speech of Grayson, while a brief 
silence through all the party marked the deep influence upon 
them of the summons which they had heard. 

"True — and we must be up and doing," said the smith; 
" we can now give them a shot, [Walter] Grayson, for they will 
dance out from the cover now, thinking they have killed one 
of us. The savages — they have thrown away some of their 
powder at least." As Grimstead spoke, he drew three arrows 
with no small difficulty from the bosom of the figure in which 
they were buried. 


" Better there than in our ribs. But you are right Stand 
back for a moment and let me have that loop — I shall waste 
no shot. Ha ! I see — there is one — I see his arm and the 
edge of his hatchet — it rests upon his shoulder, I reckon, but 
that is concealed by the brush. He moves — he comes out, 
and slaps his hands against his thigh. The red devil, but he 
shall have it. Get ready now, each at his loop, for if I hurt 
him they will rush out in fury." 

The sharp click of the cock followed the words of Gra)rson, 
who was an able shot, and the next moment the full report 
came burdened with a dozen echoes from the crowding woods 
around. A cry of pain — then a shout of fury and the reiterated 
whoop followed ; and as one of their leaders reeled and sank 
under the unerring bullet, the band in that station, as had been 
predicted by Grayson, rushed forth to where he stood, brand- 
ishing their weapons with ineffectual fuiy and lifting their 
wounded comrade, as is their general custom, to bear him to a 
place of concealment and preserve him from being scalped, 
by secret burial in the event of his being dead. They paid for 
their temerity. Following the direction of their leader, whose 
decision necessarily commanded their obedience, the Carolinians 
took quite as much advantage of the exposure of their enemies 
as the number of the loopholes in that quarter of the building 
would admit. Five muskets told among the group, and a 
reiterated shout of fury indicated the good service which the 
discharge had done and taught the savages a lesson of prudence 
which, in the present instance, they had been too ready to dis- 
regard. They sank back into cover, taking care however to 
remove their hurt companions, so that, save by the peculiar cry 
which marks a loss among them, the garrison were unable 
to determine what had been the success of their discharges. 
Having driven them back into the brush, however, without 
loss to themselves, the latter were now sanguine, where, only 



a moment before, their confined and cheerless position had 
taught them a feeling of despondency not calculated to improve 
the comforts of their case. 

The Indians had made their arrangements, on the other 
hand, with no little precaution. But they had been deceived 
and disappointed. Their scouts, who had previously inspected 
the fortress, had given a very different account of the defenses 
and the watchfulness of their garrison, to what was actually the 
fact upon their appearance. The scouts, however, had spoken 
truth, and but for the discovery made by Hector, the proba- 
bility is that the Block House would have been surprised with 
little or no difficulty. Accustomed to obey Harrison as their 
only leader, the foresters present never dreamed of preparation 
for conflict unless under his guidance. The timely advice of 
the trader's wife, and the confident assumption of command on 
the part of Walter Grayson, completed their securities. But 
for this, a confusion of counsels, not less than of tongues, 
would have neutralized all action and left them an easy prey, 
without head or direction, to the knives of their insidious 
snemy. Calculating upon surprise and cunning as the only 
Tieans by which they could hope to balance the numerous 
idvantages possessed by European warfare over their own, the 
[ndians had relied rather more on the suddenness of their 
DHset and the craft peculiar to their education than on the 
Force of their valor. They felt themselves baffled, therefore, in 
their main hope, by the sleepless caution of the garrison and 
now prepared themselves for other means. 

They made their disposition of force with no little judg- 
ment. Small bodies, at equal distances, under cover, had been 
stationed all about the fortress. With the notes of the whip- 
poorwill they had carried on their signals and indicated the 
several, stages of their preparation, while, in addition to this, 
another band, — a sort of forlorn hope, consisting of the more 


desperate, who had various motives for signalizing their val< 
— creeping singly from cover to cover, now reposing in t 
shadow of a log along the ground, now half buried in a clust 
ing bush, made their way at length so closely under the Wc 
of the log house as to be completely concealed from the gai 
son, which, unless by the window, had no mode of looki 
directly down upon them. As the windows were well watcl 
by their comrades — having once attained their place of o 
cealment — it followed that their position remained entir 
concealed from those within. They lay in waiting for 
favorable moment — silent as the grave, and sleepless — rea 
when the garrison should determine upon a sally, to fall uj 
their rear; and, in the meanwhile, quietly preparing dry f 
in quantity, gathering it from time to time and piling it agai 
the logs of the fortress, they prepared thus to fire the defen 
that shut them out from their prey. 

There was yet another mode of finding entrance, which 
been partially glimpsed at already. The scouts had done tl 
office diligently in more than the required respects. Findin 
slender pine twisted by a late storm, and scarcely sustained 
a fragment of its shaft, they applied fire to the rich turpent 
oozing from the wounded part of the tree, and carefully dir< 
ing its fall, as it yielded to the fire, they lodged its extren: 
branches, as we have already seen, against the wall of 
Block House and just beneath the window, the only one lo 
ing from that quarter of the fortress. Three of the bravest 
their warriors were assigned for scaling this point and secur 
their entrance, and the attack was forborne by the rest of 
band while their present design, upon which they built grea 
was in progress. 

Let us then turn to this quarter. We have already seen t 
the dangers of this position were duly estimated by Grays 
under the suggestion of Granger's wife. Unhappily for 


defense, the fate of the ladder prevented that due attention to 
the subject, at once, which had been imperatively called for ; 
and the subsequent excitement following the discovery of the 
immediate proximity of the Indians had turned the considera- 
tion of the defenders to the opposite end of the building, from 
whence the partial attack of the enemy, as described, had come. 
It is true that the workmen were yet busy with the ladder,^ 
but the assault had suspended their operations, in the impatient 
curiosity which such an event would necessarily induce, even 
in the bosom of fear. 

The wife of Grayson [Granger], fully conscious of the dan- 
ger, was alone sleepless in that apartment. The rest of the 
women, scarcely apprehensive of attack at all and perfectly 


ignorant of the present condition of affairs, with all that heed- 
lessness which marks the unreflecting character, had sunk to 
the repose (without an effort at watchfulness) which previous 
fatigues had, perhaps, made absolutely unavoidable. She, alone, 
sat thoughtful and silent — musing over present prospects — 
perhaps of the past — but still unforgetful of the difficulties 
and the dangers before her. With a calm temper she awaited 
the relief which, with the repair of the ladder, she looked for 
from below. 

In the meantime, hearing something of the alarm, together 
with the distant war whoop, she had looked around her for 
some means of defense, in the event of any attempt being 
made upon the window before the aid promised could reach 
her. But a solitary weapon met her eye, in a long heavy 
hatchet, a clumsy instrument, rather more like the cleaver of a 
butcher than the light and slender tomahawk so familiar to the 
Indians. Having secured this, with the composure of that cour- 
age which had been in great part taught her by the necessities 

1 The ladder leading up from the floor below to the room where the womer 
were Jbad become broken aod aopthpr was being constructed. [Editor's note.] 


of fortune, she prepared to do without other assistance, and tc 
forego the sentiment of dependence, which is perhaps one ol 
the most marked characteristics of her sex. Calmly looking 
round upon the sleeping and defenseless crowd about her, she 
resumed her seat upon a low bench in a comer of the apart- 
ment, from which she had risen to secure the hatchet, and, 
extinguishing the only light in the room, fixed her eye upon the 
accessible window, while every thought of her mind prepared 
her for the danger which was at hand. She had not long been 
seated when she fancied that she heard a slight rustling of the 
branches of the fallen tree just beneath the window. She 
could not doubt her senses, and her heart swelled and throbbed 
with the consciousness of approaching danger. But still she 
was firm — her spirit grew more confirmed with the coming 
trial ; and, coolly throwing the slippers from her feet, grasping 
firmly her hatchet at the same time, she softly arose, and keep- 
ing close in the shadow of the wall, she made her way to a 
recess, a foot or so from the entrance, to which it was evident 
someone was cautiously approaching along the attenuated body 
of the yielding pine. In a few moments a shadow darkened the 
opening. She edged more closely to the point and prepared 
for the intruder. She now beheld the head of the enemy — a 
fierce and foully painted savage — the war tuft rising up into 
a ridge, something like a comb, and his face smeared with 
colors in a style most ferociously grotesque. Still she coukl 
not strike, for, as he had not penetrated the window, and as its 
entrance was quite too small to enable her to strike with any 
hope of success at any distance through it, she felt that the 
effort would be wholly without certainty, and failure might be 
of the worst consequence. Though greatly excited, and strug- 
gling between doubt and determination, she readily saw what 
would be the error of any precipitation. But even as she mused 
thus apprehensively, the cunning savage laid his hand upon the 


siD of the window the better to raise himself to its level. That 
sight tempted her, in spite of her better sense, to the very pre- 
cipitation she had desired to avoid. In the moment that she 
saw the hand of the red man upon the sill the hatchet 
descended, under an impulse scarcely her own. She struck too 
quickly.- The blow was given with all her force and would 
certainly have separated the hand from the arm had it taken 
effect. But the quick eye of the Indian caught a glimpse of 
her movement at the very moment in which it was made, and 
the hand was withdrawn before the hatchet descended. The 
steel sank deep into the soft wood — so deeply that she could 
not disengage it To try at this object would have exposed her 
at once to his weapon, and, leaving it where it stuck, she sank 
back again into shadow. 

What now was she to do ? To stay where she was would be 

of little avail, but to cry out to those below, and seek to fly, 

was equally unproductive of good, besides warning the enemy 

of the defenselessness of their condition and thus inviting a 

renewal of the attack. The thought came to her with the 

danger, and, without a word, she maintained her position in 

waiting for the progress of events. As the Indian had also 

sunk from sight, and some moments had now elapsed without 

his reappearance, she determined to make another effort for. 

the recovery of the hatchet. She grasped it by the handle, and 

in the next moment the hand of the savage was upon her own. 

He felt that his grasp was on the fingers of a woman, and in a 

brief word and something of a chuckle, while he still maintained 

his hold upon it, he conveyed intelligence of the fact to those 

below. But it was a woman with a man's spirit with whom he 

contended, and her endeavor was successful to disengage herself. 

The same success did not attend her effort to recover the 

weapon. In the brief struggle with her enemy it had becoi 

disengaged from the wood, and while both strove to seize it 


slipped from their mutual hands and, sliding over the sill, in 
another instant was heard rattling through the intervening 
bushes. Descending upon the ground below, it became the 
spoil of those without, whose murmurs of gratulation she 
distinctly heard. But now came the tug of difficulty. The 
Indian, striving at the entrance, was necessarily encouraged by 
the discovery that his opponent was not a man, and assured, at 
the same time, by the forbearance on the part of those within 
to strike him effectually down from the tree, he now resolutely 
endeavored to effect his entrance. His head was again fully in 
sight of the anxious woman — then his shoulders, and, at length, 
taking a firm grasp upon the sill, he strove to elevate himself 
by muscular strength so as to secure him sufficient purchase 
for the entrance at which he aimed. 

What could she do — weaponless, hopeless? The prospect 
was startling and tferrible enough, but she was a strong-minded 
woman, and impulse served her when reflection would most 
probably have taught her to fly. She had but one resource, 
and as the Indian had gradually thrust one hand forward for 
the hold upon the sill, and raised the other up to the side of the 
window, she grasped the one nighest to her own. She grasped 
it firmly with all her might, and to advantage, as, having lifted 
himself on tiptoe for the purpose of ascent, he had necessarily 
lost much of the control which a secure hold for his feet must 
have given him. Her grasp sufficiently assisted him forward to 
lessen still more greatly the security of his feet, while, at the 
same time, though bringing him still farther into the apartment, 
placing him in such a position — half in air — as to defeat much 
of the muscular exercise which his limbs would have possessed 
in any other situation. Her weapon now would have been all- 
important, and the brave woman mentally deplored the precipi- 
tancy with which she had acted in the first instance and whidi 
had so unhappily deprived her of its use. But self-reproach was 


unavailing now, and she was satisfied if she could be able to 
retain her foe in his present position, by which, keeping him 
out, or in and out, as she did, she necessarily excluded all other 
foes from the aperture which he so completely filled up. The 
intruder, though desirous enough of entrance before, was rather 
reluctant to obtain it now, under existing circumstances. He 
strove desperately to effect a retreat, but had advanced too far, 
however, to be easily successful, and in his confusion and dis- 
quiet he spoke to those below, in his own language, explaining 
his difficulty and directing their movement to his assistance. 
A sudden rush along the tree indicated to the conscious sense 
of the woman the new danger, in the approach of additional 
enemies, who must not only sustain but push forward the one 
with' whom she contended. This warned her at once of the 
necessity of some sudden procedure, if she hoped to do anything 
for her own and the safety of those around her — the women 
and the children, whom, amid all the contest, she had never 
once alarmed. Putting forth all her strength, therefore, though 
nothing in comparison with that of him whom she opposed (had 
he been in a condition to exert it), she strove to draw him still 
farther across the entrance, so as to exclude, if possible, the 
approach of those coming behind him. She hoped to gain time 
— sufficient time for those preparing the ladder to come to her 
relief; and with this hope, for the first time, she called aloud 
to Grayson and her husband. 

The Indian, in the meanwhile, derived the support for his 
person as well fcpm the grasp of the woman as from his own 
hold upon the sill of the window. Her effort, necessarily draw- 
ing him still farther forward, placed him so completely in the 
way of his allies that they could do him little service while 
things remained in this situation, and, to complete the difficulties 
of his predicament, while they busied themselves in several 
efforts at his extrication, the branches of the little tree resting 


against the dwelling, yielding suddenly to the unusual weight 
upon it, — trembling and sinking away at last, — cracked beneath 
the burden and, snapping off from its several holds, fell from 
under them, dragging against the building in the progress down, 
thus breaking their fall but cutting off all their hope from this 
mode of entrance and leaving their comrade awkwardly poised 
aloft, able neither to enter nor to depart from the window. 
The tree finally settled heavily upon the ground, and with it 
went the three savages who had so readily ascended to the 
assistance of their comrade — bruised and very much hurt; 
while he, now without any support but that which he derived 
from the sill and what little his feet could secure from the 
irregular crevices between the logs of which the house had been 
built, was hung in air, unable to advance except at the will of 
his woman opponent, and dreading a far worse fall from his 
eminence than that which had already happened to his allies. 
Desperate with his situation, he thrust his arm, as it was still 
held by the woman, still farther into the window, and this en- 
abled her with both hands to secure and strengthen the grasp 
which she had originally taken upon it. This she did with a 
new courage and strength, derived from the voices below, by 
which she understood a promise of assistance. Excited and 
nerved, she drew the extended arm of the Indian, in spite of 
all his struggles, directly over the sill, so as to turn the elbow 
completely down upon it. With her whole weight thus em- 
ployed, bending down to the floor to strengthen herself to the 
task, she pressed the arm across the window until her ears 
heard the distinct, clear crack of the bone — until she heard 
the groan and felt the awful struggles of the suffering wretch, 
twisting himself round with all his effort to obtain for the 
shattered arm a natural and relaxed position, and, with this 
object, leaving his hold upon ever)'thing; only sustained, in- 
deed, by the grasp of his enemy. But the movement of the 


woman had been quite too sudden, her nerves too firm, and her 
strength too great, to suffer him to succeed. The jagged splin- 
ters of the broken limb were thrust up, lacerating and tearing 
through flesh and skin, while a howl of the acutest agony 
attested the severity of that suffering which could extort such 
an acknowledgment from the American savage. He fainted 
in his pain, and as the weight increased upon the arm of the 
woman, the nature of her sex began to resume its sway. With 
a shudder of every fiber, she released her hold upon him. The 
effort of her soul was over, a strange sickness came upon 
her, and she was just conscious of a crashing fall of the heavy 
body among the branches of the tree at the foot of the window, 
when she staggered back fainting into the arms of her husband, 
who just at that moment ascended to her relief. 

[Under the leadership of Harrison relief comes to the be- 
sieged in the blockhouse, and the Indians are driven off. 

After the defeat of the Indians Chorley attempts to carry 
Bess Matthews away on his ship, but is shot in his canoe 
by Captain Harrison, and Bess Matthews is rescued. Bess 
Matthews consents to make her rescuer happy with the hand 
which she had hitherto denied him. It is disclosed that Har- 
rison is really the governor of the colony, Charles Craven, and 
the story closes with an account of how the colonists drove 
the Indians back further from the coast and defeated them in 
a final battie.] 


[John Esten Cooke was bom in Winchester, Virginia, in 1830, 
and died in Clarke County, Virginia, in 1886. He left school early 
in order to study law, but preferring literature, he devoted himself 
largely to writing. He saw service in the Confederate army. When 
the war was over he returned to his literary pursuits and continued 


to write novels until his death. His novels fall into two groups— 

those on Colonial and Revolutionary times and those relating to the 

, CivilWar. Besides these romances — in all some twenty or more — 

Cooke wrote a life of Stonewall Jackson and a history of Vitpnia-] 


Mr. Champ Effingham of Effingham Hall 

On a splendid October afternoon in the year of our Lord 
1763 two persons who will appear frequently in this history 
were seated in the great dining 
room of Efiingham HalL 

But let us first say a few 
words of this old mansitm. 
Effingham Hall was a statdy 
edifice not far from Williams- 
burg which as everybody 
knows was at that period the 
capita! city of the colony of 
Virginia, The hall was con- 
structed of el^ant bndt 
brought over from &igland 
and from the great portico m 
front of the building a beauti- 
ful rolling country of hills and 
valleys field and forest, spread 
Itself pleasantly before the eye, 
bounded far od along the 
circling belt of woods by the bright waters of the noble nver 
Lnttnng the Urge hall of the old house you had before you 
walls covered with deer s antlers fishing rods and guns por 
traits of tJvalitrs and dames and children evoi carefully 
painted pictures of celebrated race horses on whose speed and 



bottom many thousands of pounds had been staked and lost 
and won in their day and generation. 

On one side of the hall a broad staircase with oaken balus- 
trade led to the numerous apartments above, and on the 
opposite side a door gave entrance into the great dining room. 
The dining room was decorated with great elegance, the 
carved oak wainscot extending above the mantelpiece in an un- 
broken expanse of fruits and flowers, hideous laughing faces, 
and long foamy surges to the cornice. The furniture was in 
the Louis Quatorze style, which the reader is familiar with, 
from its reproduction in our own day ; and the chairs were the 
same low-seated affairs, with high carved backs, which are now 
seen. There were Chelsea figures, and a sideboard full of 
plate, and a Japan cabinet, and a Kidderminster carpet, and 
Iiuge andirons. On the andirons crackled a few twigs lost in 
the great country fireplace. 

On the wall hung a dozen pictures of gay gallants, brave 
warriors, and dames whose eyes outshone their diamonds ; and 
more than one ancestor looked grimly down, clad in a cuirass 
and armlet and holding in his mailed hand the sword which had 
done bloody service in its time. The lady portraits, as an invari- 
able rule, were decorated with sunset clouds of yellow lace ; the 
bright locks were powdered, and many little black patches set off 
the dazzling fairness of the rounded chins. Lapdogs nesded on 
the satin laps ; and not one of the gay dames but seemed to be 
smiling, with her head bent sidewise fascinatingly on the courtly 
or warlike figures ranged with them in a long glittering line. 

These portraits are worth looking up to, but those which we 
promised the reader are real. 

In one of the carved chairs, if anything more uncomfortable 
than all the rest, sits, or rather lounges, a young man of about 
twenty-five. He is very richly clad, and in a costume which 
Would be apt to attract a large share of attention in our ow 


day, when dress seems to have become a mere covering, and 
the prosaic tendencies of the age are to despise everything but 
what ministers to actual material pleasure. 

The gentleman before us lives fortunately one hundred years 
before our day and suffers from an opposite tendency in cos- 
tume. His head is covered with a long flowing peruke, heavy 
with powder, and the drop curls hang down on his cheeks 
ambrosially ; his cheeks are delicately rouged ; and two patches, 
arranged with matchless art, complete the distinguished tout 
ensemble of the handsome face. At breast a cloud of lace re- 
poses on the rich embroidery of his figured satin waistcoat, 
reaching to his knees ; this lace is point de Venise and white, 
that fashion having come in just one month since. The sleeves 
of his rich doublet are turned back to his elbows and are as 
large as a bushel, the opening being filled up, however, with 
long ruffles, which reach down over the delicate jeweled hand. 
He wears silk stockings of spotless white, and his feet are 
cased in slippers of Spanish leather, adorned with diamond 
buckles. Add velvet garters below the knee, a little muff of 
leopard skin reposing near at hand upon a chair, not omitting a 
snuffbox peeping from the pocket, and Mr. Champ Effingham, 
just from Oxford and his grand tour, is before you with his 
various surroundings. 

He is reading the work which some time since attained to 
such extreme popularity — Mr. Joseph Addison's serial, " The 
Spectator," collected now, for its great merits, into bound vol- 
umes. Mr. Effingham reads with a languid air (just as he sits) 
and turns over the leaves with an ivory paper cutter which he 
brought from Venice with the plate glass yonder on the side- 
board near the silver baskets and pitchers. This languor is 
too perfect to be wholly affected, and when he yawns, as he 
does frequently, Mr. Effingham applies himself to that task 
very earnestly. 


In one of these paroxysms of weariness the volume slips 
from his hand to the floor. 

" My book," he says to a negro boy, who has just brought 
in some dishes. The boy hastens respectfully to obey, crossing 
the whole width of the room for that purpose. Mr. Effingham 
then continues reading. 

[As Effingham rode over to a neighboring estate that after- 
noon to call on Miss Lee, he met an unknown lady on horse- 
back. Struck by her appearance, he endeavors to make her 
aquaintance but unsuccessfully. 

A few days later Effingham is among those who attend the 
presentation of " The Merchant of Venice " given by the Vir- 
ginia Company of Comedians in the Old Theater near the capi- 
tol at Williamsburg. He discovers that Portia in the play is 
none other than the beautiful rider whom he has met He 
falls desperately in love with her, but she treats coldly all his 
attempts to push the acquaintance. A little later, while Beatrice 
was taking an outing on the James River, her boat was upset 
by a storm and she was rescued by Charles Waters, a poor 
fisherman's son. This occurrence marks the beginning of a 
friendship between these two which ripens rapidly into love. 
Effingham's infatuation for Beatrice led him to become a mem- 
ber of the Virginia Company of Comedians, in spite of the 
break with social traditions that such a step involves. Beatrice, 
however, grows more and more disdainful of his attentions. In 
the meantime she discovers through the initials " B. W." on a 
locket she has been wearing, and a letter which comes acci- 
dentally into her hands, that her real name is not Beatrice 
Hallam, but Beatrice Waters, and that she and Charles 
Waters are cousins. Her father had at his deiath intrusted 
her to Hallam, his friend, to carry to his brother, John Waters, 
who was supposed to be in London. But John Waters had 


emigrated to Virginia, and Hallam, having been unable to find 
him, had brought Beatrice up under the impression that she 
was his daughter. As she is disclosing all this to Charles 
Waters, Effingham enters the room, and believing his suspi- 
cions confirmed of having a rival in Charles Waters, challenges 
him to a duel. It is under these circumstances that Effingham 
insists that Beatrice shall keep the promise which he extorted 
from her some time earlier in the story to accompany him to 
the Governor's ball.] 

Governor Fauquier's Ball 

The day for the meeting of the House of Burgesses had 
arrived. . . . 

We have already expended some words upon the appearance 
of the town for days before this important occasion, and can 
now only add that the bustle was vastly greater, the laughter 
louder, the crowd larger, and the general excitement a thousand- 
fold increased on this, the long-expected morning. We have no 
space to enter into a full description of the appearance which 
the borough presented ; indeed, this narrative is not the proper 
place for such historic disquisitions, dealing as it does with the 
fortunes of a few personages who pursued their various careers, 
and laughed and wept, and loved and hated, almost wholly 
without the "aid of government." It was scarcely very im- 
portant to Beatrice, for instance, that his Excellency Governor 
Fauquier set out from the palace to the sound of cannon, and 
drawn slowly in his splendid chariot with its six glossy snow- 
white horses, and its bodyguard of cavalry, went to the capitol, 
and so delivered there his gracious and vice-regal greeting to the 
Burgesses, listening in respectful, thoughtful silence. The crowd 
could not drive away the poor girl's various disquieting thoughts; 
the smile which his Excellency threw towards the Raleigh, and 



its flirong of lookcr&on, scarcely shed any light upon her 
anxious and fearful heart she only felt that to-night the crowd 
a the theater would be noisier and more dense her duty only 
moe repulsive to her — finally that all this bustle and con 
fusion was to terminate in a ball at which she was to pass 



This historic tavern, mentioned constantly in John EsCen Cooke's 
"The Virginia Comedians," was buiit before 1735 and stood until it 
was burned in 1859. The Apollo was the room of the tavern used for 
balk, banquets, political and other gatherings. Few apartments have 
witaessed as many scenes of brilliant festivity and political e: 

through a fiery ordeal of frowns and comments, even through 
worse, perhaps more dreadful, trials. She had not dared that 
mommg, when her father told her he should expect her to keep 
her promise and accompany the young man after the theater 
to the ball — the poor girl had not dared to speak of her secret. 


or to resist Then she had promised — that was the terribk 
truth ; and so she had only entreated, and cried, and besought 
her father to have mercy on her ; and these entreaties, prayers, 
and sobs having had no effect, had yielded and gone into her 
bedchamber and, upon her knees, with Kate's little Bible open 
before her, asked the great heavenly Father to take care of her. 
All this splendid pageant — all this roar of cannon, blare of 
trumpets, rumbling thunder of the incessant drums. — could not 
make her heart any lighter ; her face was still dark. And the 
spectacle had as little effect upon the other personages of the 
narrative. Mr. Effingham, seated in his room, snuled scorn- 
fully as the music and the people's shouts came to him. He 
felt that all that noisy and joyous world was alien to him — 
cared nothing for him — was perfectly indifferent whether he 
suffered or was happy. He despised the empty fools in his heart, 
without reflecting that the jar and discord was not in the music 
and the voices but in himself. And this was the audience he 
would have to see him play Benedick 1 — these plebeian voices 
would have liberty to applaud or hiss him ! — the thought 
nearly opened his eyes to the true character of the step he was 
about to take. What was he about to do ? That night he was 
going to the palace of the Governor with an actress leaning on' 
his arm — there to defy the whole Colony of Virginia ; in effect 
to say to them, " Look ! you laugh at me — I show you that I 
scorn you ! " — then in a day or two his name would be pub- 
lished in a placard, " The part of Benedick, by Champ Effing- 
ham, Esq." — to be made the subject of satirical and insulting 
comment by the very boors and overseers. These two things 
he was about to do, and he drew back for a moment — for an 
instant hesitated. But suddenly the interview he had with 
Hamilton came back to him, and his lip was wreathed with his 
reckless sneer again. They would not permit him, forsooth I — 
his appearance at the ball with Miss Hallam would be regarded 


^ a general insult, and a dozen duels spring out of it ! — he 
Would do well to avoid the place! — to sneak, to skulk, to 
swallow all his fine promises and boasts! 

'' No 1 " he said aloud, with his teeth clenched ; "by heaven! 
I go there and I act ! I love her and I hate her more than 
ever, and, if necessary, will fight a hundred duels for her with 
these chivalric gentlemen ! " 

So the day passed, and evening drew on slowly, and the 
night came. Let us leave the bustling crowd hurrying toward 
the theater — leave the taverns overflowing with revelers — let 
us traverse Gloucester Street, and enter the grounds, through 
which a fine white graveled walk leads to the palace. On each 
side of this walk a row of linden trees are ornamented with 
variegated lanterns, and ere long these lanterns light up lovely 
figures of fair dames and gallant gentiemen, walking daintily 
from the carriage portal to the palace. Let us enter. Before 
us have passed many guests, and the large apartments, with 
their globe lamps and chandeliers, and portraits of the king and 
queen, and Chelsea figures, and red damask chairs, and numer- 
ous card tables, are already filling with the beauty and grace of 
that former brilliant and imposing society. 

See this group of lovely young girls, with powdered hair 
brushed back from their tender temples, and snowy necks and 
shoulders glittering with diamond necklaces; see the queer 
patches on their chins close by the dimples; see their large 
falling sleeves, and yellow lace, and bodices with their silken 
network; see their gowns, looped back from the satin under- 
skirt, ornamented with flowers in golden thread ; their trains 
and fans and high red-heeled shoes, and all their puffs and 
furbelows and flounces; see, above all, their gracious smiles, 
as they flirt their fans and dart their fatal glances at the mag- 
nificentiy clad gentlemen in huge ruffles and silk stockings, 
and long, broad-flapped waistcoats and embroidered coats, with 


sleeves turned back to the elbow and profusely laced ; see how 
they ogle, and speak with dainty softness under their breath, 
and sigh and smile, and ever continue playing on the hapless 
cavaliers the dangerous artillery of their brilliant eyes. 

Or see this group of young country gentlemen, followers of 
the fox, with their ruddy faces and laughing voices; their 
queues secured by plain black ribbon; their strong hands, 
accustomed to heavy buckskin riding gloves ; their talk of 
hunting, crops,, the breed of sheep and cattle, and the blood 
of horses. 

Or pause a moment near that group of dignified gentiemen, 
with dresses plain though rich, and lordly brows and dear 
bright eyes, strong enough to look upon the sun of royalty, 
and, undazzled, see the spots disfiguring it Hear them con- 
verse calmly, simply, like giants knowing their strength; ho« 
slow and clear and courteous their tones! how plain thei 
manners I 

Lastly, see the motley throng of the humbler planters, soin< 
of the tradesmen, factors as they were called, mingled with tb 
yeoman ; see their wives and daughters, fair and attractive, bu 
so wholly outshone by the little powdered damsels ; last of al 
though not least, see his bland Excellency Governor Fauquie 
gliding among the various groups and smiling on everybody. 

Let us endeavor to catch some of the words uttered b 
these various personages, now so long withdrawn from us i 
the far past — that silent, stem, inexorable past, which swallow 
up so many noble forms, and golden voices, and high deedi 
and which in turn will obliterate us and our littie or gres 
actions, as it has effaced — though Heaven be thanked, nc 
wholly I — what illustrated and adorned those times which w 
are now trying to depict And first let us listen to thi 
group of quiet, calm-looking men ; fame has spoken loudly € 
them all. 


"Your reverend opponent really got the better of you, I 
think, sir," says a quiet, plain, simple gentleman, with a fine 
face and eye. " The Twopenny- Act made out too clear a case, 
in mere point of law, to need the afterclap." 

"True, sir," his friend replies, smiling so pleasantly that 
Ws very name seemed to indicate his character, " but I would 
willingly be unhorsed again by the Reverend Mr. Camm, in a 
cause so good. Everything concerning Virginia, you know, is 
dear to me. I believe some of my f pends consider me demented 
on the subject — or at least call me the ' Virginia Antiquary.' " 

"I consider it a very worthy designation, sir; and in spite 
of my opinion that ' The Colonel's Dismounted ' is an appropri- 
ate title, — I cannot be otherwise than frank ever, — I am fully 
convinced that equity was with you. But here comes our noble 

As he speaks, a fall, fine-looking gentleman approaches, with 
an eagle eye, a statuesque head, inclined forward as though 
Kstening courteously, a smile upon his lips, his right hand cov- 
ered with a black bandage. 

''What news from Westmoreland, pray, seigneur of Chan- 
tiUy ? " asks the opponent of the Reverend Mr. Camm. ** Do 
^ey think of testing the Twopenny- Act by suits for damages ? " 

'' No, sir," says the newcomer, very courteously ; " I believe, 
however, that in Hanover County the Reverend Mr. Maury has 
brought suit against the collector." 

''Ah, then we shall get some information from our friend 
from Caroline! See, here he is. Good day, sir!" 

He who now approaches has the same calm, benignant ex- 
pression as the rest — an expression, indeed, which seems to 
have dwelt always on those serene noble faces of that period, so 
full of stirring events and strong natures. The face was not 
^like that which we fancy Joseph Addison's must have been ; 
^ quiet, serene smile, full of courtesy and sweetness, illuminated 


it, attracting people of all ages and conditions. When he speaki 
it is in the vox argentea of Cicero — a gentle stream of souni 
rippling in the sunlight. 

" What from Caroline, pray?" asks the dismounted Colonel ,' 
pressing the hand held out to him with great warmth. " I>o 
the clergy speak of bringing suit to recover damages at onc^, 
for the acts of '55 and '58?" 

'' I believe not," the gentleman from Caroline replies, coui.r- 
teously, in his soft voice ; \- but have you not heard the news 
from Hanover ? " 

** No, sir; pray let us hear — " 

'^ In the action brought by the Reverend Mr. Maury against 
the collector, a young man of that county has procured a tri- 
umphant verdict for the collector." 

" For the collector ? " 

" Yes ! " 

" Against the clergy ? " 

" Yes ! " 

^' You said a triumphant verdict ? " 

^^ One penny damages. " 

An expression of extreme delight diffuses itself over the 
face of the gentleman receiving this reply. 

** And what is the name of the young man who has worked 
this wonder ? " 

" Mr. Patrick Henry. " 

" I have no acquaintance with him. " 

" I think you will have, however, sir. His speech is said to 
have been something wonderful ; the people carried him on their 
shoulders, the parsons fled from the bench — I found the 
county, as I passed through, completely crazy with delight But 
what is that small volume, peeping from your pocket, sir?" 
adds the speaker, with a smile at the abstracted and delighted 
expression of his interlocutor. 


^* An Anacreon, from Glasgow, sir," says the other, almost 
forgetting his delight at the issue of the parsons' cause, as he 
t^es the book from his pocket and opens it. It is a small 
thin volume, with an embossed back, covered with odd gilt 
figures; and the Greek type is of great size, and very black 
and heavy. 

" Greek ? " says the gentleman from Caroline, smiling se- 
renely. "Ah, I fear it is Hebrew to me I I may say, how- 
ever, that from what I have heard, this young Mr. Henry 
is a fair match for a former orator of that language — 
Demosthenes ! " 

" Well, sir," says the Roman, " if he is Demosthenes, yonder 
is our valiant Alexander I " 

" Who is he ? " 

" Is that fine face not familiar ? " 

'' Ah, Col. Washington ! I know him but slightly ; yet, as- 
suredly, his countenance gives promise of a noble nature ; he has 
certainly already done great service to the government, and I 
wonder his Majesty has not promoted him. His promotion 
will, however, await further services, I fancy." 

'' Ah, gentlemen, you are welcome 1 " says a courteous voice ; 
" Mr. Wythe, Colonel Bland, Mr. Lee, Mr. Pendleton, I rejoice 
to see you all : welcome, welcome ! " And his Excellency Gov- 
ernor Fauquier, with courtly urbanity, presses the hands of his 

'* You will find card tables in the next room, should you fancy 
joining in the fascinating amusements of tictac and spadille," he 
adds, blandly smiling as he passes on. 

The next group which we approach is quite large, and all talk 
at once, with hearty laughter and rough frankness; and this 
talk concerns itself with plantation matters — the blood of 
horses, breeds of cattle, and the chase. Let us listen, even if 
in the uproar we can catch nothing very connected, and at th 


risk of finding ourselves puzzled by the jumble of questions 
and replies. 

" The three-field system, I think, sir, has the advantage over 
all others of — " 

" Oh, excellent, sir 1 I never saw a finer leaf, and when we 
cut it — " 

** Suddenly the blood rushed over his frill, and we found he 
had broken his collar bone ! " 

" The finest pack, I think, in all Prince George — " 

" By George 1 — " 

" He 's a fine fellow, and has, I think, cause to congratulate him- 
self on his luck. His wife is the loveliest girl I ever saw, and — " 

** Trots like lightning ! " 

" Well, well, nothing astonishes me I The world must be 
coming to an end — " 

On Monday forenoon — " 
On the night before — " 

** They say the races near Jamestown will be more crowded 
this year than ever. I announced — " 

" The devil 1 — " 

" Good evening, sir ; I hope your mare will be in good con- 
dition for the race — " 

" To destruction, sir — I tell you such a black act would ruin 
the ministry — even Granville — " 

" Loves his pipe — " 

" The races — " 

'' Hedges — " 

^^ Distanced — " 

" I know his pedigree ; you are mistaken — by Sir Archy, 
dam — " 

" The odds ? I close with you. Indeed, I think I could 
afford — " 

" Ah, gentlemen ! " a courteous voice interposes, amid the 


uproar, " talking of races ? Mr. Hampton, Mr. Lane, welcome 
to my poor house I You will find card tables in the adjoining 
room." And his bland Excellency passes on. 

Space fails us or we might set down for the reader's amuse- 
ment some of the quiet and pleasant talk of the well-to-do 
factors and humbler planters and their beautiful wives and 
daughters. We must pass on ; but let us pause a moment yet 
to hear what this group of magnificently dressed young dames 
and their gay gallants are saying. 

" Really, Mr. Alston, your compliments surpass any which 
I have received for a very long time," says a fascinating littie 
beauty, in a multiplicity of furbelows and with a small snow- 
storm on her head, — flirting her fan, all covered with Corydons 
and Chloes, as she speaks ; " what verses did you allude to, 
when you said that * Laura was the very image of myself ' ? 
I am dying with curiosity to know 1 " 

"Those written by our new poet yonder; have you not 
heard them ? " 

" No, sir, upon my word ! But the author is — " 

"The Earl of Dorset, yonder." 

"The Earl of Dorset 1 " 

" Ah, charming Miss Laura ! permit the muse to decorate 
herself with a coronet, and promenade, in powdered wig and 
niffles, without questioning her pedigree." 

A little laugh greets these»/<?A*/ maitre words. 

"Well, sir, the verses," says Laura, with a fatal glance. 

The gallant bows low, and draws from his pocket a man- 
uscript, secured with blue ribbon and elegantly written in the 
round, honest-looking characters of the day. 

" Here it is," he says. 

And all the beautiful girls who have listened to the colloquy 
©ather around the reader, to drink in the fascinating rimes 
of the muse, in an earl's coronet and powder. 


" First comes the prologue, as I may say," the reader cc 
mences ; " it is an address to his pen : 

Wilt thou, adventurous pen, describe 
The gay, delightful silken tribe, 

That maddens all our dty ; 
Nor dread lest while you foolish claim 
A near approach to beauty's flame, 

Icarus' fate may hit ye ! " 

The speaker pauses, and a great fluttering of fans ensu 
with many admiring comments on the magnificent simile 

The reader continues, daintily arranging his snowy fr 
" Mark the fate of the bard," he says, and reads : 

" With singM pinions tumbling down. 
The scorn and laughter of the town. 

Thou 'It rue thy daring flight. 
While every Miss, with cool contempt. 
Affronted by the bold attempt. 

Will, tittering, view thy plight." 

"Tittering — observe the expressive phrase," says the read< 

They all cry out at this. 

" Tittering ! " 

'' Ladies do not titter 1 " 

" Really ! " 

" Tittering ! " 

The serene reader raises his hand, and, adjusting his wig, sa; 

" Mere poetic license, ladies ; merely imagination ; not fa 
True, very true ! ladies never fitter — an abominable impu 
tion. But, listen." 

And he continues : 

" Myrtilla's beauties who can paint. 
The well-turned form, the glowing teint, 
May deck a common creature ; 


But who can make th* expressive soul, 
With lively sense inform the whole, 
And light up every feature ? " 

A bad rime * taint,' and a somewhat aristcxratic allusion to 
common creatures,' " says the reader. 

" Oh, it is beautiful I " says a pretty little damsel, enthusi- 

'I am glad you like your portrait, my dear madam," says the 
gallant, " I assure you that Myrtilla was designed for you." 

"Oh I" murmurs Myrtilla, covering her face with her fan. . . . 

Some more verses are read, and they are received with a 
variety of comment. 

" Listen now, to the last," says the engaging reader. 

" With pensive look and head reclined. 
Sweet emblem of the purest mind, 

Lo ! where Cordelia sits ! 
On Dion's image dwells the fair — 
Dion, the thunderbolt of war — 

The prince of modem wits ! 

" At length fatigued with beauty's blaze. 
The feeble muse no more essays, 

Her picture to complete. 
The promised charms of younger girls, 
When nature the gay scene unfurls, 

Some happier bard shall treat ! " 

There is a silence for some moments after these words — 
^e manuscript having passed from the gallant's hands to 
Mother group. 

"Who is Cordelia? let me think," says Laura, knitting her 
brows, and raising to her lips a fairy hand covered with dia- 
monds, absently. 


*" And Dion — who can he be ? " says Isadora, twisting her 
sadn sleeve between her fingers abstractedh*. 

It IS : — no. II IS not ! 

■ ■ I know, now ! — but that don t suit I " 

" Pemir me xo end \-our perplexity*, ladies," says the 
oracle, " Cordelia is Miss Clare Lee, and Dion is Mr. Champ 
Erfingham ! " 

A general exclamation of surprise from all the ladies. 
They say: 

"It suits him. possibly, but — " 

" He may be the prince of wits ; still it does not follow — ** 

" Certainly not, that — " 

" Clare is not such a litde saint ! " 

"Let me defend her," sa\-s a gendeman, smiling; "I 
grant you that 'tis extravagant to call Mr. Elffingham a 
thunderbolt — " 

" Laughable." 

" Amusing." say the gendemen. 

" Or the prince of modem wits," continues the counsel foi 
the defense. 

Preposterous ! " 
Unjust ! " they add. 

But I must be permitted to say," goes on the chivalric 
defender of the absent, "that Miss Clare Lee fully deserves 
her character; the comparison of that lovely girl, ladies, tc 
Cordelia — Cordelia, the sweetest of all Shakespeare's char 
acters — seems to me nothing more than justice." 

The gentlemen greet this with enthusiastic applause, for oiu 
little, long-lost-sight of heroine had subdued all hearts. 

" As regards Mr. Effingham," adds Clare's knight, " I shal 
be pardoned for not saying anything, since he is not present" 

" Then I will say something," here interposes a small gentlfr 
man, with a waistcoat reaching to his knees and profusely 


^aced, like all the rest of his clothes, — indeed, the richness 
of his costume was distressing, — "but I will say, sir, that 
Mr. Effingham's treatment of that divine creature, Miss Clare 
Lee, is shameful." 

" How ? " ask the ladies, agitating their fans and scenting a 
delicious bit of scandal. 

"Why," says the gentleman in the long waistcoat, squaring 
himself, so to speak, and gready delighted at the sudden acces- 
sion to his importance — the general opinion being that he was 
somewhat insignificant, " why, ladies, he has been running after 
that Httle jade, Miss HaUam 1 " 

"Miss Hallaml" cry the ladies, in virtuous ignorance, though 
nothing was more notorious than the goings-on of our friend 
Mr. Effingham, " Miss HaUam I " 
" Precisely, ladies." 
" The actress ? " 
" Yes." 

" A playing girl 1 " exclaims a lady, of say thirty, and cover- 
ing her face as she spoke. 
"FalUng in love with her!" 
" Possible ? " 

" Have n't you heard all about it ? " 
This home question causes a flutter and a silence. 
"I'll tell you, then," continues the gendeman in the long 
waistcoat, " I '11 tell you all about the doings of * Dion, the 
thunderbolt of war, and prince of modern wits.' He^ the thun- 
derbolt of war? — preposterous! He, the prince of wits? — 
ludicrous! He may be the king of coxcombs, the coryphaeus 
of dandies — but that is all." 

The gentlemen standing around listen to these words with 
some amusement and more disgust. It is plain that some secret 
spite actuates the gentleman in the long waistcoat. 
" Well, let us hear Mr. Effingham's crimes," says Laura, 


** By all means," adds Isadora. 

" Of course," says Myrtilla. 

" He has been making himself ridiculous about that actress 
continues the chronicler, " and, I have even heard, designs 
marry her." 

The ladies make a movement to express surprise and indi, 
nation but, after a moment's reflection, suppress this somewh; 
ambiguous exhibition of their feelings. 

" He 's been at the Raleigh Tavern, making love to her f( 
a month," continues the narrator. 

" At the tavern > " 

** Yes, in town here." 

" Did anyone ever ! " says the lady of uncertain age. 

" Never 1 never ! " chime in the virtuous little damsels, sha 
ing their heads solemnly. 

" He has left his family," the gendeman in the long waista 
goes on, indignantly, *^ and they are dying of grief." 

'' Oh, can it be ! " 

" Certainly, madam. Why are they not here to-night ? " 

" Very true." 

" Why is Clare Lee, the victim of his insincerity, awj 
pray tell me f They are not here — they are not comii 

At the same moment, the usher announces the squi 
Miss Alethea, and Miss Clare Lee — Master Willie and Kj 
being too small to be seen, which the squire had warned th< 
of. The squire is as bluff as ever, and makes his salutation 
his Excellency with great cordiality — Clare is pale and abse 
presenting thus a singular contrast to Henrietta, who ent< 
a moment afterwards, brilliant, imposing, and smiling, like 
queen receiving the homage of the nobility around her throi 
She sweeps on, leaning on the arm of honest Jack Hamilt< 
and the party are swallowed in the crowd. 


Let us return to the group, whose conversation the new 
anivals had interrupted. 

"Well, I was mistaken," says the gentleman in the bng 
waistcoat, "but anyone may see that Clare Lee is dying 
slowly 1 " 

At which affecting observation the young ladies sigh and 
shake their heads. 

" And just think what that man has thrown this divine crea- 
ture away for," continues the censor tnorum : " for a common 
actress! — an ordinary playing girl, tolerably pretty she may 
be, but vastly overrated — a mere thing of stage paint and 
pearl powder, strutting through her parts and ranting like an 
Amazon ! " 
" I think her quite pretty," says Laura, " but it is too bad." 
" Dreadful I " 
" Awful I " 
" Horrible I " 
" Shocking 1 " 

These are some of the comments on Mr. Effingham's con- 
duct, from the elegant little dames. 

" He is ashamed to show himself anywhere," continues the 
gentleman in the long waistcoat, " and only yesterday met me 
on the street and, in passing, turned away his head, plainly 
afraid that I would not speak in return had he addressed 

At which words the gentlemen are observed to smile — 
knowing as they do something of Mr. Champ Effingham's 
personal character and habits. 

" He actually was afraid to look at me," says the censor, 
"and I am told keeps his room all day or passes his time 
in the society of that Circe, yes, that siren who is only too 
fond of him, I am afraid — and I predict will make hun marry 
her at last." 



The ladies sigh and agitate their fans with diamond-spaikling 
hands. They feel themselves very far above this shamdess 
creature attempting to catch — as we now say — Mr. Effingham. 
They pity her, for such a thing never has occurred to them— 
no gentleman has ever been attractive enough for them to have 
designs upon his heart. And so they pity and despise Beatrice 
for wishing to run away with her admirer. 

** He is heartily ashamed of his infatuation, and I saW 
him last night in the theater, positively afraid to look at the 
audience — but staring all the time at her," continues tbc 
small gentleman. 

" But that is easy to understand, as he is in love," sayS 
Myrtilla, with a strong inclination to take the part of the 
reprobate against his enemy. 

** No, no, madam," exclaims the censor, '* he was rcaXtf 
ashamed to look at the people, and took not the least notice 
of their frowns : he does not visit anywhere ; he knows he 
would not be received — he is afraid to show his face." 

It seemed that the gentleman in the long waistcoat was 
doomed to have all his prophecies falsified; for at that moment, 
the usher announced in a loud voice, which attracted the atten- 
tion of the whole company : 

'' Mr. Effingham and Miss Hallam I " 

Mr. Effingham entered under the full light of the central 
chandelier, with Beatrice on his arm. He carried his head 
proudly erect, his eye was clear and steady, his lip calm and 
only slightly sarcastic ; his whole carriage displayed perfect and 
unaffected self-possession. The thousand eyes bent on him 
vainly sought in his eyes, or lips, anything going to show that 
he felt conscious of the dreadful, the awful, social enormity 
which he was committing. 

Mr. Effingham was dressed with extraordinary richness. He 
was always elegant in his costume; on that night he was 


splendid. His coat of rich cut velvet was covered with em- 
broidery and sparkled with a myriad of chased-gold buttons; 
his lace ruffles at breast and wrist were point-de-Venise, his 
fingers were brilliant with rings, and his powdered hair waved 
from his clear, pale temples like a stream of silver dust He 
looked like a courtier of the days of Louis XIV, dressed for 
a royal reception. 

And how did Beatrice compare with this brilliant star of 
fashion — this thunderbolt of war and prince of modem wits, 
as the muse in powdered hair and ruffles had characterized 
him? Poor Beatrice was quite eclipsed by her cavalier. Her 
simple, unassuming dress of pearl color, looped back with plain 
ribbon and without a single flower or any ornament whatever, 
looked strangely out of place thrown in contrast with tjie bril- 
liant silks and velvets and gold buttons and diamonds of her 
companion; her modest, tender face and drooping head, with 
its unpretending coiffure, looked quite insignificant beside the 
bold, defiant countenance of Mr. Effingham, which returned 
look for look and gaze for gaze, with an insulting nonchalance 
and easy hauteur. We know how reluctantly Beatrice had come 
thither — rather how bitter a trial it was to her — and we may 
understand why she looked pale and troubled and — spite of the 
fact that she had just encountered the gaze of a curious and 
laughing audience without any emotion — now felt her spirit 
die within her. It was not because she shrunk from comment 
half so much as from the fact that each moment she expected 
to see opposite to her the cold, pale face and sick, reproachful 
eyes of Clare Lee — of Clare, who had thrown aside the preju- 
dices of class, even forgot the jealousy of a wronged and 
wretched rival, to press in her arms the rival who had made 


all her woe, and that rival a common actress. It was the dread 
of her eye which made poor Beatrice tremble — this alone 
made her lip quiver and her brow droop. 


His excellency Governor Fauquier came forward to welcon; 
his guests, but started at the sight of Beatrice, and almo: 
uttered an exclamation. For a moment he was staggere 
and said nothing. This soon passed, however, and by the tin 
Mr. Effingham had accomplished his easy bow, the Governor ws 
himself again and, like the elegant gendeman he was, mac 
a low inclination before Beatrice. Then he made a pleasai 
allusion to the weather — that much-abused subject, which ha 
extricated so many perishing conversations — and so, smilin, 
agreeably, passed on. 

Mr. Effingham advanced through the opening, on each sid 
of which extended a row of brilliant forms, sparkling with lac 
and jewels, without any apparent consciousness that he and hi 
companion were the observed of all observers — without bein 
conscious, one would have said, of those murmured comment 
which greeted on every side the strange and novel scene. Hi 
manner to Beatrice, as he bent down to speak to her, was fu 
of respectful and chivalric feeling; his eye was soft, his li 
smiling; the highest lady of the land might well have felt a 
emotion of pleasure in so elegant and noble an exhibition c 
regard. And this was not affected by Mr. Effingham. By n 
means. We have failed to convey a truthful impression of thi 
young gentleman's character if the reader has not, before thi 
time, perceived that with all his woeful faults and failing 
Mr. Champ Effingham had much in his character of the bold gei 
tleman — the ancient knight. With those thousand satirical c 
scornful eyes bent on her, Beatrice was dearer to him than sh 
had ever been before. Those elegant ladies and gallant gentl< 
men were saying with disdain, " a common actress I " Well, h 
would espouse the cause of that girl they scorned against ther 
all and treat her like a queen ! Never had she had more con 
plete possession of his heart ; never had his heart thrilled a 
deliciously at the contact of her hand, resting upon his arm. 


As we have said, all drew back from the newcomers, and 
they entered through an open space, like a king leading in his 
queen. Mr. Effingham looked round with a cool and easy 
smile, and led the young girl to a seat near some elderly 
dowagers in turbans and diamonds, who had enthroned them- 
selves in state to watch their daughters and see that those 
inexperienced creatures did not give too much encouragement 
to ineligible personages. As Beatrice sank into one of the red 
damask chairs, the surrounding chairs suddenly retreated on 
their rollers, and the turbans agitated themselves indignantly. 
Mr. Effingham smiled, with his easy, mocking expression, and 
observing that one of the diamond-decorated dowagers had 
dropped her fan, picked it up and presented it to her with a 
bow. The indignant lady turned away her head with a frown. 
" Ah," said Mr. Effingham, politely, " I was mistaken." 
And fanning himself for a moment negligently, he placed the 
richly feathered instrument in the hand of Beatrice. 

" My fan, if you please, sir," said the owner, suddenly 
flushing with indignant fire. 

"Your fan, madam?" asked Mr. Effingham, with polite 

" Yes, sir I you picked it up, sir ! " 

" A • thousand pardons ! " returned the young gendeman, 
with a courteous smile ; " did I } " 

" Yes, sir I that is it, sir I In the hands of that — ." 
" Oh, I understand," returned Mr. Effingham ; and with 
a low inclination to Beatrice, he said, holding out his hand, 
" Will you permit me ? " 

The fan was restored by the young girl, just as she had 
taken it — unconsciously, and the dowager received it with 
the tips of her fingers, as if it had been contaminated. At the 
same moment the band struck up a minuet, and two couples 
began to dance. . . . 


" Come 1 " said he to Beatrice ; and taking her hand, he 
raised her, and led her forward. 

^ " Not so fast," he said, with a gesture of his hand, to the 
musicians ; " I cannot dance a minuet to a gavotte tune." 

And he entered into the broad, open space with Beatrice the 
mark of a thousand eyes. . . . 

The entrance of Mr. Effingham into the open space, to 
dance the second minuet of the evening, had caused an awful 
sensation. As he glided through the stately dance to the slow- 
rolling music, bowing profoundly, with his tender, lordly smile, 
touching the young girl's hand with chivalric respect, pressing 
his cocked hat to his heart at each inclination of his handsome 
and brilliant head, all eyes had been bent upon him, all tongues 
busy with him. And these eyes and tongues had taken equal 
note of Beatrice. The young girl moved through the old stately 
dance with that exquisite grace and ease with which she per- 
formed every evolution, and her tender, agitated face, as we 
have seen, tempered the wrath of many an indignant damsel 
After the first burst of surprise and anger, the gentlemen too 
began to take the part — as Virginia gentlemen always have 
done and always will do — of the lonely girl environed by so 
many hostile eyes and slighting comments. They forgot the 
prepossessions of rank, the prejudices of class — no longer 
remembered that the young actress occupied upon the floor 
a position to which she was not entitled ; they only saw a 
woman who had all the rest against her, and their sym- 
pathy was nearly powerful enough to make them lose sight 
of Mr. Effingham's defiance. 

A murmur rose as the music stopped, and he led her to a 
seat; and then a species of undulation in the crowd, near the 
entrance into the next room, attracted attention. Mr. Effingham 
had his back turned, however, and did not observe this incident 
He was talking to Beatrice in a low tone. 


" You see," he said, with his cabn, nonchalant voice — " you 
see, Beatrice, that this superb society, which you fancied you 
would find yourself so much out of place in, is not so very 
extraordinary after all. I think that I hazard nothing in saying 
that the second minuet was better than the first ; you are, in- 
deed, far more beautiful than that little dame whose ancestors, 
I believe, came over with the conqueror — Captain Smith." 

And his cynical smile grew soft as he gazed on the tender, 
anxious face. 

" It was not so dreadful an ordeal," he added, ** though I 
must say we were the subject of much curiosity. I observed 
a group criticizing me, which pleased me. There was a fiery 
young gentleman in a long waistcoat, whom I offended by not 
returning his bow some months since — and I believe he was 
the orator of the occasion." 
With which words, Mr. Effingham's lip curled. 
" See I the very same group — everybody, in fact, is gazing 
at us. Let them ! you are lovelier than them all." 

And Mr. Effingham raised his head proudly and looked 
around like an emperor. But Beatrice felt her heart die within 
her. That minuet had exhausted her strength ; each moment 
she expected to see the pale cold face of Clare looking at her. 
Mr. Effingham observed how faint she was, and leaning over 
took a smelling bottle from the hand of the old dowager who 
had dropped the fan — bowing and smiling. 

He presented it to Beatrice, but she put it away with the 
back of her hand, whereupon Mr. Effingham, with a second 
bow, restored it to the dowager, who, aghast at his impudence, 
beaten by his superior coolness, and overwhelmed with rage, 
took it without knowing what she did. Mr. Effingham there- 
upon turned, smiling, to Beatrice again : 

" There seems to be something going on yonder," he said, 
leaning on her chair, and directing the young girl's attention 


to the flashing waves of the crowd, which .moved to and fro 
like foaming billows, in the light of the brilliant chandeliers. 
Beatrice felt an indefinable and vague fear take possession of 
her heart. At the same moment. Master Willie came pushing 
and elbowing through the crowd. 

" Cousin Clare is sick I " he said ; " you 'd better go and see 
her, brother Champ. She liked to fainted just now 1 " 

Beatrice understood all. 

" Oh, sir I let me go ! " she cried, " go out with me 1 I shall 
die here 1 — oh, I cannot — that dance nearly killed me — and 
now I — Oh, sir, have pity, give me your arm 1 " 

And rising with a hurried movement, she placed her hand on 
Mr. Effingham's arm. That gentleman smiled bitterly. 

"Yes," he said, "this is the tragedy after the comedy 1 I 
understand this fainting." 

" Oh, sir, have pity — I must go I " cried Beatrice, " I will 
go alone I " 

Mr. Effingham held her back and hesitated. At last he said, 

" Well, madam — as you please — I have had a pleasant 
minuet — I will go." 

And with the same cold, defiant ease, he led the young girl 
across the room and issued forth into the open air. 

[When Effingham is subsequently rejected most positively by 
Beatrice Hallam, he becomes desperate and tries to kidnap her. 
While he is carrying her away in a sailboat down the James 
River, Charles Waters rescues her, and she eventualty becomes 
his wife.^] 

1 Since Book II of "The Virginia Comedians" carries on virtually an inde- 
pendent story, it has not been deemed necessary to extend the mmunaiy to 
include these further incidents. 



[Augustus Baldwin Longstreet was bom in Augusta, Georgia, in 
1 790. He graduated at Yale in 1 8 1 3 and practiced law in Georgia, 
becoming a district judge in 1822. In addition to the practice of 
law, he did editorial work in Augusta, where he established the 
Sentinel, In 1838 he became a Methodist minister, and was there- 
after largely connected with educational institutions, being in turn 
president of Emory College, Georgia, of Centenary College, Louisiana, 
of the University of Mississippi, and of South Carolina College. 
He died in Oxford, Mississippi, in 1870. His fame as a writer rests 
upon a single book, " Georgia Scenes," consisting of realistic 
sketches of Georgia country life, written originally as contributions 
to newspapers and later gathered into book form.] 


During the session of the Supreme Court, in the village of 
, about three weeks ago, when a number of people were 

collected in the principal street of the village, I observed a 
young man riding up and down the street, as I supposed, in a 
violent passion. He galloped this way, then that, and then the 
other; spurred his horse to one group of citizens, then to 
another; then dashed off at half speed, as if fleeing from 
danger; and, suddenly checking his horse, returned first in a 
pace, then in a trot, and then in a canter. While he was per- 
forming these various evolutions, he cursed, swore, whooped, 
screamed, and tossed himself in every attitude which man could 
assume on horseback. In short, he cavorted most magnanimously 



(a tenn which, in our tongue, expresses all that I hgve described, 
and a little more), and seemed to be setting all creation at 
defiance. As I like to see all that is passing, I determined to 
take a position a little nearer to him, and to ascertain, if possible, 
what it was that alTected him so sensibly. Accordingly, I 
approached a crowd before which he had stopped for a 


Reproduction of one of the original illustrations of " Georgia Scenes" 

and examined it with the strictest scrutiny. But I could see 
nothing in it that seemed to have anything to do with the 
cavorter. Every man appeared to be in good humor, and all 
minding their own business. Not one so much as noticed the 
principal figure. Still he werit on. After a semicolon pause, 
which my appearance seemed to produce (for be eyed me 
closely as I approached), he fetched a whoop and swore that he 


could outswap any live man, woman, or child that ever walked 
these hills, or that ever straddled horseflesh since the days of 
old daddy Adam. " Stranger," said he to me, *^ did you ever 
see the Yallow Blossom from Jasper ? " 
" No," said I, *^ but I have often heard of him." 
" I'm the boy," continued he ; " perhaps a leetle^ jist a leetle^ 
of the best man at a horse swap that ever trod shoe leather." 

I began to feel my situation a little awkward, when I was 
relieved by a man somewhat advanced in years, who stepped 
up and began to survey the Yallow Blossom's horse with much 


apparent interest. This drew the rider's attention, and he 
turned the conversation from me to the stranger. 

" Well, my old coon," said he, " do you want to swap 
hosses ? " 

"Why, I don't know," replied the stranger; " I believe I've 
got a beast I 'd trade with you for that one, if you like him." 

" Well, fetch up your nag, my old cock ; you 're jist the lark 
I wanted to get hold of. I am perhaps a /eef/e, jist a leef/e, of 
the best man at a horse swap that ever stole cracklins out of his 
mammy's fat gourd. Where 's your hoss ? " 

" I '11 bring him presently, but I want to examine your horse 
a Httle." 

" Oh ! look at him," said the Blossom, alighting and hitting 
him a cut; "look at him. He's the best piece of Aoss^esh in 
the thirteen united univarsal worlds. There 's no sort o' mistake 
in little Bullet. He can pick up miles on his feet and fling 'em 
behind him as fast as the next man's /loss^ I don't care where 
he comes from. And he can keep at it as long as the sun can 
shine without resting." 

During this harangue little Bullet looked as if he understood 
it all, believed it, and was ready at any moment to verify it He 
was a horse of goodly countenance, rather expressive of vigi- 
lance than fire, though an unnatural appearance of fiercent 


was thrown into it by the loss of his ears, which had been 
cropped pretty close to his head. Nature had done but litde 
for Bullet's head and neck, but he managed, in a great measure, 
to hide their defects by bowing perpetually. He had obviously 
suffered severely for com, but if his ribs and hip bones had not 
disclosed the fact, he never would have done it, for he was in 
all respects as cheerful and happy as if he commanded all the 
com cribs and fodder stacks in Georgia. His height was about 
twelve hands, but as his shape partook somewhat of that of 
the giraffe, his haunches stood much lower. They were short, 
straight, peaked, and concave. Bullet's tail, however, made 
amends for all his defects. All that the artist could do to 
beautify it had been done, and all that horse could do to com- 
pliment the artist. Bullet did. His tail was nicked in superior 
style and exhibited the line of beauty in so many directions 
that it could not fail to hit the most fastidious taste in some of 
them. From the root it, drooped into a graceful festoon, then 
rose in a handsome curve, then resumed its first direction, and 
then mounted suddenly upward like a cypress knee to a per- 
pendicular of about two and a half inches. The whole had a 
careless and bewitching inclination to the right. Bullet obviously 
knew where his beauty lay and took all occasions to display it 
to the best advantage. If a stick cracked, or if anyone moved 
suddenly about him, or coughed, or hawked, or spoke a little 
louder than common, up went Bullet's tail like lightning, and if 
the going up did not please, the coming down must of necesaty, 
for it was as different from the other movement as was its 
direction. The first was a bold and rapid flight upward, usually 
to an angle of forty-five degrees. In this position he kept his 
interesting appendage until he satisfied himself that nothing in 
particular was to be done, when he commenced dropping it by 
half inches, in second beats, then in triple time, then faster and 
shorter, and faster and shorter still, until it finally died away 


imperceptibly into its natural position. If I might compare 
sights to sounds I should say its settling was more like the note 
of a locust than anything else in nature. 

Either from native sprightliness of disposition, from uncon- 
trollable activity, or from an unconquerable habit of removing 
flies by the stamping of the feet, Bullet never stood still, but 
always kept up a gentle fly-scaring movement of his limbs, 
which was peculiarly interesting. 

" I tell you, man," proceeded the Yellow Blossom, " he 's 
the best live boss that ever trod the grit of Georgia. Bob 
Smart knows the boss. Come here, Bob, and mount this boss, 
and show Bullet's motions." Here BuUet bristled up, and 
looked as if he had been hunting for Bob all day long and 
had just found him. Bob sprang on his back. " Boo-00-00 1 " 
said Bob, with a fluttering noise of the lips; and away went 
Bullet, as if in a quarter race, with all his beauties spread in 
handsome style. 

" Now fetch him back," said Blossom. Bullet turned and 
came in pretty much as he went out. 

" Now trot him by." Bullet reduced his tail to *^ customary," 
sidled to the right and left airily, and exhibited at least three 
varieties of trot in the short space of fifty yards. 

" Make him pace 1 " Bob commenced twitching the bridle 
and kicking at the same time. These inconsistent movements 
obviously (and most naturally) disconcerted Bullet ; for it was 
impossible for him to learn, from them, whether he was to 
proceed or stand still. He started to trot and was told that 
wouldn't do. He attempted a canter and was checked again. 
He stopped and was urged to go on. Bullet now rushed into 
the wild field of experiment and struck out a gait of his own 
that completely turned the tables upon his rider and certainly 
deserved a patent It seemed to have derived its elements 
from the jigf the minuet, and the cotillon. If it was not a pace, 


it certainly had pace in it, and no man could venture to call it 
anything else ; so it passed ofif to the satisfaction of the owner. 

" Walk him ! " Bullet was now at home again, and he walked 
as if money was staked on him. 

The stranger, whose name, I afterwards learned, was Peter 
Ketch, having examined Bullet to his heart's content, ordered 
his son Neddy to go and bring up Kit. Neddy soon appeared 
upon Kit, a well-formed sorrel of the middle size and in good 
order. His tout ensemble threw Bullet entirely in the shade, 
though a glance was sufficient to satisfy anyone that Bullet 
had decided advantage of him in point of intellect 

"Why, man," said Blossom, "do you bring such a boss 
as that to trade for Bullet? Oh, I see you're no notion of 

" Ride him off, Neddy I " said Peter. Kit put off at a hand- 
some lope. 

" Trot him back I " Kit came in at a long sweeping trot, 
and stopped suddenly at the crowd. 

"Well," said Blossom, "let me look at him; maybe hell 
do to plow." 

" Examine him I " said Peter, taking hold of the bridle dose 
to the mouth, " he 's nothing but a tacky. He ain't as pretty a 
horse as Bullet, I know, but he'll do. Start 'em together for 
a hundred and fifty mile\ and if Kit an't twenty mile ahead 
of him at the coming out, any man may take Kit for nothing. 
But he's a monstrous mean horse, gentlemen, any man may 
see that He's the scariest horse, too, you ever saw. He 
won't do to hunt on, nohow. Stranger, will you let Neddy 
have your rifle to shoot off him t Lay the rifle between his 
ears, Neddy, and shoot at the blaze in that stump. Tell me 
when his head is high enough." 

Ned fired and hit the blaze, and Kit did not move a hair*s 


" Neddy, take a couple of sticks and beat on that hogshead 
at Kit's tail." 

Ned made a tremendous rattling, at which Bullet took fright, 
broke his bridle, and dashed off in grand style, and would have 
stopped all farther negotiations by going home in disgust had 
not a traveler arrested him and brought him back; but Kit 
did not move. 

" I tell you, gentlemen," continued Peter, " he's the scariest 
horse you ever saw. He an't as gentle as Bullet, but he won't 
do any harm if you watch him. Shall I put him in a cart, gig, 
or wagon for you, stranger ? He '11 cut the same capers there 
he does here. He's a monstrous mean horse." 

During all this time Blossom was examining him with the 
nicest scrutiny. Having examined his frame and limbs, he 
now looked at his eyes. 
" He's got a curious look out of his eyes," said Blossom. 
" Oh, yes, sir," said Peter, " just as blind as a bat. Blind 
horses always have clear eyes. Make a motion at his eyes, if 
you please, sir." 

Blossom did so, and Kit threw up his head rather as if 
something pricked him under the chin than as if fearing a 
blow. Blossom repeated the experiment, and Kit jerked back 
in considerable astonishment. 

" Stone blind, you see, gentlemen," proceeded Peter ; " but 
he's just as good to travel of a dark night as if he had 
" Blame my buttons," said Blossom, ^^ if I like them eyes." 
" No," said Peter, *' nor I neither. I 'd rather have 'em 
made of diamonds ; but they '11 do, if they don't show as much 
white as Bullet's." 
" Well," said Blossom, " make a pass at me." 
" No," said Peter ; " you made the banter, now make your 


" Well, I'm never afraid to price my bosses. You must give 
me twenty-five dollars boot." 

" Oh, certainly ; say fifty, and my saddle and bridle in. 
Here, Neddy, my son, take away daddy's horse." 

" Well," said Blossom, " I 've- made my pass, now you 
make yours." 

" I'm for short talk in a horse swap and therefore always 
tell a gentleman at once what I mean to do. You must give 
me ten dollars." 

Blossom swore absolutely, .roundly, and profanely that he 
never would give boot. 

"Well," said Peter, "I didn't care about trading, but you 
cut such high shines that I thought I'd like to back you out, 
and I've done it. Gentlemen, you see I've brought him to 
a hack." 

" Come, old man," said Blossom, " I 've been joking with 
you. I begin to think you do want to trade, therefore give mc 
five dollars and take Bullet I'd rather lose ten dollars any 
time than not make a trade, though I hate to fling away a 
good boss." 

" Well," said Peter, " I '11 be as clever as you are ; just put 
the five dollars on Bullet's back and hand him over, it's a 

Blossom swore again, as roundly as before, that he woukl 
not give boot ; and, said he, " Bullet wouldn't hold five dollars 
on his back, nohow. But as I bantered you, if you say an 
even swap, here's at you." 

** I told you," said Peter, " I'd be as clever as you, there- 
fore here goes two dollars more, just for trade sake. Give mc 
three dollars and it's a bargain." 

Blossom repeated his former assertion ; and here the parties 
stood for a long time, and the bystanders (for many were 
now collected) began to taunt both parties. After some time, 


however, it was pretty unanimously decided that the old man 
had backed Blossom out 

At length Blossom swore he " never would be backed out 
for three dollars after bantering a man," and accordingly they 
closed the trade. 

" Now," said Blossom, as he handed Peter the three dollars, 
" Pm a man that when he makes a bad trade, makes the most 
of it until he can make a better. I'm for no rues and after 

" That 's just my way," said Peter ; " I never goes to law to 
mend my bargains." 

" Ah, you 're the kind of boy I love to trade with. Here 's 
your boss, old man. Take the saddle and bridle off him, and 
111 strip yours ; but lift up the blanket easy from Bullet's back, 
for he's a mighty tender-backed boss." 

The old man removed the saddle, but the blanket stuck fast. 
He attempted to raise it, and Bullet bowed himself, switched 
his tail, danced a little, and gave signs of biting. 

" Don't hurt him, old man," said Blossom, archly ; " take it 
off easy. I am, perhaps, a leetle of the best man at a horse 
swap that ever catched a coon." 

Peter continued to pull at the blanket more and more roughly, 
and Bullet became more and more cavortish^ insomuch that 
when the blanket came off he had reached the kicking point in 
good earnest. 

The removal of the blanket disclosed a sore on Bullet's back- 
bone that seemed to have defied all medical skill. It measured 
six full inches in length and four in breadth and had as many 
features as Bullet had motions. My heart sickened at the sight, 
and I felt that the brute who had been riding him in that 
situation deserved the halter. 

The prevailing feeling, however, was that of mirth. The 
laugh became loud and general at the old man's expense, and 


rustic witticisms were liberally bestowed upon him and his late 
purchase. These Blossom continued to provoke by^ various 
remarks. He asked the old man "if he thought Bullet would 
let five dollars lie on his back." He declared most seriously 
that he had owned that horse three months and had never dis- 
covered before that he had a sore back, "or he never should 
have thought of trading him," etc. 

The old man bore it all with the most philosophic composure. 
He evinced no astonishment at his late discovery and made no 
replies. But his son Neddy had not disciplined his feelings 
quite so well. His eyes opened wider and wider from the first 
to the last pull of the blanket, and, when the whole sore burst 
upon his view, astonishment and fright seemed to contend for 
the mastery of his countenance. As the blanket disappeared, 
he stuck his hands in his breeches pockets, heaved a deep sigh, 
and lapsed into a profound revery, from which he was only 
roused by the cuts at his father. He bore them as long as he 
could, and when he could contain himself no longer he b^^, 
with a certain wildness of expression which gave a peculiar 
interest to what he uttered : "His back 's mighty bad off, but 
... old Kit's both blind and deef, . . . You walk him, and see 
if he dnt. His eyes don't look like it ; but he 'd jist as leve 
go agin the house with you, or in a ditch, as anyhow. Now 
you go try him." The laugh was now turned on Blossom; and 
many rushed to test the fidelity of the little boy's report A few 
experiments established its truth beyond controversy. 

" Neddy," said the old man, " you ought n't to try and make 
people discontented with their things. Stranger, don't mind 
what the little boy says. If you can only get Kit rid of them 
little failings, you '11 find him all sorts of a horse. You are a 
leetle the best man at a horse swap that ever I got hold of; 
but don't fool away Kit. Come, Neddy, my son, let's be 
moving; the stranger seems to be getting snappish." 



In the good old days of fescues^ abisselfas, and ' anpersants^ 
terms which used to be familiar in this country during the 
Revolutionary War, and which lingered in some of our count)' 
schools for a few years afterward, I visited my friend Captain 
Griffin, who resided about seven miles to the eastward of 
Wrightsborough, then in Richmond, but now in Columbia 
County. I reached the captain's hospitable home on Easter, 
and was received by him and his good lady with a Georgia 
welcome of 1790. It was warm from the heart, and taught me 
in a moment that the obligations of the visit were upon their 
side, not mine. Such receptions were not peculiar at that time 
to the captain and his family ; they were common throughout 
the state. Where are they now I and where the generous 
hospitalities which invariably followed them I I see them occa- 
sionally at the contented farmer's door and at his festive board, 
but when they shall have taken leave of these, Georgia will 
know them no more. 

The day was consumed in the interchange of news between 
the captain and myself (though, I confess, it might have been 
better employed), and the night found us seated round a 
temporary fire, which the captain's sons had kindled up for the 
purpose of dyeing eggs. It was a common custom of those 
days with boy§ to dye and peck eggs on Easter Sunday and for 
a few days afterward. They were colored according to the 
fancy of the dyer — some yellow, some green, some purple, 
and some with a variety of colors, borrowed from a piece of 
calico. They were not unfrequently beautified with a taste and 
skill which would have extorted a compliment from Hezekiah 
Niles, if he had seen them a year ago, in the hands of the 
"young operatives," in some of the northern manufactories. 
No sooner was the work of dyeing finished, than our young 


operatives sallied forth to stake the whole proceeds of their 
" domestic industry " upon a peck. Egg was struck against egg^ 
point to point, and the egg that was broken was given up as 
lost to the owner of the one which came whole from the shock. 

While the boys were busily employed in the manner just 
mentioned, the captain's youngest son, George, gave us an 
anecdote highly descriptive of the Yankee and Georgia char- 
acter, even in their buddings, and at this early date. "What 
you think, pa," said he, "Zeph Pettibone went and got his 
Uncle Zach to turn him a wooden egg, and he won a whole 
hatful o' eggs from all us boys 'fore we found it out; but 
when we found it out maybe John Brown didn't smoke him 
for it, and took away all his eggs and give 'em back to us 
boys ; and you think he did n't go then and git a guinea egg, 
and win most as many more, and John Brown would o' give it 
to him agin if all we boys had n't said we thought it was fair. 
I never see such a boy as that Zeph Pettibone in all my life. 
He don't mind whipping no more 'an nothing at all, if he can 
win eggs." 

This anecdote, however, only fell in by accident, for there 
was an all-absorbing subject which occupied the minds of the 
boys during the whole evening, of which I could occasionaUy 
catch distant hints in undertones and whispers, but of which I 
could make nothing until they were afterward explained by the 
captain himself. Such as " I '11 be bound Peje Jones and 
Bill Smith stretches him." " By Jockey, soon as they seize 
him you '11 see me down upon him like a duck upon .a June 
bug." " By the time he touches the ground hell think he's 
got into a hornet's nest," etc. 

" The boys," said the captain, as they retired, " are going to 
turn out the schoolmaster to-morrow, and you can perceive 
they think of nothing else. We must go over to the school- 
house and witness the contest, in order to prevent injuiy to 


preceptor or pupils; for, though the master is always, upon 
such occasions, glad to be turned out, and only struggles long 
enough to present his patrons a fair apology for giving the 
children a holiday, which he desires as much as they do, the 
boys always conceive a holiday gained by a ^ turn out ' as 
the sole achievement of their valor ; and, in their zeal to dis- 
tinguish themselves upon such memorable occasions, they some- 
times become too rough, provoke the master to wrath, and a 
very serious conflict ensues. To prevent these consequences, 
to bear witness that the master was forced to yield before he 
would withhold a day of his promised labor from his employers, 
and to act as a mediator between him and the boys in settling 
the articles of peace, I always attend ; and you must accom- 
pany me to-morrow." I cheerfully promised to do so. 

The captain and I rose before the sun, but the boys had 
risen and were off to the schoolhouse before the dawn. After 
an early breakfast, hurried by Mrs. G. for our accommodation, 
my host and myself took up our line of march towards the 
schoolhouse. We reached it about half an hour before the 
master arrived, but not before the boys had completed its forti- 
fications. It was a simple log pen, about twenty feet square, 
with a doorway cut out of the logs, to which was fitted a rude 
door^ made of clapboards, and swung on wooden hinges. The 
roof was covered with clapboards also, and retained in their 
places by heavy logs placed on them. The chimney was built 
of logs, diminishing in size from the ground to the top, and 
overspread inside and out with red-clay mortar. The classic 
hut occupied a lovely spot, overshadowed by majestic hickories, 
towering poplars, and strong-armed oaks. The little plain on 
which it stood was terminated, at the distance of about fifty 
paces from its door, by the brow of a hill, which descended 
rather abruptly to a noble spring that gushed joyously forth 
from among the roots of a stately beech at its foot The stream 


from this fountain scarcely burst into view before it hid itself 
beneath the dark shade of a field of cane which overspread the 
dale through which it flowed and marked its windings until it 
turned from the sight among vine-covered hills, at a distance 
far beyond that to which the eye could have traced it without 
the help of its evergreen belt. A remark of the captain's, as 
we viewed the lovely country around us, will give the reader 
my apology for the minuteness of the foregoing description. 
" These lands," said he, " will never wear out Where they lie 
level, they will be as good fifty years hence as they are now." 
Forty-two years afterward I visited the spot on which he stood 
when he made the remark. The sun poured his whole strength 
upon the bald hill which once supported the sequestered school- 
house ; many a deep-washed gully met at a sickly bog where 
gushed the limpid fountain ; a dying willow rose from the soil 
which nourished the venerable beech ; flocks wandered among 
the dwarf pines, and cropped a scanty meal from the vale 
where the rich cane bowed and rustled to every breeze, and 
all around was barren, dreary, and cheerless. But to return. 

As I before remarked, the boys had strongly fortified the 
schoolhouse, of which they had taken possession. The door 
was barricaded with logs, which I should have supposed would 
have defied the combined powers of the whole schooL The 
chimney too was nearly filled with logs of goodly size, and 
these were the only passways to the interior. I concluded if 
a ttirn out was all that was necessary to decide the contest in 
favor of the boys, they had already gained the victory. They 
had, however, not as much confidence in their outworks as I 
had, and therefore had armed themselves with long sticks — 
not for the purpose of using them upon- the master if the battle 
should come to close quarters, for this was considered unlawful 
warfare, but for the purpose of guarding their works from his 
approaches, which it was considered perfectly lawful to protect 


by all manner of jabs and punches through the cracks. From 
the early assembling of the girls it was very obvious that they 
had been let into the conspiracy, though they took no part in 
the active operations. They would, however, occasionally drop 
a word of encouragement to the boys, such as *' I wouldn't 
turn out the master, but if I did turn him out, I'd die before 
rd give up." These remarks doubtless had an emboldening 
efifect upon " the young freeboms," as Mrs. Trollope would call 
them, foi: I never knew the Georgian of any age who was in- 
different to the smiles and praises of the ladies — before his 

At length Mr. Michael St. John, the schoolmaster, made his 
appearance. Though some of the girls had met him a quarter 
of a mile from the schoolhouse and told him all that had hapn 
pened, he gave signs of sudden astonishment and indignation 
when he advanced to the door and was assailed by a whole 
platoon of sticks from the cracks. " \Vhy, what does all this 
mean ? " said he, as he approached the captain and myself, 
with a countenance of two or three varying expressions. 

" Why," said the captain, " the boys have turned you out, 
because you have refused to give them an Easter holiday." 

"Oh," returned Michael, "that's it, is it? Well, I'll see 
whether their parents are to pay me for letting their children 
play when they please." So saying, he advanced to the school- 
house and demanded, in a lofty tone, of its inmates an uncon- 
ditional surrender. 

" Well, give us holiday then," said twenty little urchins within„ 
"and we'll let you in." 

" Open the door of the academy " (Michael would allow 
nobody to call it a schoolhouse) — " Open the door of the 
academy this instant," said Michael, " or I '11 break it down." 

" Break it down," said Pete Jones and Bill Smith, " and 
we '11 break you down." 


During this colloquy I took a peep into the fortress to see 
how the garrison were affected by the parley. The little ones 
were obviously panic-struck at the first words of command; 
but their fears were all chased away by the bold, determined 
reply of Pete Jones and Bill Smith, and they raised a whoop 
of defiance. 

Michael now walked roimd the academy three times, exam- 
ining all its weak points with great care. He then paused, 
. reflected for a moment, and wheeled off suddenty towards the 
woods, as though a bright thought had just struck him. He 
passed twenty things which I supposed he might be in quest 
of, such as huge stones, fence rails, portable logs, and the like, 
without bestowing the least attention upon them. He went to 
one old log, searched it thoroughly ; then to another ; then to a 
hollow stump, peeped into it with great care ; then to a hollow 
log, into which he looked with equal caution, and so on. 

" What is he after ? " inquired I. 

" I'm sure I don't know," said the captain, " but the boys 
do. Don't you notice the breathless silence which prevails in 
the schoolhouse, and the intense anxiety with which they are 
eying him through the cracks?" 

At this moment Michael had reached a littie excavation at 
the root of a dogwood and was in the act of putting his hand 
into it, when a voice from the garrison exclaimed, with most 
touching pathos, " Lo'd o' messy, he 's foimd my ^;gs ! boys, 
let's give up." 

*' I won't give up," was the reply from many voices at once. 

" Rot your cowardly skin, Zeph Pettibone, you wouldn't 
give a wooden egg for all the holidays in the worid" 

If these replies did not reconcile Zephaniah to his appre- 
hended loss, it at least silenced his complaints. In the mean- 
time Michael was employed in relieving Zeph's stordKMise of 
its provisions ; and, truly, its contents told well for Zeph's skill 


in egg-pecking. However, Michael took out the eggs with great 

care and brought them within a few paces of the schoolhouse 

and laid them down with equal care in full view of the besieged. 

He revisited the places which he had searched and to which 

he seemed to hjive been led by intuition, for from nearly all 

of them did he draw eggs, in greater or less numbers. These 

he treated as he had done Zeph's, keeping each pile separate. 

Having arranged the eggs in double files before the door, he 

marched between them with an air of triumph and once more 

demanded a surrender, imder pain of an entire destruction of 

the garrison's provisions. 

" Break 'em just as quick as you please," said George Griffin ; 
" our mothers '11 give us a plenty more, won't they, pa ? " 

" I can answer for yours, my son," said the captain ; " she 
would rather give up every egg upon the farm than see you 
play the coward or traitor to save your property." 

Michael, finding that he could make no impression upon the 
fears or the avarice of the boys, determined to carry their forti- 
fications by storm. Accordingly he procured a heavy fence rail 
and commenced the assault upon the door. It soon came to 
pieces, and the upper logs fell out, leaving a space of about 
three feet at the top. Michael boldly entered the breach, when, 
by the articles of war, sticks were thrown aside as no longer 
lawful weapons. He was resolutely met on the half-demolished 
rampart by Peter Jones and William Smith, supported by James 
Griffin. These were the three largest boys in the school, the 
first about sixteen years of age, the second about fifteen, and 
the third just eleven. Twice was Michael repulsed by these 
young champions, but the third effort carried him fairly into 
the fortress. Hostilities now ceased for awhile, and the cap- 
tain and I, having leveled the remaining logs at the door, fol- 
lowed Michael into the house. A large three-inch plank (if it 
deserve that name, for it was wrought from the half of a tree* 


trunk entirely with the ax), attached to the logs by means of 
wooden pins, served the whole school for a writing desk. At 
a convenient distance below it, and on a line with it, stretched 
a smooth log resting upon the logs of the house, which answered 
for the writers' seat Michael took his seat upon the desk, 
placed his feet on the seat, and was sitting very composedly, 

Reproduction of one of the original illustrations of " Georgia Scene* " 

when, with a simultaneous movement, Pete and KU seized 
each a leg, and marched off with it in quick time. The conse- 
quence is obvious; Michael's head first took the desk, then the 
seat, and finally the ground (for the house was not floored), 
with three sonorous thumps of most doleful portent No sooner 
did he touch the ground than he was completely buried with 
boys. The three elder laid themselves across his head, ned(, 


and breast, the rest arranging themselves ad libitum. Michael's 
equanimity was considerably disturbed by the first thump, be- 
came restive with the second, and took flight with the third. 
His first effort was to disengage his legs, for without them he 
could not rise, and to lie in his present position was extremely 
inconvenient and undignified. Accordingly, he drew up his 
right, and kicked at random. This movement laid out about 
six in various directions upon the floor. Two rose crying. 
" Ding his old red-headed skin," said one of them, " to go 
and kick me right in my sore belly, where I fell down and 
raked it running after that fellow that cried * school-butter.' " 

'' Drot his old snaggle-tooth picture," said the other, "to go 
and hurt my sore toe, where I knocked the nail off going to 
^he spring to fetch a gourd of warter for him, and not for 
niyself n 'other." 

" Hut 1 " said Captain Griffin, " young Washingtons mind 
these trifles 1 At him again." 

The name of Washington cured their wounds and dried up 

^eir tears in an instant, and they legged him de novo. The left 

feg treated six more as unceremoniously as the right had those 

just mentioned ; but the talismanic name had just fallen upon 

their ears before the kick, so they were invulnerable. They 

therefore returned to the attack without loss of time. The 

struggle seemed to wax hotter and hotter for a short time after 

Michael came to the ground, and he threw the children about 

in all directions and postures, giving some of them thumps 

which would have placed the ruffle-shirted little darlings df the 

present day under the discipline of paregoric and opodeldoc for 

a week ; but these hardy sons of the forest seemed not to feel 

them. As Michael's head grew easy, his limbs, by a natural 

sympathy, became more quiet, and he offered one day's holiday 

as the price. The boys demanded a week ; but here the 

captain interposed, and, after the common but often unju 


custom of arbitrators, split the difference. In this instance the 
terms were equitable enough, and were immediately acceded to 
by both parties. Michael rose in a good humor, and the boys 
were, of course. 


[William Tappan Thompson was bom at Ravenna, Ohio, in 1812. 
After going South he was chiefly engaged in journalistic work, 
mainly in connection with the Savannah Morning News^ with which 
he was associated until his death, in 1882. He first came into promi- 
nence as a humorous writer through his amusing " Major Jones 
Letters," contributed to his paper. The Miscellany^ published at 
Madison, Georgia, from 1840 to 1845. This has remained his most 
famous book, but in addition to it he published several other volumes 
of humorous sketches.] 


PiNEViLLE, December 27, 1842 

To Mr. Thompson: Dear Sir — Crismus is over, and the 
thing is ded. You know I told you in my last letter I was 
gwine to bring Miss Mary up to the chalk a Crismus. Well, 
I done it, slick as a whistle, though it come mighty nigh bein 
a serious undertakin. But 1 11 tell you all about the whole 

The fact is, Fs made my mind up more 'n twenty times to 
jest go and come rite out with the whole bisness ; but whenever 
I got whar she was, and whenever she looked at me with her 
witchin eyes, and kind o' blushed at me, I always felt sort o' 
skeered and fainty, and all what I made up to tell her was for- 
got, so I could n't think of it to save me. But you 's a married 
man, Mr. Thompson, so I could n't tell you nothin about popin 
the question, as they call it. It 's a mighty grate favor to ax of 


a rite pretty gall, and to people as ain't used to it, it goes mon- 
strous hard, don't it ? They say widders don't mind it no more 'n 
no thin. But Vm makin a transgression, as the preacher ses. 

Crismus eve I put on my new suit, and shaved my face as 
slick as a smoothin iron, and after tea went over to old Miss 
Stallinses. As soon as I went into the parler whar they was all 
settin round the fire, Miss Carline and Miss Kesiah both 
laughed rite out 

" There, there," ses they, " I told you so, I knew it would 
be Joseph." 

" What 's I done. Miss Carline ? " ses I. 

" You come under little sister's chicken bone, and I do 
blieve she knew you was comin when she put it over 
the dore." 

" No, I did n't — I did n't no such thing, now," ses Miss 
Mary, and her face blushed red all over. 

" Oh, you need n't deny it," ses Miss Kesiah ; " you blong 
to Joseph now, jest as sure as ther's any charm in chicken 

I know'd that was a first-rate chance to say something, but 
the dear little creater looked so sorry and kep blushin so, I 
couldn't say nothin zactly to the pint, so I tuck a chair and 
reached up and tuck down the bone and put it in my pocket. 

" What are you gwine to do with that old bone now, Majer .^" 
ses Miss Mary. 

*' I'm gwine to keep it as long as I live," ses I, "as a Crismus 
present from the handsomest gall in Georgia." 

When I sed that, she blushed worse and worse. 
Ain't you shamed, Majer ? " ses she. 

Now you ought to give /ler a Crismus gift, Joseph, to keep 
all ker life," sed Miss Carline. 

** Ah," ses old Miss Stallins, " when I was a gall we used to 
hang up our stockins — " 


" Why, mother 1 " ses all of 'em, " to say stockins 
afore — " " 

Then I felt a little streaked too, cause they was all blus 
as hard as they could. 

" Highty-tity ! " ses the old lady — "what monstrous 'f 
ment. Td like to know what harm ther is in stockins. Pec 
nowadays is gittin so mealy-mouthed they can't call nothin 
its rite name, and I don't see as they 's any better than the < 
time people was. When I was a gall like you, child, I used 
hang up my stockins and git 'em full of presents." 

The galls kep laughin. 

" Never mind," ses Miss Mary, " Majer 's got to give m 
Crismus gift, — won't you, Majer ? " 

" Oh, yes," ses I ; " you know I promised you one." 

" But I did n't mean that^^ ses she. 

" I 've got one for you, what I want you to keep all y 
life, but it would take a two-bushel bag to hold it," ses I. 

" Oh, that 's the kind," ses she. 

" But will you keep it as long as you live ? " ses I. 

" Certainly, I will, Majer." 

" Monstrous 'finement nowadays — old people don't kr 
nothin bout perliteness," said old Miss Stallins, jest gwine 
sleep with her nittin in her hand. 

" Now you hear that. Miss Carline," ses I. " She ses sh 
keep it all her life." 

" Yes, I will," ses Miss Mary — " but what is it ? " 

" Never mind," ses I, " you hang up a bag big enuff to \ 
it and you '11 find out what it is, when you see it in the momj 

Miss Carline winked at Miss Kesiah, and then whisperec 
her — then they both laughed and looked at me as mischiev 
as they could. They spicioned something. 

" You '11 be sure to give it to me now, if I hang up a ba£ 
ses Miss Mary. 


And promise to keep it," ses I. 

Well, I will, cause I know that you wouldn't give me 
nothin that wasn't worth keepin." 

They all agreed they would hang up a bag for me to put 
M^iss Mary's Crismus present in, in the back porch ; and bout 
J^ine o'clock I told 'em good evenin and went home. 

I sot up till midnight, and when they was all gone to bed I 
Went softly into the back gate, and went up to the porch, and 
^har, shore enuff, was a grate big meal bag hangin to the jice. 
It was monstrous unhandy to git to it, but I was tarmined not 
^o back out. So I sot some chairs on top of a bench and got 
hold of the rope and let myself down into the bag ; but jest as 
^^ was gittin in, the bag swung agin the chairs, and down they 
Went with a terrible racket. But nobody didn't wake up but 
^Id Miss Stallinses grate big cur dog, and here he cum rippin 
^nd tearin through the yard like rath, and round and round he 
Went tryin to find what was the matter. I sot down in the bag 
^tid did n't breathe louder nor a kitten for fear he 'd find me 
^ut, and after a while he quit barkin. The wind begun to blow 
bominable cold, and the old bag kep tumin round and swing- 
ing so it made me seasick as the mischief. I was f raid to move 
for fear the rope would break and let me fall, and thar I sot 
with my teeth rattlin like I had a ager. It seemed like it would 
never come daylight, and I do blieve if I didn't love Miss 
Mary so powerful I would froze to death ; for my hart was 
the only spot that felt warm, and it didn't beat moren two 
licks a minit, only when I thought how she would be sprised 
in the momin, and then it went in a canter. Bimeby the cussed 
old dog come up on the porch and begun to smell about the 
bag, and then he barked like he thought he'd treed something. 
" Bow ! wow ! wow ! " ses he. Then he 'd smell agin and try 
to git up to the bag. " Git out ! " ses I, very low, for fear they 
would hear me. " Bow ! wow I wow 1 " ses he. " Be gone I 


you bominable fool I " ses I, and I felt all over in spots, for I 
spected every minit he'd nip me, and what made it worse, I 
did n't know wharabouts he 'd take hold. " Bow 1 wow I wow I " 
Then I tried coaxin — " Come here, good feller," ses I, and 
whistled a little to him, but it wasn't no use. Thar he stood 
and kep up his eternal whinin and barkin, all night I could n't 
tell when daylight was breakin, only by the chickens crowin, 
and I was monstrous glad to hear 'em, for if I'd had to stay 
thar one hour more, I don't blieve I'd ever got out of that 
bag alive. 

Old Miss Stallins come out fust, and as soon as she saw the 
bag, ses she : " What upon yeath has Joseph went and put in 
that bag for Mary? I'll lay it's a yearlin or some live animal, 
or Bruin would n't bark at it so." 

She went in to call the galls, and I sot thar, shiverin all over 
so I couldn't hardly speak if I tried to, — but I didn't say 
nothin. Bimeby they all come runnin out 
** My Lord, what is it ? " ses Miss Mary. 
" Oh, it's alive I" ses Miss Kesiah. "I seed it move." 
" Call Cato, and make him cut the rope," ses Miss Carline, 
"and let's see what it is. Come here, Cato, and git this 
bag down." 

'* Don't hurt it for the world," ses Miss Mary. 
Cato untied the rope that was round the jice and let the bag 
down easy on the floor, and I tumbled out all covered with com 
meal from head to foot. 

'' Goodness gracious 1 " ses Miss Maty, " if it ain't the 
Majer himself!" 

'' Yes," ses I, " and you know you promised to keep my 
Crismus present as long as you lived." 

The galls laughed themselves almost to deth, and went to 
brushin off the meal as fast as they could, sayin they was 
gwine to hang that bag up every Crismus till they got husbands, 


too. Miss Mary — bless her bright eyes — she blushed as 
butiful as a momin-glory, and sed she'd stick to her word. 
She was rite out of bed, and her hair wasn't komed, and her 
dress wasn't fix't at all, but the way she looked pretty was 
rale distractin. I do blieve if I was froze stiff, one look at her 
charmin face, as she stood lookin down to the floor with her 
rogish eyes and her bright curls fallin all over her snowy neck, 
would fotch'd me too. I tell you what, it was worth hangin in 
a meal bag from one Crismus to another to feel as happy as I 
have ever sense. 

I went home after we had the laugh out, and set by the fire 
till I got thawed. In the forenoon all the Stallinses come over 
to our house and we had one of the greatest Crismus dinners 
that ever was seed in Georgia, and I don't blieve a happier 
company ever sot down to the same table. Old Miss Stallins 
and mother settled the match, and talked over everything that 
ever happened in ther families, and laughed at me and Mary, 
and cried bout ther ded husbands, cause they wasn't alive to 
see ther children married. 

It's all settied now, 'cept we hain't sot the weddin day. I'd 
like to have it all oyer at once, but young galls always like to 
be engaged awhile, you know, so I spose I must wait a month 
or so. Mary (she ses I must n't call her Miss Mary now) has 
been a good deal of trouble and botheration to me ; but if you 
could see her you wouldn't think I ought to grudge a litde 
sufferin to git sich a sweet little wife. 

You must come to the weddin if you possibly kin. I'll let 
you know when. No more from Your frend, till deth, 

Jos. Jones 



[Joseph Glover Baldwin was bom in Virginia, near Winchester, 
in 1 81 5. In early manhood he went into the lower South, finally 
settling in Sumter County, Alabama. He practiced law in Alabama, 
with some political recognition, until he moved in 1854 to California. 
In 1858 he was elected to the supreme court of California, but re- 
signed the position after three years and returned to the practice of 
law. He died in San Francisco in 1 864. He obtains his position in 
literature through two volumes: the humorous sketches, originally 
contributed to the Southern Literary Messenger^ published in book 
form in 1853 as " Flush Times in Alabama and Mississippi," and a 
volume entitled " Party Leaders," published in 1855, in which he 
sketched with considerable ability the careers of several prominent 
political leaders in the South.] 


And what history of that halcyon period, ranging from the 
year of grace 1835 to 1837, that golden era when shinplasters 
were the sole currency, when bank bills were "as thick as 
autumn leaves in Vallombrosa," and credit was a franchise — 
what history of those times would be complete that left out the 
name of Ovid Bolus? As well write the biography of Prince 
Hal and forbear all mention of Falstaff. In law phrase the 
thing would be a " deed without a name," and void ; a most 
unpardonable castis omissus, . . . 

I have had a hard time of it in endeavoring to assign to 
Bolus his leading vice. I have given up the task in despair, 
but I have essayed to designate that one which gave him, in 
the end, most celebrity. I am aware that it is invidious to 
make comparisons and to give preeminence to one over other 
rival qualities and gifts, where all have high claims to distinc- 
tion ; but then, the stem justice of criticism in this case 
requires a discrimination which to be intelligible and definite 


must be relative and comparative. I therefore take the respon- 
sibility of saying, after due reflection, that, in my opinion, 
Bolus's reputation stood higher for lying than for anything 
else; and in thus assigning preeminence to this poetic propn 
erty, I do it without any desire to derogate from other brilliant 
characteristics belonging to the same general category, which 
have drawn the wondering notice of the world. 

Some men are liars from interest ; not because they have no 
regard for truth, but because they have less regard for it than 
for gain. Some are liars from vanity ; because they would 
rather be well thought of by others than have reason for 
thinking well of themselves. Some are liars from a sort of 
necessity, which overbears, by the weight of temptation, the 
sense of virtue. Some are enticed away by allurements of 
pleasure or seduced by evil example and education. Bolus was 
none of these ; he belonged to a higher department of the fine 
arts and to a higher class of professors of this sort of belles- 
lettres. Bolus was a natural liar, just as some horses are 
natural pacers, and some dogs natural setters. What he did 
in that walk was from the irresistible promptings of instinct 
and a disinterested love of art. His genius and his perform- 
ances were free from the vulgar alloy of interest or temptation. 
Accordingly, he did not labor a lie. He lied with a relish ; he 
lied with a coming appetite, growing with what it fed on ; he 
lied from the delight of invention and the charm of fictitious 
narrative. It is true he applied his art to the practical purposes 
of life, but in so far did he glory the more in it, just as an 
ingenious machinist rejoices that his invention, while it has 
honored science, has also supplied a common want. 

Bolus's genius for lying was encyclopedical ; it was what 
German criticism calls many-sided. It embraced all subjects 
without distinction or partiality. It was equally good upon all, 
" from grave to gay, from lively to severe." 


Bolus's lying came from his greatness of soul and his com- 
prehensiveness of mind. The truth was too small for him. 
Fact was too dry and commonplace for the fervor of his 
genius. Besides, great as was his memory, — for he even 
remembered the outlines of his chief lies, — his invention was 
still larger. He had a great contempt for history and histo- 
rians. He thought them tame and timid cobblers — mere 
tinkers on other peoples' wares; simple parrots and magpies 
of other men's sayings or doings ; borrowers of and acknowl- 
edged debtors for others' chattels, got without skill ; they had 
no separate estate in their ideas; they were bailees of goods 
which they did not pretend to hold by adverse title ; buriers of 
talents in napkins, making no usury ; barren and unprofitable 
nonproducers in the intellectual vineyard — nati consumerefruges. 

He adopted a fact occasionally to start with, but, like a 
Sheffield razor and the crude ore, the workmanship, polish, and 
value were all his own. A Tibet shawl could as well be cred- 
ited to the insensate goat that grew the wool, as the author of 
a fact that Bolus honored with his artistical skill could claim 
to be the inventor of the story. . . . 

There was nothing narrow, sectarian, or sectional in Bolus's 
lying. It was, on the contrary, broad and catholic It had no 
respect to times or places. It was as wide, illimitable, as elastic 
and variable, as the air he spent in giving it expression. It was 
a generous, gentlemanly, whole-souled faculty. It was often 
employed on occasions of thrift, but no more and no more 
zealously on these than on others of no profit to himself. He 
was an egotist, but a magnificent one ; he was not a liar be- 
cause an egotist, but an egotist because a liar. He usually 
made himself the hero of the romantic exploits and adventures 
he narrated ; but this was not so much to exalt himself as 
because it was more convenient to his art. He had nothing 
malignant or invidious in his nature. If he exalted himself, 


it was seldom or never to the disparagement of others, unless, 
indeed, those others were merely imaginary persons or too far 
off to be hurt. He would as soon lie for you as for himself. 
It was all the same, so there was something doing in his line 
of business, except on those cases in which his necessities re- 
quired to be fed at your expense. 

He did not confine himself to mere lingual lying ; one tongue 
was not enough for all the business he had on hand. He acted 
lies as well. Indeed, sometimes his very silence was a lie. He 
made nonentity fib for him, and performed wondrous feats by 
a "masterly inactivity." . . . 

In lying. Bolus was not only a successful but he was a very 
able practitioner. Like every other eminent artist he brought 
all his faculties to bear upon his art. Though quick of percep- 
tion and prompt of invention, he did not trust himself to the 
inspirations of his genius for improvising a lie when he could 
well premeditate one. He deliberately built up the substantial 
masonry, relying upon the occasion and its accessories chiefly 
for embellishment and collateral supports, as Burke excogi- 
tated the more solid parts of his great speeches and left unpre- 
, pared only the illustrations and fancy work. . . . 

Bolus's manner was, like every truly great man's, his own. 
It was excellent He did not come blushing up to a lie, as some 
otherwise very passable liars do, as if he was making a mean 
compromise between his guilty passion or morbid vanity and a 
struggling conscience. He and it were on very good terms — 
at least, if there was no affection between the couple, there was 
no fuss in the family; or, if there were any scenes or angry 
passages, they were reserved for strict privacy and never got 
out My own opinion is that he was as destitute of the article 
as an ostrich. Thus he came to his work bravely, cheerfully, and 
composedly. The delights of composition, invention, and narra- 
tion did not fluster his style or agitate his delivery. He knew 


how, in the tumult of passion, to assume the "temperance to 
give it smoothness." A lie never ran away with him, as it is apt 
to do with young performers; he could always manage and 
guide it, and to have seen him fairly mounted would have given 
you some idea of the polished elegance of D'Orsay and the 
superb manage of Murat. There is a tone and manner of nar- 
ration different from those used in delivering ideas just con- 
ceived, just as there is difference between the soimd of the voice 
in reading and in speaking. Bolus knew this and practiced on it 
When he was narrating he put the facts in order and seemed 
to speak them out of his memory, but not formally or as if by 
rote. He would stop himself to correct a date ; recollect he was 
wrong — he was at that year at the White Sulphur or Saratoga, 
etc. ; having got the date right the names of persons present 
would be incorrect, etc., and these he corrected in turn. A 
stranger hearing him would have feared the marring of a good 
story by too fastidious a conscientiousness in the narrator. 


Superior to many of the settlers in elegance of manners and 
general intelligence, it was the weakness of -the Virginian to 
imagine he was superior too in the essential art of being able 
to hold his hand and make his way in a new country, and 
especially such a country and at stick a time. What a mistake 
that was 1 The times were out of joint It was hard to say 
whether it were more dangerous to stand still or to move. If 
the emigrant stood still, he was consumed, by no slow degrees, 
by expenses ; if he moved, ten to one he went off in a galloping 
consumption by a ruinous investment Expenses then — neces- 
sary articles about three times as high, and extra articles still 
more extra-priced — were a different thing in the new country 
from what they were in the old. In the old country, a joDy 


Virginia, starting the business of free living on a capital of a 
plantation, and fifty or sixty negroes, might reasonably calculate, 
if' no ill luck befell him, by the aid of a usurer, and the occasional 
sale of a negro or two, to hold out without declared insolvency, 
until a green old age. His estate melted like an estate in 
chancery, under the gradual thaw of expenses ; but in the fast 
country, it went by the sheer cost of living — some poker losses 
included — like the fortune of the confectioner in California, 
who failed for one hundred thousand dollars in the six months' 
keeping of a candy shop. But all the habits of his life, his 
taste, his associations, his education — everything — the trust- 
ingness of his disposition — his want of business qualification — 
his sanguine temper — all that was Virginian in him, made him 
the prey, if not of imposture, at least of unfortunate specula- 
tions. Where the keenest jockey often was bit, what chance 
had he ? About the same that the verdant Moses had with the 
venerable old gentleman, his father's friend, at the fair, when 
he traded the Vicar's pony for the green spectacles. But how 
could he believe it }■ How could he believe that the stuttering, 
grammarless Georgian, who had never heard of the resolutions 
of '98, could beat him in a land trade } " Have no money deal- 
ings with my father," said the friendly Martha to Lord Nigel, 
"for, idiot though he seems, he will make an ass of thee." 
What pity some monitor, equally wise and equally successful 
with old Trapbois' daughter, had not been at the elbow of every 
Virginia ! " 'T wad f rae monie a blunder freed him — an' 
foolish notion." 

If he made a bad bargain, how could he expect to get rid of 
it ? He knew nothing of the elaborate machinery of ingenious 
chicane — such as feigning bankruptcy, fraudulent convey- 
ances, making over to his wife, running property — and had 
never heard of such tricks of trade as sending out coffins to the 
graveyard, with negroes inside, carried off by sudden spells of 


imapnar}- disease, to be "resurrected" in due time grinning ot^ 
the banks of the Brazos. 

• The new philosophy too had commended itself to 
s{xvulative temper. He readily caught at the idea of a ne 
spirit of the age haWng set in, which rejected the saws of Po 
Richard as being as much out of date as his almanacs. 
was already, by the great rise of property, compared to his 
dition under the old-time prices, rich; and what were a fe 
thousands of debt, which two or three crops would pay 
compared to the value of his estate.^ (He never thought 
the value of propert}- might come down, while the debt was^ 
fixed fact.") He lived freely, for it was a liberal time, and libe^r^ 
fashions were in vogue, and it was not for a Virginian to t^ 
behind others in hospitalit}' and liberality. He required crecJit 
and security, and, of course, had to stand security in return. 
When the crash came, and no "accommodations" could be had, 
except in a few instances, and in those on the most ruinous 
terms, he fell an easy \ictim. They broke by neighborhoods. 
Thev usuallv indorsed for each other, and when one fell — like 
the child's play of putting bricks on end at equal distances, and 
dropping the first in line against the second, which fell against 
the third, and so on to the last — all fell; each got broke as 
security, and yet few or none were able to pay their own 
debts ! . . . 

There was one consolation — if the Virginian involved him- 
self like a fool, he suffered himself to be sold out like a gentie- 
man. When his card house of visionar}' projects came tumbling 
about his ears, the next question was, the one Webster plagia- 
rized, " Where am I to go ? '' Those who had fathers, undes, 
aunts, or other dernier resorts in Virginia limped back, with 
feathers molted and crestfallen, to the old stamping g^round, 
carrying the returned Californian's fortune of ten thousand 
dollars — six bits in money, and the balance in experience 


who were in the condition of the prodigal (barring the 

, the calf — the fatted one I mean — and the fiddle) had 

a their accomplishments to account ; and many of them, 

; lost all* by eating and drinking, sought the retributive 

from meat and drink, which might at least support 

in poverty. Accordingly they kept tavern and made a 

of hospitality, a business the only disagreeable part of 

was receiving the money, and the only one I know for 

a man can eat and drink himself into qualification. And 

[ confess I never knew a Virginian, out of the state, to 

. bad tavern, I never knew one to draw a solvent breath 

the time he opened house until death or the sheriff 


ers again got to be not exactly overseers but some 
*ss thing, the duties of which were nearly analogous, for 
more fortunate Virginian, who had escaped the wreck 
ho had got his former boon companion to live with him 
ird, or other wages, in some such relation that the friend 
)t often found at table at the dinings given to the neigh- 
nd had got to be called Mr. Floumoy instead of Bob, and 
1 an outhouse in the yard, and only read the Enquirer of 
and Sundays. 

le of the younger scions that had been transplanted early 
ripped of their foliage at a tender age, had been turned 
rches for the corrective discipline of youth. Yes ; many 
lad received academical or collegiate educations, disre- 
g the allurements of the highway, turning from the gala- 
:ercise of ditching, scorning the effeminate relaxation of 
g rails, heroically led the Forlorn Hope of the battle of 
e corps of pedagogues of country schools — academies ^ 
pardon for not saying ; for, under the Virginia economy, 
crossroad log cabin, where boys were flogged from 
-e-r to Constantinople, grew into the dignity of a sort 


of runt college ; and the teacher vainly endeavored to hide the 
meanness of the calling beneath the sonorous sobriquet of 
Professor. . . . 

I had a friend on whom this catastrophe descended. Tom 
Edmundson was buck of the first head — gay, witty, dashing, 
vain, proud, handsome, and volatile, and, withal, a dandy and 
lady's man to the last intent in particular. He had graduated at 
the University, and had just settled with his guardian, and 
received his patrimony of ten thousand dollars in money. Being 
a young gentleman of enterprise, he sought the alluring fields 
of Southwestern adventure, and found them in this state. 
Before he well knew the condition of his exchequer, he had 
made a permanent investment of one half of his fortune in 
cigars, champagne, trinkets, buggies, horses, and current ex- 
penses, including some small losses at poker, which game he 
patronized merely for amusement; and found that it diverted 
him a good deal, but diverted his cash much more. He invested 
the balance, on private information kindly given him, in 
"Choctaw Floats," a most lucrative investment it would have 
turned out but for the facts : i . That the Indians never had 
any title; 2. The white man who kindly interposed to act as 
guardian for the Indians did not have the Indian title; 3. The 
land, left subject to entry if the "Floats" had been good, was 
not worth entering. " These imperfections off its head," I 
know of no fancy stock I would prefer to a " Choctaw Float" 
" Brief, brave, and glorious " was " Tom*s young career." 
When Thomas found, as he did shortly, that he had bought 
five thousand dollars' worth of moonshine and had no title to it, 
he honestly informed his landlord of the state of his "fiscality," 
and that worthy kindly consented to take a new buggy, at half 
price, in payment of the old balance. The horse, a nick-tailed 
trotter, Tom had raffled off, but omitting to require cash, the 
process of collection resulted in his getting the price of one 


chance — the winner of the horse magnanimously paying his 
subscription. The rest either had gambling offsets, else were 
not prepared just at any one particular given moment to pay 
up, though always ready generally and in a general way. 

Unlike his namesake, Tom and his landlady were not — for 
a sufficient reason — very gracious ; and so, the only common 
bond, Tom's money, being gone, Tom received " notice to quit" 
in regular form. 

In the hurly-burly of the times I lost sight of Tom for a 
considerable period. One day, as I was traveling over the hills 
in Greene, by a crossroad leading me near a country mill, I 
stopped to get water at a spring at the bottom of the hill. 
Clambering up the hill, after remounting, the summit of it 
brought me to a view, on the other side, through the bushes, of 
a log country schoolhouse, the door being wide open, and who 
did I see but Tom Edmundson, dressed as fine as ever, sitting 
back in an armchair, one thumb in his waistcoat armhole, the 
other hand brandishing a long switch, or rather pole. As I ap- 
proached a little nearer I heard him speak out : '* Sir — Thomas 
Jefferson, of Virginia, was the author of the Declaration of 
Independence — mind that. I thought everybody knew that — 
even the Georgians." Just then he saw me coming through the 
bushes and entering the path that led by the door. Suddenly 
he broke from the chair of state, and the door was slammed to, 
and I heard some one of the boys, as I passed the door, say, 
"Tell him he can't come in — the master 's sick." This was 
the last I ever saw of Tom. I understand he afterwards moved 
to Louisiana, where he married a rich French widow, having 
first, however, to fight a duel with one of her sons, whose oppo- 
sition could n't be appeased until some such expiatory sacrifice 
to the manes of his worthy father was attempted ; which fail- 
ing, he made rather a lame apology for his zealous indiscre- 
tion, — the poor fellow could make no other, — for Tom had 


unfortunately fixed him for visiting his mother on crutches the 
balance of his Lfe 

One thmg I will saj for the Virginians — I never knew one 
of them under any pressure, to cxtemponze a profession. The 


s of " Flush TaoM in 

laippi " 

sentiment of reverence for the mysteries of medicine and law 
was too targe for deliberate quackery ; as to the pulpit, a man 
might as well do his starving without the hypocrisy. But others 
were not so nice. I have known them to rush, when the wdf 


was after them, from the countinghouse or the plantation into 
a doctor's shop or a law office, as if those places were the 
sanctuaries from the avenger; some pretended to be doctors 
that did not know a liver from a gizzard, administering medicine 
by the guess, without knowing enough of pharmacy to tell 
whether the stuff exhibited in the big-bellied blue, red, and green 
bottles at the show windows of the apothecary's shop was 
given by the drop or the half pint. 

Divers left, but what became of them, I never knew any 
more than they know what becomes of the sora after frost 
Many were the instances of suffering ; of pitiable misfortune, 
involving and crushing whole families; of pride abased; of 
honorable sensibilities wounded ; of the provision for old age 
destroyed; of hopes of manhood overcast; of independence 
dissipated and the poor victim, without help, or hope, or sym- 
pathy, forced to petty shifts for a bare subsistence, and a 
groimd-scuffle for what in happier days he threw away. But 
there were too many examples of this sort for the expenditure 
of a useless compassion ; just as the surgeon after a battle 
grows case-hardened from an excess of objects of pity. 



[St. George Tucker was born in Bermuda in 1752. He came 
early to Virginia and was educated at William and Mary College, 
after which he was called to the bar. Tucker served in the Vii^nia 
legislature, but won his chief distinction as professor of law in Wil- 
liam and Mary College. In addition to composing 'fugitive poems, 
of which the one here given is the best known, he wrote several 
political and legal works of note. He died in 1828.] 


Days of my youth, 

Ye have glided away ; 
Hairs of my youth, 

Ye are frosted and gray ; 
Eyes of my youth, 

Your keen sight is no more ; 
Cheeks of my youth. 

Ye are furrowed all o*er ; 
Strength of my youth. 

All your vigor is gone ; 
Thoughts of my youth. 

Your gay visions are flown. 

Days of my youth, 

I wish not your recall ; 

Hairs of my youth, 

Tm content ye should fall; 


Eyes of my youth, 

You much evil have seen ; 
Cheeks of my youth, 

Bathed in tears have you been ; 
Thoughts of my youth, 

You have led me astray ; 
Strength of my youth, 

Why lament your decay ? 

Days of my age. 

Ye will shortly be past ; 
Pains of my age. 

Yet awhile ye can last ; 
Joys of my age. 

In true wisdom delight ; 
Eyes of my age. 

Be religion your light ; 
Thoughts of my age. 

Dread ye not the cold sod ; 
Hopes of my age, 

Be ye fixed on your God. ' 



[Francis Scott Key was bom in Frederick Coun^, Maryland, in 
1780. After being educated at St John's CoUege, Annapolis, he 
began the practice of law in Washington, where he died in 1843. 
After his death a volume of his poems was published, but as it 
consists laigdy of occasional pieces not originally intended for 
publicatJon, it has added little to his fame, and "The Star-Spangled 
Banner " remains his best-known production.} 



O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light. 

What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming, 
"Kose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight, 
■ the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming ? 


And the rocket's red glare, the bomb bursting in air, 
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there ; 
O I say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ? 

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes. 
What is that, which the breeze, p'er the towering steep 

As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses ? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam 
In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream ; 
'T is the star-spangled banner ; O ! long may it wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave I 

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 
A home and a country should leave us no more ? 

Their blood has wash'd out their foul footsteps' pollution. 
No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave ; 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. 

! thus be it ever ! when freemen shall stand 

Between their lov'd homes and the war's desolation ! 
Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land 

Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation. 
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, 
And this be our motto — In God is our trusty 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brgye. 



[Richard Henry Wilde was born in Dublin, Ireland, in 1 789, and 
died in New Orleans in 1847. When he was a boy his family came 
to America and settled in Baltimore. Upon the death of his father he 
removed to Georgia, where he studied law and entered politics, even- 
tually becoming for several terms a member of Congress. During 
a stay in Europe from 1835 to 1840 he did considerable study in 
Dante and Tasso, and helped to discover Giotto's portrait of the 
first-named poet. On his return he settled in New Orleans, where 
he became professor of law in the University of Louisiana. Mean- 
while he had made a reputation for himself as a poet by poems 
contributed to newspapers and magazines, which he did not collect 
during his life into book form.] 


My life is like the summer rose. 

That opens to the morning sky. 
But, ere the shades of evening close, 

Is scattered on the ground — to die I 
Yet on the rose's humble bed 
The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
As if she wept the waste to see — 
But none shall weep a tear for me I 

My life is like the autumn leaf 

That trembles in the moon's pale ray : 
Its hold is frail — its date is brief. 

Restless — and soon to pass away ! 
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade. 
The parent tree will mourn its shade. 
The winds bewail the leafless tree — 
But none shall breathe a sigh for me I 


My life is like the prints, which feet 
Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; 

Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 
All trace will vanish from the sand ; 

Yet, as if grieving to efface 

All vestige of the human race. 

On that lone shore loud moans the sea — 

But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 


Winged mimic of the woods 1 thou motley fool I 

Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe ? 
Thine ever-ready notes of ridicule 

Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe. 

Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe, 
Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school, 

To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, 
Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule I 

For such thou art by day — but all night long 
Thou pourest a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain. 

As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song 
Like to the melancholy Jacques complain. 

Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong, 
And sighing for thy motley coat again. 


[Edward Coate Pinkney was bom in London in 1802, while his 
father was United States Commissioner to Great Britain. On his re- 
turn to America, he was put to school in Baltimore, and later entered 
the navy as midshipman. He resigned from the navy to engage in 
the practice of law, but his health failed and he died in Baltimore 


in 1828, at the age of twenty-six. His small volume of poetry pub- 
lished in 1 825 contained a few pieces which not only won him con- 
siderable praise in his lifetime but are ^10*6 of immortality among 
American lyrics.] 


We break the glass, whose sacred wine 

To some beloved health we drain, 
Lest future pledges, less divine, 

Should e'er the hallowed toy profane ; 
And thus I broke a heart, that poured 

Its tide of feeling out for thee. 
In drafts, by after-times deplored, 

Yet dear to memory. 

But still the old impassioned ways 

And habits of my mind remain, 
And still unhappy light displays 

Thine image chambered in my brain, 
And still it looks as when the hours 

Went by like flights of singing birds, 
Or that soft chain of spoken flowers. 

And airy gems, thy words. 


Look out upon the stars, my love. 

And shame them with thine eyes, 
On which, than on the lights above, 

There hang more destinies. 
Night's beauty is the harmony 

Of blending shades and light ; 
Then, Lady, up, — look out, and be 

A sister to the night I — 


Sleep not 1 — thine image wakes for aye, 

Within my watching breast : 
Sleep not ! — from her soft sleep should fly, 

Who robs all hearts of rest 
Nay, Lady, from thy slumbers break. 

And make this darkness gay, 
With looks, whose brightness well might make 

Of darker nights a day. 


I fill this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon ; 
To whom the better elements 

And kindly stars have given 
A form so fair, that, like the air, 

'T is less of earth than heaven. 

Her every tone is music's own. 

Like those of morning birds. 
And something more than melody 

Dwells ever in her words ; 
The coinage of her heart are they. 

And from her lips each flows 
As one may see the burthened bee 

Forth issue from the rose. 

Affections are as thoughts to her. 

The measures of her hours ; 
Her feelings have the fragrancy. 

The freshness, of young flowers ; 


And lovely passions, changing oft, 

So fill her, she appears 
The image of themselves by turns, — 

The idol of past years 1 

Of her bright face one glance will trace 

A picture on the brain, 
And of her voice in echoing hearts 

A sound must long remain ; 
But memory such as mine of her 

So very much endears. 
When death is nigh, my latest sigh 

Will not be life's, but hers. 

I fill this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon — 
Her health 1 and would on earth there stood 

Some more of such a frame, 
That life might be all poetry. 

And weariness a name. 


[Mirabeau Buonaparte Lamar was born in Georgia in 1798 and 
died in 1859 at Richmond, Texas. After several years of farming 
and business life, Lamar became, in 1828, editor of the Columbus 
Independent. In 1835 he emigrated to Texas, and for the remainder 
of his days lived a picturesque life in that state. He served in 
the Texan war for independence, and in the Mexican War. Later 
in life he received diplomatic appointments to Argentina, Costa Rica, 
and Nicaraj^ua. His volume of poems entitled "Verse Memorials'* 
was published in 1857.] 



O lend to me, sweet nightingale, 

Your music by the fountains, 
And lend to me your cadences, 

O river of the mountains ! 
That I may sing my gay brunette, 
A diamond spark in coral set, 
Gem for a prince's coronet — 

The daughter of Mendoza. 

How brilliant is the morning star ! 

The evening star, how tender 1 
The light of both is in her eye. 

Their softness and their splendor. 
But for the lash that shades their light 
They were too dazzling for the sight ; 
And when she shuts them, all is night — 

The daughter of Mendoza. 

O ! ever bright and beauteous one, 

Bewildering and beguiling, 
The lute is in thy silvery tones, 

The rainbow in thy smiling. 
And thine is, too, o'er hill and dell, 
The bounding of the young gazelle. 
The arrow's flight and ocean's swell — 

Sweet daughter of Mendoza 1 

What though, perchance, we meet no more.** — 

What though too soon we sever ? 
Thy form will float like emerald light, 

Before my vision ever. 


For who can see and then forget 
The glories of my gay brunette ? 
Thou art too bright a star to set — 
Sweet daughter of Mendoza 1 


[Albert Pike was a New Englander, bom in Boston in 1809, who 
settled in the Southwest. The larger part of the time he lived in 
Arkansas, where he was editor, lawyer, and soldier. After the Civil 
War, in which he served on the Southern side, he moved to Wash- 
ington, where he practiced law. There he died in 1891.] 


Thou glorious mocker of the world 1 I hear 
Thy many voices ringing through the glooms 

Of these green solitudes ; and all the clear, 

Bright joyance of their song enthralls the ear. 
And floods the heart. Over the sphered tombs 

Of vanished nations rolls thy music-tide : 
No light from History's starlit page illumes 

The memory of these nations ; they have died : 

None care for them but thou ; and thou mayst sing 
O'er me, perhaps, as now thy clear notes ring 

Over their bones by whom thou once wast deified. 

Glad scomer of all cities I Thou dost leave 
The world's mad turmoil and incessant din, 

Where none in others' honesty believe, 

Where the old sigh, the young turn gray and grieve, 
Where misery gnaws the maiden's heart within. 

Thou fleest far into the dark green woods. 

Where, with thy flood of music, thou canst win 


Their heart to harmony, and where intrudes 

No discord on thy melodies. Oh, where, 

Among the sweet musicians of the air. 
Is one so dear as thou to these old solitudes ? 

Ha ! what a burst was that 1 The ^olian strain 
Goes floating through the tangled passages 

Of the still woods ; and now it comes again, 

A multitudinous melody, like a rain 
Of glassy music under echoing trees. 

Close by a ringing lake. It wraps the soul 
With a* bright harmony of happiness. 

Even as a gem is wrapped when round it roll 
Thin waves of crimson flame, till we become, 
With the excess of perfect pleasure, dumb. 

And pant like a swift runner clinging to the goal. 

I cannot love the man who doth not love. 
As men love light, the song of happy birds ; 

For the first visions that my boy-heart wove, 

To fill its sleep with, were that I did rove 

Through the fresh woods, what time the snowy herds 

Of morning clouds shrunk from the advancing sun, 
Into the depths of Heaven's blue heart, as words 

From the poet's lips float gently, one by one, 
And vanish in the human heart ; and then 
I reveled in such songs, and sorrowed, when. 

With noon-heat overwrought, the music-gush was done. 

I would, sweet bird, that I might live with thee. 
Amid the eloquent grandeur of these shades, 
Alone with Nature 1 — but it may not be : 
I have to struggle with the stormy sea 


Of human life until existence fades 
Into death's darkness. Thou wilt sing and soar 

Through the thick woods and shadow-checkered glades, 
While pain and sorrow cast no dimness o'er 

The brilliance of thy heart ; but I must wear, 

As now, my garments of regret and care, 
As penitents of old their galling sackcloth wore. 

Yet, why complain ? What though fond hopes deferred 
Have overshadowed Life's green paths with gloom ? 

Content's soft music is not all unheard : 

There is a voice sweeter than thine, sweet bird, 
To welcome me, within my humble home ; 

There is an eye, with love's devotion bright, 
The darkness of existence to illume. 

Then why complain ? When Death shall cast his blight 
Over the spirit, my cold bones shall rest 
Beneath these trees ; and from thy swelling breast, 

Over them pour thy song, like a rich flood of light 


[Philip Pendleton Cooke was born in Martinsburg, Virginia, in 
1 8 1 6. After graduating from Princeton he began the practice of law 
with his father, but spent most of his time in his two delights — 
hunting and literary pursuits. He was a man with lyrical talent who 
failed of full development through failure to take his poetic gift seri- 
ously, habits of procrastination, and frail health. He died in 1850.] 


I loved thee long and dearly, 

Florence Vane ; 
My life's bright dream, and early. 

Hath come again ; 


I renew, in my fond vision, 

My heart's dear pain, 
My hope, and thy derision, 

Florence Vane. 

The ruin lone and hoary, 

The ruin old. 
Where thou didst hark my story. 

At even told, — 
That spot — the hues Elysian 

Of sky and plain — 
I treasure in my vision, 

Florence Vane. 

Thou wast lovelier than the roses 

In their prime ; 
Thy voice excelled the closes 

Of sweetest rime ; 
Thy heart was as a river 

Without a main. 
Would I had loved thee never, 

Florence Vane ! 

But, fairest, coldest wonder I 

Thy glorious day 
Lieth the green sod under — 

Alas the day I 
And it boots not to remember 

Thy disdain — 
To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Vane. 


The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep, 
The pansies love to dally 

Where maidens sleep ; 
May their bloom, in beauty vying. 

Never wane 
Where thine earthly part is lying, 

Florence Vane 1 


Summer has gone 1 
And fruitful autumn has advanced so far. 
That there is warmth, not heat, in the broad sun, 
And you may look with steadfast gaze upon 

The ardors of his car ; 
The stealthy frosts, whom his spent looks embolden, 

Are making the green leaves golden. 

What a brave splendor 
Is in the October air I How rich and clear — 
How life-full, and all joyous I We must render 
Love to the springtime, with its sproutings tender, 

As to a child quite dear — 
But autumn is a noon, prolonged, of glory — 

A manhood not yet hoary. 

I love the woods 
In this best season of the liberal year ; 
I love to haunt their whispering solitudes. 
And give myself to melancholy moods, 

With no intruder near ; 
And find strange lessons, as I sit and ponder. 

In every natural wonder. 


But not alone 
As Shakespeare's melancholy courtier loved Ardennes, 
Love I the autumn forest ; and I own 
I would not oft have mused as he, but flown 

To hunt with Amiens — 
And little recked, as up the bold deer bounded. 

Of the sad creature wounded. 

That gentle knight. 
Sir William Wortley, weary of his part. 
In painted pomps, which he could read aright. 
Built Wamcliff e lodge — for that he did delight 

To hear the belling hart. 
It was a gentle taste, but its sweet sadness 

Yields to the hunter's madness. 

What passionate 
And wild delight is in the proud swift chase ! 
Go out what time the lark, at heaven's red gate. 
Soars joyously singing — quite infuriate 

With the high pride of his place ; 
What time the unrisen sun arrays the morning 

In its first bright adorning. 

Hark the shrill horn — 
As sweet to hear as any clarion — 
Piercing with silver call the ear of mom ; 
And mark the steeds, stout Curtal, and Topthom, 

And Greysteil, and the Don — 
Each one of them his flery mood displaying 

With pawing and with neigfaing. 


Urge your swift horse 
After the crying hounds in this fresh hour — 
Vanquish high hills — stem perilous streams perforce — 
Where the glades ope give free wings to your course — 

And you will know the power 
Of the brave chase — and how of grief ^ the sorest, 

A cure is in the forest. 

Or stalk the deer : 
The same red fires of dawn illume the hills, 
The gladdest sounds are crowding on your ear, 
There is a life in all the atmosphere — 

Your very nature fills 
With the fresh hour, as up the hills aspiring. 

You climb with limbs untiring. 

It is a fair 
And pleasant sight, to see the mountain stag. 
With the long sweep of his swift walk, repair 
To join his brothers ; or the plethoric bear 

Lying on some high crag, 
With pinky eyes half closed, but broad head shaking, 

As gadflies keep him waking. 

And these you see, 
And, seeing them, you travel to their death, 
With a slow stealthy step from tree to tree — 
Noting the wind, however faint it be ; 

The hunter draws a breath 
In times like these, which he will say repays him 

For all the care that waylays him. 


A strong joy fills — 
A rapture far beyond the tongue's cold power — 
My heart in golden autumn fills and thrills ! 
And I would rather stalk the breezy hills — 

Descending to my bower 
Nightly by the bold spirit of health attended — 

Than pine where life is splendid. 


[Theodore O'Hara was born of Irish parentage at Danville, 
Kentucky, in 1820. Upon graduating from St. Joseph's College, 
at Bardstown, Kentucky, he studied law. After serving in the 
Mexican War, he was editor of a paper in Frankfort, Kentucky, 
and later of one in Mobile, Alabama. He participated in the Civil 
War, and, after its close, he engaged in farming* in Alabama, where 
he died in 1867. O'Hara has left, so far as is known, but two poems, 
" The Bivouac of the Dead " and " The Old Pioneer."] 


V 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. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust, 

Their plumbd 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 neighboring 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 nevermore may feel 

The rapture of the fight. 

Like the fierce northern hurricane 

That sweeps his great plateau. 
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain. 

Came down the serried foe. 
Who heard the thunder of the fray 

Break o'er the field beneath. 
Knew well the watchword of that day 

Was " Victory or Death." 


Long had the doubtful conflict raged 

O'er all that stricken plain, 
For never fiercer fight had waged 

The vengeful blood of Spain ; 
And still the storm of battle blew, 

Still swelled the gory tide ; 
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 

Such odds his strength could bide. 

'Twas in that hour his stem command 

Called to a martyr's grave 
The flower of his beloved land, 

The nation's flag to save. 
By rivers of their fathers' gore 

His first-bom laurels grew. 
And well he deemed the sons would pour 

Their lives for glory too. 

Full many a norther's breath has swept 

O'er Angostura's plain, 
And long the pitying sky has wept 

Above its moldered 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. 


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 I 

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 age 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 glory's light 

That gilds your deathless tomb. 



[Alexander Beaufort Meek was born in Columbia, South Caro- 
lina, in 1 814. At an early age he removed with his parents to Ala- 
bama, where he became lawyer, politician, editor. After the Civil 
War he removed to Columbus, Mississippi, where he died, in 1865. 
Besides poetry, he published a volume of orations and sketches.] 


The bluebird is whistling in Hillibee grove, — 

Terra-re I Terra-re I 
His mate is repeating the tale of his love, — 

Terra-re ! 

But never that song. 

As its notes fleet along, 
So sweet and so soft in its raptures can be, 
As thy low-whispered words, young chieftain, to me. 

Deep down in the dell is a clear crystal stream. 

Terra-re! Terra-re I 
Where, scattered like stars, the white pebbles gleam, 

Terra-re ! 

But deep in my breast, 

Sweet thoughts are at rest, 
No eye but my own in their beauty shall see ; 
They are dreams, happy dreams, young chieftain, of thee. 

The honey-bud blooms when the springtime is green. 

Terra-re / Terra-re! 
And the fawn with the roe, on the hilltop is seen, 

Terra-re I 


But 't is spring all the year, 

When my loved one is near, 
And his smiles are like bright beaming blossoms to me, 
Oh 1 to rove o'er the hilltop, young chieftain, with thee. 


Land of the South ! — imperial land I — 

How proud thy mountains rise I — 
How sweet thy scenes on every hand 1 

How fair thy covering skies I 
But not for this, — oh, not for these, 

I love thy fields to roam, — 
Thou hast a dearer spell to me, — 

Thou art my native home I 

Thy rivers roll their liquid wealth, 

Unequaled to the sea, — 
Thy hills and valleys bloom with health, 

And green with verdure be I 
But, not for thy proud ocean streams. 

Not for thine azure dome, — 
Sweet, sunny South 1 — I cling to thee, — 

Thou art my native home I 

I Ve stood beneath Italia's clime. 

Beloved of tale and song, — 
On Helvyn's hills, proud and sublime, 

Where nature's wonders throng ; 
By Tempe's classic sunlit streams, 

Where gods, of old, did roam, — 
But ne'er have found so fair a land 

As thou — my native home ! 


And thou hast prouder glories too, 

Than nature ever gave, — 
Peace sheds o'er thee, her genial dew. 

And Freedom's pinions wave, — 
Fair science flings her pearls around. 

Religion lifts her dome, — 
These, these endear thee, to my heart, — 

My own, loved native home 1 

And " heaven's best gift to man " is thine, 

God bless thy rosy girls ! — 
Like sylvan flowers, they sweetly shine, — 

Their hearts are pure as pearls 1 
And grace and goodness circle them. 

Where'er their footsteps roam, — 
How can I then, whilst loving them, 

Not love my native home 1 

Land of the South I — imperial land 1 — 

Then here 's a health to thee, — 
Long as thy mountain barriers stand, 

May'st thou be blessed and free 1 — 
May dark dissension's banner ne'er 

Wave o'er thy fertile loam, — 
But should it come, there 's one will die, 

To save his native home 1 


From the vale, what music ringing. 

Fills the bosom of the night; 
On the sense, entranced, flinging 

Spells of witchery and delight ! 


O'er magnolia, lime and cedar, 

From yon locust top, it swells, 
Like the chant of serenader. 
Or the rimes of silver bells ! 
Listen ! dearest, listen to it ! 

Sweeter sounds were never heard I 
'T is the song of that wild poet — 
Mime and minstrel — Mocking Bird. 

See him, swinging in his glory, 

On yon topmost bending limb 1 
Caroling his amorous story. 

Like some wild crusader's hymn I 
Now it faints in tones delicious 

As the first low vow of love 1 
Now it bursts in swells capricious, 

All the moonlit vale above I 
Listen I dearest, etc. 

Why is 't thus, this sylvan Petrarch 

Pours all night his serenade ? 
'Tis for some proud woodland Laura, 

His sad sonnets all are made 1 
But he changes now his measure — 

Gladness bubbling from his mouth — 
Jest, and gibe, and mimic pleasure — 

Winged Anacreon of the South 1 
Listen ! dearest, etc. 

Bird of music, wit and gladness. 

Troubadour of sunny climes, 
Disenchanter of all sadness, — 

Would thine art were in my rimes. 


O'er the heart that 's beating by me, 

I would weave a spell divine ; 
Is there aught she could deny me, 

Drinking in such strains as thine ? 
Listen ! dearest, etc. 


[Henry Rootes Jackson was born of English parentage in Athens, 
Georgia, in 1820, and died in Savannah in 1898. After graduating 
from Yale he practiced law in Georgia. He saw service in both the 
Mexican War and the Civil War. In 1853 he accepted a diplomatic 
appointment to Austria; in 1885 he was honored with a similar 
appointment to Mexico. His contribution to Southern poetry is a 
single volume of poems.] 


The red old hills of Georgia I 

So bald, and bare, and bleak — 
Their memory fills my spirit 

With thoughts I cannot speak. 
They have no robe of verdure, 

Stript naked to the blast ; 
And yet, of all the varied earth, 

I love them best at last. 

The red old hills of Georgia ! 

My heart is on them now ; 
Where, fed from golden streamlets, 

Oconee's waters flow ! 
I love them with devotion. 

Though washed so bleak and bare ; — 
Oh ! can my spirit e'er forget 

The warm hearts dwelling there ? 


I love them for the living, — 

The generous, kind, and gay ; 
And for the dead who slumber 

Within their breasts of clay. 
I love them for the bounty. 

Which cheers the social hearth ; 
I love them for their rosy girls — 

The fairest on the earth ! 

The red old hills of Georgia 1 

Oh I where, upon the face 
Of earth, is freedom's spirit 

More bright in any race ? — 
In Switzerland and Scotland 

Each patriot breast it fills. 
But oh ! it blazes brighter yet 

Among our Georgia hills I 

And where, upon their surface. 

Is heart to feeling dead ? — 
Oh I when has needy stranger 

Gone from those hills unfed ? 
There bravery and kindness. 

For aye, go hand in hand. 
Upon your washed and naked hills, 

" My own, my native land I " 

The red old hills of Georgia 

I never can forget ; 
Amid life's joys and sorrows. 

My heart is on them yet ; — 


And when my course is ended, 

When life her web has wove, 
Oh ! may I then, beneath those hills. 

Lie close to them I love I 


The tattoo beats ; — the lights are gone ; — 
The camp around in slumber lies ; — 

The night, with solemn pace, moves on ; — m 
The shadows thicken o'er the skies ; — 

But sleep my weary eyes hath flown, 
And sad, uneasy thoughts arise. 

I think of thee, oh 1 dearest one I 

Whose love mine early life hath blest ; — 

Of thee and him — our baby son — ^^ 

Who slumbers on thy gentle breast ; — Vjf 

God of the tender, frail, and lone. 
Oh I guard that little sleeper's rest I 

And hover, gently hover near 

To her, whose watchful eye is wet — 

The mother, wife, the doubly dear, 

In whose young heart have freshly met 

Two streams of love so deep and clear — 
And cheer her drooping spirit yet I 

Now, as she kneels before thy throne, 
Oh I teach her. Ruler of the skies I 
That while, by thy behest alone, 


Earth's mightiest powers fall or rise, 
No tear is wept to thee unknown, 
Nor hair is lost, nor sparrow dies I 

That thou canst stay the ruthless hand 
Of daVk disease, and soothe its pain ; 

That only by thy stem command 
The battle 's lost, the soldier 's slain ; 

That from the distant sea or land 

Thou bring'st the wanderer home again I 

And when upon her pillow lone 

Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed, 

May happier visions beam upon 

The brightening currents of her breast, — 

Nor frowning look, nor angry tone, 
Disturb the sabbath of her rest I 

Whatever fate those forms may throw, 
Loved with a passion almost wild — 

By day, by night — in joy, or woe — 
By fears oppressed, or hopes beguiled — 

From every danger, every foe. 

Oh I God ! protect my wife and child ! 


[James Matthews Legar^ was born in Charleston, South Carolina, 
in 1823. Very little is known of him beyond the fact that he in- 
vented several appliances which failing health prevented him from 
perfecting, and that he contributed poetry to the magazines. His 
single volume of verse, " Orta-Undis, and Other Poems," was pub- 
lished in 1848. He died in Aiden, South Carolina, in 1859.] 



Go bow thy head in gentle spite, 
Thou lily white. 

For she who spies thee waving here, 
With thee in beauty can compare 
As day with night. 

Soft are thy leaves and white : her arms 
Boast whiter charms. 
Thy stem prone bent with loveliness 
Of maiden grace possesseth less : 
Therein she charms. 

Thou in thy lake dost see 
Thyself : so she 
Beholds her image in her eyes 
Reflected. Thus did Venus rise 
From out the sea. 

Inconsolate, bloom not again, 

Thou rival vain 

Of her whose charms have thine outdone : 

Whose purity might spot the sun, 

And make thy leaf a stain. ♦ 


While yesterevening, through the vale 
Descending from my cottage door 
I strayed, how cool and fresh a look 
All nature wore. 


The calmias and goldenrods, 
And tender blossoms of the haw, 
Like maidens seated in the wood, 
Demure, I saw. 

The recent drops upon their leaves 
Shone brighter than the bluest eyes, 
And filled the little sheltered dell 
Their fragrant sighs. 

Their pliant arms they interlaced. 
As pleasant canopies they were : 
Their blossoms swung against my cheek 
Like braids of hair. 

And when I put their boughs aside 
And stooped to pass, from overhead 
The little agitated things 
A shower shed 

Of tears. Then thoughtfully I spoke ; 
Well represent ye maidenhood. 
Sweet flowers. Life is to the young 
A shady wood. 

And therein some like goldenrods. 
For grosser purposes designed, 
A gay existence lead, but leave 
No germ behind. 

And others like the calmias. 

On cliff-sides inaccessible, 

Bloom paramount, the vale with sweets 

Yet never fill. 


But underneath the glossy leaves, 
When, working out the perfect law, 
The blossoms white and fragrant still 
Drop from the haw ; 

Like worthy deeds in silence wrought 
And secret, through the lapse of years. 
In clusters pale and delicate 
The fruit appears. 

In clusters pale and delicate 
But waxing heavier each day, 
Until the many-colored leaves 
Drift from the spray. 

Then pendulous, like amethysts 
And rubies, purple ripe and red, 
Wherewith God's feathered pensioners 
In flocks are fed. 

Therefore, sweet reader of this rime. 
Be unto thee examples high 
Not calmias and goldenrods 
That scentless die : 

But the meek blossoms of the haw, 
That fragrant are wherever wind 
The forest paths, and perishing 
Leave fruits behind. 



How, with strange fondness, turns her loving eye, 

In tearful welcome, on each gallant son I 
Oh I by her virtues of the cherished past — 

By all her hopes of what the future brings — 
I glory that my lot with her is cast. 

And my soul flushes, and exultant sings : 
She 's mine — she 's ever mine — 
For her I will resign 
All precious things — all placed upon her shrine ; 
Will freely part 
With life, hope, heart, — 
Will die — do aught but fly 1 


We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, 

His friends and merry men are we ; 
And when the troop of Tarleton rides. 

We burrow in the cypress tree. 
The turfy hammock is our bed, 

Our home is in the red deer's den, 
Our roof, the tree top overhead. 

For we are wild and hunted men. 

We fly by day and shun its light. 

But, prompt to strike the sudden blow, 
We mount and start with early night, 

And through the forest track our foe. 
And soon he hears our chargers leap. 

The flashing saber blinds his eyes. 
And ere he drives away his sleep, 

And rushes from his camp, he dies. 


Free bridle bit, good gallant steed, 

That will not ask a kind caress 
To swim the Santee at our need, 

When on his heels the foemen press, — 
The true heart and the ready hand, 

The spirit stubborn to be free, 
The twisted bore, .the smiting brand, — 

And we are Marion^s men, you see. 

Now light the fire and cook the meal, 

The last, perhaps, that we shall taste ; 
I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal, 

And that's a sign we move in haste. 
He whistles to the scouts, and hark I 

You hear his order calm and low. 
Come, wave your torch across the dark. 

And let us see the boys that go. 

We may not see their forms again, 

God help 'em, should they find the strife I 
For they are strong and fearless men. 

And make no coward terms for life ; 
They'll fight as long as Marion bids, 

And when he speaks the word to shy. 
Then, not till then, they turn their steeds. 

Through thickening shade and swamp to fiy. 

' Now stir the fire and lie at ease, — 
The scouts are gone, and on the brush 

I see the Colonel bend his knees. 
To take his slumbers too. But hush ! 


He's praying, comrades ; 'tis not strange ; 

The man that's fighting day by day 
May well, when night comes, take a change, 

And down upon his knees to pray. 

Break up that hoecake, boys, and hand 

The sly and silent jug that's there; 
I love not it should idly stand 

When Marion's men have need of cheer. 
'Tis seldom that our luck affords 

A stuff like this we just have quaffed, 
And dry potatoes on our boards 

May always call for such a draft. 

Now pile the brush and roll tjie log ; 

Hard pillow, but a soldier's head 
That's half the time in brake and bog 

Must never think of softer bed. 
The owl is hooting to the night, 

The cooter crawling o'er the bank. 
And in that pond the flashing light 

Tells where the alligator sank. 

What ! 't is the signal I start so soon. 

And through the San tee swamp so deep, 
Without the aid of friendly moon. 

And we, Heaven help us ! half asleep I 
But courage, comrades ! Marion leads, 

The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night ; 
So clear your swords and spur your steeds, 

There 's goodly chance, I think, of fight 


We follow where the Swamp Fox guides, 

We leave the swamp and cypress tree, 
Our spurs are in our coursers* sides. 

And ready for the strife are we. 
The 1 bry camp is now in sight, 

And there he cowers within his den ; 
He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight. 

He fears, and flies from Marion's men. 


[For sketch of Poe's life see page 27.] 


Helen, thy beauty is to me 

Like those Nicean barks of yore. 

That gently, o'er a perfumed sea. 
The weary, waywoni wanderer bore 
To his own native shore. 

On desperate seas long wont to roam. 
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face. 

Thy Naiad airs have brought me home 
To the glory that was Greece, 

And the grandeur that was Rome. 

Lo ! in yon brilliant window niche 
How statue-like I see thee stand. 
The agate lamp within thy hand 1 

Ah, Psyche, from the regions which 
Are Holy-Land I 


Lpper pictin the doorway of the room wilh ihe memorul tablet 

above ii milili pifturt the arcade in wh ch the room la loctled, 

Imoer pUturt, the interior of (he room as it is at present with various 

relics relating to Foe 




In Heaven a spirit doth dwell 

" Whose heart-strings are a lute"; 
None sing so wildly well 
As the angel Israfel, 
And the giddy stars (so legends tell), 
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell 

Of his voice, all mute. 

Tottering above 

In her highest noon. 

The enamored moon 
Blushe^ with love. 

While, to listen, the red levin 

(With the rapid Pleiads, even. 

Which were seven,) 

Pauses in Heaven. 

And they say (the starry choir 

And the other listening things) 
That Israfeli's fire 
Is owing to that lyre 

By which he sits and sings — 
The trembling living wire 

Of those unusual strings. 

But the skies that angel trod. 
Where deep thoughts are a duty — 
Where Love's a grown-up God — 

Where the Houri glances are 
Imbued with all the beauty 

Which we worship in a star. 


Therefore, thou art not wrong, 

Israfeli, who despisest 
An unimpassioned song ; 
To thee the laurels belong, 

Best bard, because the wisest 1 
Merrily live, and long 1 

The ecstasies above 

With thy burning measures suit — 
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love. 

With the fervor of thy lute — 

Well may the stars be mute 1 

Yes, Heaven is thine ; but this^ 

Is a world of sweets and sours ; 

Our flowers are merely — flowers. 
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 

Is the sunshine of ours. 

If I could dwell 
Where Israfel 

Hath dwelt, and he where I, 
He might not sing so wildly well 

A mortal melody. 
While a bolder note than this might swell 

From my lyre within the sky. 


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and 

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore — 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, 


As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 
" Tis some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my chamber 
door — 

Only this and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December ; 
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost 

Lenore — 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 

Lenore — 

Nameless here forevermore. 

jl ^^ And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; 
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating 
** 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — 
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ; 

This it is and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no longer, 
" Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore ; 
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping. 
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door. 
That I scarce was sure I heard you " — here I opened wide 
the door; — 

Darkness there and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,. 

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal, ^ver dared, to dreaux 

before ; 


But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, 
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 

" Lenore ! " 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 

" Lenore I " 

Merely this and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning. 
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. 
" Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my window 

lattice ; 
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore — 
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore ; — 

'Tis the wind and nothing more." 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter. 
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. 
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or 

stayed he ; 
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber 

door — 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door — 

Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 
By the grave and stem decorum of the countenance it wore, 
" Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art 

sure no craven. 
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly 

shore — 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Phitonian 

shore I " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 


Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore ; 
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door — 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, 

With such name as " Nevermore." 

But the Raven/ sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour, 
Nothing further then he uttered — not a feather then he 

fluttered — 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, — " Other friends have 

flown before — 
On the morrow Ae will leave me, as my Hopes have flown 


Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly sf)oken, 
"Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store, 
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster till his- songs one burden 

bore — 
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 

Of * Never — nevermore.' " 

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling. 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust 

and door; 
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird 

of yore 

Meant in croaking *' Nevermore." 


This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's 

core ; 
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er. 
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er, 
^ * ^ Ske shall press, ah, nevermore I 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an 

unseen censer 
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. 
" Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee — by these angels 

he hath sent thee 
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore ; 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore ! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

".Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or 

devil I — 
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here 

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — 
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — 
Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell me, I 

implore ! " 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or 

devil ! 
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we bodi 

adore — 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, 



It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore — 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore I " 
, Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." - ,U 'h 

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend 1 " /I shrieked, 

upstarting — 
" Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian 

shore 1 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken I — quit the bust above my door! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off 

my door!" 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, sHll is sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door ; 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, 
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on 

the floor; 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor 

Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 


The skies they were ashen and sober ; 

The leaves they were crisped and sere, 

The leaves they were withering and sere ; 
It was night in the lonesome October 

Of my most immemorial year ; 
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, 

In the misty mid region of Weir : 
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, 

In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 


Here once, through an alley Titanic 

Of cjrpress, I roamed with my Soul — 
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. 

These were days when my heart was volcanic 
As the scoriae rivers that roll, 
As the lavas that restlessly roll 

Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek 
In the ultimate climes of the f)ole. 

That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek 
In the realms of the boreal pole. 

Our talk had been serious and sober, 

But our thoughts they were palsied and sere, 
Our memories were treacherous and sere. 

For we knew not the month was October, 

And we marked not the night of the year, 
(Ah, night of all nights in the year I) 

We noted not the dim lake of Auber 

(Though once we had journeyed down here), 

Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber 

Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 

And now, as the night was senescent 
And star-dials f)ointed to mom. 
As the star-dials hinted of mom. 

At the end of our path a liquescent 
And nebulous luster was bom. 

Out of which a miraculous crescent 
Arose with a duplicate horn, 

Astarte's bediamonded crescent 

Distinct with its duplicate horn. 


And I said — " She is warmer than Dian : 

She rolls through an ether of sighs, 

She revels in a region of sighs : 
She has seen that the tears are not dry on 

These cheeks, where the worm never dies. 
And has come past the stars of the Lion 

To point us the path to the skies, 

To the Lethean peace of the skies : 
Come up, in despite of the Lion, 

To shine on us with her bright eyes : 
Come up through the lair of the Lion, 

With love in her luminous eyes." 

But Psyche, uplifting her finger. 

Said — " Sadly this star I mistrust, 
Her pallor I strangely mistrust : 

Oh, hasten I — oh, let us not linger 1 

Oh, fly 1 — let us fly ! — for we must." 

In terror she spoke, letting sink her 

Wings until they trailed in the dust ; 

In agony sobbed, letting sink her " 

Plumes till they trailed in the dust. 
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 

I replied — " This is nothing but dreaming : 
Let us on by this tremulous light I 
Let us bathe in this crystalline light ! 

Its sibyllic splendor is beaming 

With hope and in beauty to-night : 

See, it flickers up the sky through the night I 

Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, 


And be sure it will lead us aright : 
We safely may trust to a gleaming 
That cannot but guide us aright, 
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night." 

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, 
And tempted her out of her gloom. 
And conquered her scruples and gloom ; 

And we passed to the end of the vista, 

But were stopped by the door of a tomb, 
By the door of a legended tomb ; 

And I said — " What is written, sweet sister. 
On the door of this legended tomb ? " 
She replied — " Ulalume — Ulalume — 
T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume ! " 

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober 

As the leaves that were crispbd and sere, 
As the leaves that were withering and sere, 

And I cried — " It was surely October 
On this very night of last year 
That I journeyed — I journeyed down here. 
That I brought a dread burden down here : 
On this night of all nights in the year, 
Ah, what demon has tempted me here ? 

Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber, 
This misty mid region of Weir : 

Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, 
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." 



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 that 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, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
So that her highborn kinsmen came 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulcher 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in heaven. 
Went envying her and me — 

Yes 1 — 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 abpve, 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can 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 nighttide, I lie down by the side 
Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride, 

In the sepulcher there by the sea — 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 


^Gayly bedight, 

A gallant knight. 
In sunshine and in shadow, 

Had journeyed long. 

Singing a song. 
In search of Eldorado. 

But he grew old. 

This knight so bold, 
And o'er his heart a shadow 

Fell as he found 

No spot of ground 
That looked like Eldorado. 


And, as his strength 

Failed him at length, 
He met a pilgrim shadow : 

" Shadow," said he, 

" Where can it be, 
This land of Eldorado ? " 

" Over the Mountains 

Of the Moon, 
Down the Valley of the Shadow, 

Ride, boldly ride," 

The shade replied, 
" If you seek for Eldorado ! " 



[James Ryder Randall was bom in Baltimore, Maryland, in 1839. 
After being educated at Georgetown College he entered business in 
Baltimore, but finally drifted into teaching and became professor of 
literature at Poydras College in Louisiana. In his latter years he 
was connected with The Chronicle of Augusta, Georgia, where he 
died in 1 908. During the war he wrote several excellent war poems, 
and after the war he continued to write verse in connection with his 
newspaper work.] 


The despot's heel is on thy shore, 

Maryland ! 
His torch is at thy temple door, 

Maryland I 
Avenge the patriotic gore 
That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
And be the battle-queen of yore, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Hark to an exiled son's appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My Mother State, to thee I kneel, 

Maryland ! 
For life and death, for woe and weal. 
Thy peerless chivalr)^ reveal, 
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 


Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 

Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 

Maryland ! 
Remember -Carroirs sacred trust, 
Remember Howard's warlike thrust. 
And all thy slumberers with the just, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Come ! 't is the red dawn of the day, 

Come with thy panoplied array, 

Maryland ! 
With Ringgold's spirit for the fray. 
With Watson's blood at Monterey, 
With fearless Lowe and dashing May, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Dear Mother, burst the tyrant chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia should not call in vain, 

Maryland ! 
She meets her sisters on the plain, — 
" Sic semper /^^ \ is the proud refrain 
That baffles minions back amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise in majesty again, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Come I for thy shield is bright and strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 

Maryland ! 


Come to thine own heroic throng 
Stalking with Liberty along, 
And chant thy dauntless slogan-song, 
Maryland, my Maryland ! 

I see the blush upon thy cheek, 

Maryland I 
For thou wast ever bravely meek, 

Maryland ! 
But lo ! there surges forth a shriek, 
From hill to hill, from creek to creek, 
Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

Maryland, my Maryland I 

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou wilt not crook to his control, 

Maryland I 
Better the fire upon thee roll. 
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, 
Than crucifixion of the soul, 

Maryland, my Maryland I 

I hear the distant thunder hum, 

Maryland I 
The Old Line bugle, fife, and drum, 

Maryland ! 
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb ; 
Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum ! 
She breathes ! She bums! She 11 come I She 11 come! 

Maryland, my Maryland I 



Just as the spring came laughing through the strife, 

With all its gorgeous cheer, 
In the bright April of historic life 

Fell the great cannoneer. 

The wondrous lulling of a hero's breath 

His bleeding country weeps ; 
Hushed, in the alabaster arms of Death, 

Our young Marcellus sleeps. 

Nobler and grander than the child of Rome, 

Curbing his chariot steeds. 
The knightly scion of a Southern home 

Dazzled the land with deeds. 

Gentlest and bravest in the battle-brunt — 

The Champion of the Truth — 
He bore his banner to the very front 

Of our immortal youth. 

A clang of sabers mid Virginian snow, 

The fiery pang of shells, — 
And there's a wail of immemorial woe 
- In Alabama dells : 

The pennon droops, that led the sacred band 

Along the crimson field ; 
The meteor blade sinks from the nerveless hand, 

Over the spotless shield 


We gazed and gazed upon that beauteous face, 

While, round the !ips and eyes, 
Couched in their marble slumber, flashed the grace 

Of a divine suqirise. 

O mother of a blessed soul on high, 

Thy tears may soon be shed I 
Think of thy boy, with princes of the sky, 

Amoi^ the Southern dead. 

How must he smile on this dull woiid beneath, 

Fevered with swift renown, -:- 
He, with the martyr's amaranthme wread^ 

Twining the victor's crown 1 

[For sketch of Pike see page 198.] 
Southrons, hear your country i^l yuul 
Up. lest worse than death befall you 1 

To arms I To arms I^MBft 9^ ^'"'^ 
Lo I all the 
Let all hearts 

. yiven — 
grown to be 

>'-i.- would prefer — 
; ihat bears a Single 

ts, Hurrah I 
lias gained the Eleventh 

John Esten Cooke see page 1 23.] 


iafier Pelham died 

the pine wood cease I 
ith your splendid call ; 

brave and noble, 
dead are bravest of all I 

nial summons, 
- (It strain, 

:s of long dead friends 



We are a band of brothers, and native to the soil, 
Fighting for our liberty, with treasure, blood, and toil ; 

And when our rights were threatened, the cry rose near 
and far: 

Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single Star I 


Hurrah I Hurrah I for Southern rights. Hurrah ! 

Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single Star I 

As long as the Union was faithful to her trust, 

Like friends and like brethren kind were we and just ; 

But now when Northern treachery attempts our rights to mar. 
We hoist on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single 
Star. — Chorus 

First gallant South Carolina nobly made the stand ; 

Then came Alabama, who took her by the hand ; 
Next, quickly Mississippi, Georgia, and Florida, 
All raised on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single 
Star. — Chorus 

Ye men of valor, gather round the banner of the right, 

Texas and fair Louisiana, join us in the fight : 

Davis, our loved President, and Stephens, statesman rare, 
Now rally round the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single 
Star. — Chorus 

And here 's to brave Virginia ! The Old Dominion State 
With the young Confederacy at length has linked her fate ; 
Impelled by her example, now other States prepare 
To hoist on high the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single 
Star. — Chorus 


Then cheer, boys, cheer, raise the joyous shout, 
For Arkansas and North Carolina now have both gone out ; ' 
And let another rousing cheer for Tennessee be given — 
The Single Star of the Bonnie Blue Flag has grown to be 
eleven. — Chorus 

Then, here 's to our Confederacy ; strong we are and brave, 
Like patriots of old we '11 fight our heritage to save ; 

And rather than submit to shame, to die we would prefer — 
So cheer again for the JBonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single 
Star I 


Hurrah ! Hurrah ! for Southern rights, Hurrah ! 
Hurrah I for the Bonnie Blue Flag has gained the Eleventh 

[For biographical note in regard to John Esten Cooke see page 1 23.] 

Heard after Pelham died 

Oh, band in the pine wood cease I 

Cease with your splendid call ; 
The living are brave and noble, 

But the dead are bravest of all ! 

They throng to the martial summons. 

To the loud triumphant strain. 
And the dear bright eyes of long dead friends 

Come to the heart again I 


They come with the ringing bugle. 
And the deep drums' mellcw roar; 

Till the soul is faint with longing 
For the hands we clasp no more 1 

Oh, band in the pine wood cease 1 
Or the heart will melt with tears, 

For the gallant eyes and the smiHiig lips. 
And the voices of old years. 


[John Reuben Thompson was bom in Richmond, Virginia, in 
1823. After graduating from the Univeraty of Virginia, he studied 
law and setded in Richmond. 
His interest in literary pursuits 
caused him, however, to turn 
aside from law in 1847 to the 
editorship of the Southern 
Literary Messenger. In 1859 
he moved to Augusta, Georgia, 
to become editor of The South- 
em Field and Fireside. Be- 
ing incapacitated by frail health 
for military service, Thompson 
went during the Civil War to 
London, where he wrote articles 
for English magazines in de- 
fense of the Confederacy. In 
1866 he became literary editor 
of the New York Evening Post^ 
and is said to have been one 
of the two most distinguished 
occupants of that posidon. He died in New Yorti in 1873. His 
"■oems l]iLVc unfortunately never been collected in book form.] 




To the brave all homage render ! 

Weep, ye skies of June ! 
With a radiance pure and tender, 

Shine, O saddened moon ; 
" Dead upon the field of glory I ^^ — 
Hero fit for song and story — 

Lies our bold dragoon 1 

Well they learned, whose hands have slain him. 

Braver, knightlier foe 
Never fought 'gainst Moor nor Paynim — 

Rode at Templestowe : 
With a mien how high and joyous, 
'Gainst the hordes that would destroy us. 

Went he forth, we know. 

Nevermore, alas ! shall saber 

Gleam around his crest — 
Fought his fight, fulfilled his labor. 

Stilled his manly breast — 
All unheard sweet Nature's cadence. 
Trump of fame and voice of maidens. 

Now he takes his rest. 

Earth, that all too soon hath bound him, 

Gently wrap his clay I 
Linger lovingly around him. 

Light of dying day ! 
Softly fall the summer showers — 
Birds and bees among the flowers 

Make the gloom seem gay ! 


There, throughout the coming ages, 

When his sword is rust. 
And his deeds in classic pages — 

Mindful of her trust, 
Shall Virginia, bending lowly, 
Still a ceaseless vigil holy 

Keep above his dust ! 


Two armies covered hill and plain, 

Where Rappahannock's waters 
Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain 

Of battle's 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. 

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 mom, 

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. 

And yet once more the bugles 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. 

And fair the form of music shines. 

That bright, celestial creature. 
Who still, 'mid war's embattled lines, 

Gave this one touch of Nature. 



The combat raged not long, but ours the day ; 

And through the hosts that compassed us around 
Our little band rode proudly on its way, 

Leaving one gallant comrade, glory-crowned, 
Unburied on the field he died to gain, 
Single of all his men amid the hostile slain. 

One moment on the battle's edge he stood, 

Hope's halo like a helmet round his hair, 
The nest beheld him, dabbled in his blood. 

Prostrate in death, and yet in death how fair ! 
Even thus he passed through the red gate of strife. 
From earthly crowns and psalms to an immortal life. 

A brother bore his body from the field 

And gave it unto stranger's hands that closed 

The calm, blue eyes on earth forever sealed, 
And tenderly the slender limbs composed : 

Strangers, yet sisters, who with Mary's love. 

Sat by the open tomb and weeping looked above. 

A little child strewed roses on his bier. 

Pale roses, not more stainless than his soul, 

Nor yet more fragrant than his life sincere 

That blossomed with good actions, brief, but whole : 

The aged matron and the faithful slave 

Approached with reverent feet the hero's lowly grave. 

No man of God might say the burial rite 

Above the " rebel " — thus declared the foe 
That blanched before him in the deadly fight. 


But woman's voice, in accents soft and low, 
Trembling with pity, touched with pathos, read 
Over his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead. 

" 'T is sown in weakness, it is raised in power," 

Softly the promise floated on the air, 
And the sweet breathings of the sunset hour 

Came back responsive to the mourner's prayer ; 
Gently they laid him underneath the sod. 
And left him with his fame, his country, and his God 

Let us not weep for him whose deeds endure, 
So young, so brave, so beautiful, he died ; 

As he had wished to die ; the past is sure, 
Whatever yet of sorrow may betide 

Those who still linger by the stormy shore. 

Change cannot harm him now nor fortune touch him more. 

And when Virginia, leaning on her spear, 

Victrix et vidua, the conflict done, 
Shall raise her mailed hand to wipe the tear 

That starts as she recalls each martyred son, . 
No prouder memory her breast shall sway, 
Than thine, our early-lost, lamented Latane. 


[William Gordon McCabe was bom at Richmond, Virginia, in 
1841. During the war he served in the artillery of the Army of 
Northern Virginia. After the war he established at Petersburg, 
Virginia, a boys' preparatory school, which after some years was 
moved to Richmond. Mr. McCabe has published not only poems 
textbooks, literary reviews, and historical articles.] 



I picture her there in the quaint old room, 
Where the fading firelight starts and falls, 

Alone in the twilight^s tender gloom 

With the shadows that dance on the dim-lit walls. 

Alone, while those faces look silently down 
From their antique frames in a grim repose — 

Slight scholarly Ralph in his Oxford gown. 
And stanch Sir Alan, who died for Montrose. 

There are gallants gay in crimson and gold. 
There are smiling beauties with powdered hair, 

But she sits there, fairer a thousandfold. 
Leaning dreamily back in her low armchair. 

And the roseate shadows of fading light 
Softly clear steal over the sweet young face, 

Where a woman's tenderness blends to-night 
With the guileless pride of a knightly race. 

Her small hands lie clasped in a listless way 

On the old Romance — which she holds on her knee — 

Of Tristram^ the bravest of knights in the fray. 
And Iseult, who waits by the sounding sea. 

And her proud, dark eyes wear a softened look 

As she watches the dying embers fall : 
Perhaps she dreams of the knight in the book. 

Perhaps of the pictures that smile on the wall 


What fancies I wonder are thronging her brain, 
For her cheeks flush warm with a crimson glow ! 

Perhaps — ah 1 me, how foolish and vain I 
But I'd give my life to believe it so ! 

Well, whether I ever march home again 
To offer my love and a stainless name, 

Or whether I die at the head of my men, — 
I '11 be true to the end all the same. 


The wintry blast goes wailing by. 
The snow is falling overhead ; 
I hear the lonely sentry's tread, 

And distant watch fires light the sky. 

Dim forms go flitting through the gloom ; 
The soldiers cluster round the blaze 
To talk of other Christmas days, 

And softly speak of home and home. 

My saber swinging overhead 

Gleams in the watch fire's fitful glow, 
While fiercely drives the blinding snow, 

And memory leads me to the dead. 

My thoughts go wandering to and fro, 
Vibrating 'twixt the Now and Then ; 
I see the low-browed home again, 

The old hall wreathed with mistletoe. 


And sweetiy from the far-off years 

Comes borne the laughter faint and low, 
The voices of the Long Ago I 

My eyes are wet with tender tears. 

I feel again the mother-kiss, 

I see again the glad surprise 

That lighted up the tranquil eyes 
And brimmed them o'er with tears of bliss. 

As, rushing from the old hall door. 

She fondly clasped her wayward boy — 
Her face all radiant with the joy 

She felt to see him home once more. 

My saber swinging on the bough 

Gleams in the watch fire's fitful glow. 
While fiercely drives the blinding snow 

Aslant upon my saddened brow. 

Those cherished faces all are gone I 
Asleep within the quiet graves 
Where lies the snow in drifting waves, — 

And I am sitting here alone. 

There 's not a comrade here to-night 

But knows that loved ones far away 
On bended knees this night will pray : 

" God bring our darling from the fight." 

But there are none to wish me back, 

For me no yearning prayers arise. 

The lips are mute and closed the eyes — 
My home is in the bivouac. 



What shall we say now of our gentle knight ? 

Or how express the measure of our woe 
For him who rode the foremost in the fight, 

Whose good blade flashed so far amid the foe ? 

Of all his knightly deeds what need to tell — 

That good blade now lies fast within its sheath — 

What can we do but point to where he fell, 
And, like a soldier, met a soldier's death. 

We sorrow not as those who have no hope, 
For he was pure in heart as brave in deed — 

God pardon us, if blind with tears we grope. 
And love be questioned by the hearts that bleed. 

And yet — O foolish and of little faith ! — 

We cannot choose but weep our useless tears — 

We loved him so I we never dreamed that Death 
Would dare to touch him in his brave young years. 

Ah ! dear bronzed face, so fearless and so bright I 
As kind to friend as thou wast stem to foe — 

No more we '11 see thee radiant in the fight, 
The eager eyes — the flush on cheek and brow. 

No more we '11 greet the lithe, familiar form 

Amid the surging smoke with deaf'ning cheer — 

No more shall soar above the iron storm 

Thy ringing voice in accents sweet and clear. 


Aye ! he has fought the fight and passed away — 
Our grand young leader smitten in the strife, 

So swift to seize the chances of the fray, 
And careless only of his noble life. 

He is not dead but sleepeth 1 Well we know 
The form that lies to-day beneath the sod 

Shall rise what time the golden bugles blow 

And pour their music through the courts of Grod. 

And there amid our great heroic dead. 

The war-worn sons of God whose work is done! — 

His face shall shine, as they with stately tread 
In grand review sweep past the jasper throne. 

Let not our hearts be troubled I Few and brief 
His days were here, yet rich in love and faith ; 

Lord, we believe, help Thou our unbelief, 

And grant Thy servants such a life and death I 


[John Williamson Palmer was born in Baltimore, Maryland, in 
1 825. After studying medicine, he began the practice of his profes- 
sion in San Francisco. After 1870 he resided in New York and 
engaged in general literary work. For a time he was editorially con- 
nected with the Century Dictionary. His collected poems were 
published in 1901 under the title "For Charlie's Sake, and Other 
Ballads and Lyrics. He died in 1906."] 


Come, stack arms, men : pile on the rails ; 

Stir up the camp fire bright I 
No growling if the canteen fails : 

We '11 make a roaring night. 


Here Shenandoah brawls along, 
There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong 
To swell the Brigade's rousing song, 
Of Stonewall Jackson's Way. 

We see him now — the queer slouched hat. 

Cocked over his eye askew : 
The shrewd, dry smile ; the speech so pat, 

So calm, so blunt, so true. 
The " Blue-light Elder " knows 'em well : 
Says he, " That 's Banks : he 's fond of shell. 
Lord save his soul : we '11 give him — " : well, 

That 's Stonewall Jackson's Way. 

Silence I Ground arms ! Kneel all ! Caps off I 

Old Massa 's going to pray. 
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff : 

Attention 1 — it 's his way. 
Appealing from his native sod. 
In forma pauperis to God, 
" Lay bare Thine arm I Stretch forth Thy rod : 

Amen ! " That 's Stonewall's Way. 

He 's in the saddle now. Fall in ! 

Steady ! the whole brigade. 
Hill 's at the ford, cut off ; we '11 win 

His way out, ball and blade. 
What matter if our shoes are worn t 
What matter if our feet are torn ? 
Quick step 1 we 're with him before mom 

That 's Stonewall Jackson's Way. 


The sun's bright lances rout the mists 

Of morning ; and, By George 1 
Here 's Longstreet, struggling in the lists, 

Hemmed in an ugly gorge. 
Pope and his Dutchmen I whipped before. 
" Bayonets and grape ! " hear Stonewall roar. 
Charge, Stuart I Pay off Ashby's score. 

In Stonewall Jackson's Way. 

Ah, Maiden ! wait, and watch, and yearn, 
For news of Stonewall's band. 

Ah, Widow I read, with eyes that bum. 
That ring upon thy hand. 

Ah, Wife 1 sew on, pray on, hope on I 

Thy life shall not be all forlorn. 

The foe had better ne'er been bom. 
That gets in Stonewall's Way. 


[Henry Lynden Flash was born in Cincinnati, Ohio, in 1835. He 
was an officer in the Confederate army and after the war made his 
home in New Orleans until 1886, when he removed to Los Angeles, 
California. In i860 he published a volume entitied " Poems," but 
his reputation rests chiefly upon several pieces written in war time.] 


Not midst the lightning of the stormy fight, 
Nor in the rush upon the vandal foe. 

Did kingly Death, with his resistless might. 
Lay the great leader low. 


His warrior soul its earthly shackles broke 
In the full sunshine of a peaceful town ; 

When all the storm was hushed, the trusty oak 
That propped our cause went down. 

Though his alone the blood that flecks the ground, 

Recalling all his grand heroic deeds. 
Freedom herself is writhing in the wound, 

And all the country bleeds. 

He entered not the Nation's Promised Land 
At the red belching of the cannon's mouth, 

But broke the House of Bondage with his hand — 
The Moses of the South 1 

O gracious God I not gainless is the loss : 
A glorious sunbeam gilds thy sternest frown ; 

And while his country staggers 'neath the Cross, 
He rises with the Crown I 


[Thaddeus Oliver was born in Twiggs County, Georgia, in 1826. 
He was an eloquent lawyer and a gifted man. He died in a hospital 
at Charleston, South Carolina, in 1864.] 


"All quiet along the Potomac," they say, 

" Except now and then a stray picket 
Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro. 

By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 


'T is nothing — a private or two, now and then, 
Will not count in the news of the battle ; 

Not an officer lost — only one of the men, 
Moaning out, all alone, the death ratde." 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ; 
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon. 

Or the light of the watch fires, are gleaming. 
A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night wind 

Through the forest leaves softly is creeping ; 
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, 

Keep guard — for the army is sleeping. 

There 's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread. 

As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, 
And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed 

Far away in the cot on the mountain. 
His musket falls slack — his face, dark and grim, 

Grows gentle with memories tender, 
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep — 

For their mother — may Heaven defend her ! 

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then. 

That night, when the love yet unspoken 
Leaped up to his lips — when low-murmured vows 

Were pledged to be ever unbroken. 
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, 

He dashes off tears that are welling. 
And gathers his gun closer up to its place 

As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 


He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree — 

The footstep is lagging and weary ; 
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, 

Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. 
Hark I was it the night wind that rustled the leaves ? 

Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing ? 
It looked like a rifle — "Ah ! Mary, good-by ! " 

And the lifeblood is ebbing and plashing. 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 
No sound save the rush of the river ; 

While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead — 
The picket 's off duty forever. 


[Marie Ravenel de la Coste was bom of French parents in 
Savannah, Georgia, where the greater part of her early life was 
spent. Her life has been devoted to teaching French, and the 
writing of poetry has been merely an incidental matter with her. 
Owing to her reticence about herself, it is not possible to give fuller 
biographical details.] 


Into a ward of the whitewashed walls 

Where the dead and the dying lay. 
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls. 

Somebody's darling was borne one day. 
Somebody's darling, so young and brave. 

Wearing still on his pale, sweet face — 
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave — 

The lingering light of his boyhood's grace. 


Matted and damp are the curls of gold 

Kissing the snow of that fair young brow ; 
Pale are the lips of delicate mold, 

Somebody's darling is dying now. 
Back from the beautiful blue-veined brow 

Brush every wandering silken thread, 
Cross his hands on his bosom now — 

Somebody's darling is still and dead ! 

Kiss him once for somebody's sake ; 

Murmur a prayer both soft and low ; 
One bright curl from its fair mates take — 

They were somebody's pride, you know. 
Somebody's hand has rested there ; 

Was it a mother's soft and white ? 
Or have the lips of a sister fair 

Been baptized in those waves of light ? 

God knows best I He was somebody's love ; 

Somebody's heart enshrined him there — 
Somebody wafted his name above, 

Night and mom, on the wings of prayer. 
Somebody wept when he marched away. 

Looking so handsome, brave, and grand ; 
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, 

Somebody clung to his parting hand. 

Somebody 's watching and waiting for him, 
Yearning to hold him again to her heart ; 

And there he lies — with his blue eyes dim, 
And the smiling, childlike lips apart. 


Tenderly bury the fair young dead, 
Pausing to drop on his grave a tear ; 

Carve on the wooden slab o'er his head, 
" Somebody's darling slumbers here." 


[Caroline A. Ball was born in Charleston, South Carolina, in 1823. 
She spent the early years of her life in the North, but in her young 
womanhood she returned to Charleston. Here she married Mr. Isaac 
Ball and bore a conspicuous part in the social life of Charleston. She 
published in 1 866 her small volume of poetry under the title " The 
Jacket of Gray, and Other Poems."] 


Fold it up carefully, lay it aside, 
Tenderly touch it, look on it with pride ; 
For dear must it be to our hearts evermore, 
The jacket of gray our loved soldier boy wore. 

Can we ever forget when he joined the brave band, 
Who rose in defense of dear Southern land ; 
And in his bright youth hurried on to the fray ; 
How proudly he donned it, — the jacket of gray ? 

His fond mother blessed him and looked up above, 
Commending to Heaven the child of her love ; 
What anguish was hers mortal tongue may not say, 
When he passed from her sight in the jacket of gray. 

But her country had called him, she would not repine, 
Though costly the sacrifice placed on its shrine ; 
Her heart's dearest hopes on its altar she lay. 
When she sent out her boy in his jacket of gray I 


Months passed, and war's thunders rolled over the land, 
Unsheathed was the sword and lighted the brand ; 
We heard in the distance the noise of the fray, 
And prayed for our boy in the jacket of gray. 

Ah ! vain all — all vain were our prayers and our tears, 
The glad shout of victory rang in our ears ; 
But our treasured one on the cold battlefield lay. 
While the lifeblood oozed out on the jacket of gray. 

His young comrades found him and tenderly bore 
His cold, lifeless form to his home by the shore ; 
Oh, dark were our hearts on that terrible day 
When we saw our dead boy in the jacket of gray. 

Ah I spotted and tattered and stained now with gore 
Was the garment which once he so proudly wore. 
We bitterly wept as we took it away. 
And replaced with death's white robe the jacket of gray. 

We laid him to rest in his cold, narrow bed, 
And graved on the marble we placed o'er his head. 
As the proudest of tributes our sad hearts could pay, — 
" He never disgraced the dear jacket of gray." 

Then fold it up carefully, lay it aside. 
Tenderly touch it, look on it with pride ; 
For dear must it be to our hearts evermore. 
The jacket of gray our loved soldier boy wore. 



[Mrs. Margaret Junkin Preston was born in Milton, Pennsylvania, 
in 1 820. In 1 848 her father became President of Washington College 
(now Washington and Lee University), and Lexington, Virginia, be- 
came thereafter the home of the family. In 1857 she married Pro- 
fessor T. L. Preston, of the Virginia Military Institute at Lexington. 
The rest of her life was spent in Lexington, with the exception of a 
few years toward the end in Baltimore. It was in the latter city that 
she died, in 1897.] 



Yes, " Let the tent be struck " : Victorious morning 

Through every crevice flashes in a day 
Magnificent beyond all earth's adorning : 

The night is over ; wherefore should he stay ? 

And wherefore should our voices choke to say, 
" Tfie General has gone forward " ? 

Life's foughten field not once beheld surrender ; 

But with superb endurance, present, past, 
Our pure Commander, lofty, simple, tender. 

Through good, through ill, held his high purpose fast, 

Wearing his armor spotless, — till at last, 

Death gave the final, ^"^ Forward, ^^ 

All hearts grew sudden palsied : Yet what said he 

Thus summoned? — '*Z<j/ the tent be struck/** — For when 

Did call of duty fail to find him ready 
Nobly to do his work in sight of men. 
For God's and for his country's sake — and then, 
To watch, wait, or go forward ? 

1 The selections from Margaret Junkin Preston arc reprinted through the 
rtesy of the holder of the copyright, the Houghton Mi£9in Company. 


We will not weep, — we dare not I Such a story 
As his large life writes on the century's years, 

Should crowd our bosoms with a flush of glory, 
That manhood's type, supremest that appears 
To-day, he shows the ages. Nay, no tears 
Because he has gone forward I 

Gone forward ? — Whither ? — Where the marshal'd legions, 
Christ's well-worn soldiers, from their conflicts cease ; — 

Where Faith's true Red-Cross knights repose in regions 
Thick-studded with the calm, white tents of peace, — 
Thither, right joyful to accept release. 

The General has gone forward! 


What are the thoughts that are stirring his breast ? 

What is the mystical vision he sees ? 
** Let us pass over the river and rest 

Under the shade of the trees. ^^ 

Has he grown sick of his toils and his tasks ? 

Sighs the worn spirit for respite or ease ? 
Is it a moment's cool halt that he asks 

Under the shade of the trees ? 

Is it the gurgle of waters whose flow 

Ofttime has come to him, borne on the breeze, 

Memory listens to, lapsing so low. 
Under the shade of the trees ? 


Nay — though the rasp of the flesh was so sore, 
Faith, that had yearnings far keener than these. 

Saw the soft sheen of the Thitherward Shore, 
Under the shade of the trees ; — 

Caught the high psalms of ecstatic delight, — 
Heard the harps harping, like soundings of seas, 

Watched earth's assoilbd ones walking in white 
Under the shade of the trees. 

O, was it strange he should pine for release, 

Touched to the soul with such transports as these, 

He who so needed the balsam of peace, 
Under the shade of the trees ? 

Yea, it was noblest for him — it was best, 
(Questioning naught of our Father's decrees), 

There to pass over the river and rest 
Under the shade of the trees I 


I give my soldier boy a blade. 

In fair Damascus fashioned well ; 
Who first the glittering falchion swayed, 

Who first beneath its fury fell, 
I know not : but I hope to know 

That for no mean or hireling trade, 
To guard no feeling, base or low, 

I give my soldier boy a blade. 


Cool, calm, and clear the lucid flood 

In which its tempering work was done ; 
As calm, as cool, as clear of mood 

Be thou whene 'er it sees the sun ; 
For country's claim, at honor's caU, 

For outraged friend, insulted maid, 
At mercy's voice to bid it fall, 

I give my soldier boy a blade. 

The eye which marked its peerless edge. 

The hand that weighed its balanced poise. 
Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge. 

Are gone with all their flame and noise ; 
And still the gleaming sword remains. 

So when in dust I low am laid. 
Remember by these heartfelt strains 

I give my soldier boy a blade. 


" Who Ve ye got there ? " " Only a dying brother. 

Hurt in the front just now." 
" Good boy 1 he '11 do. Somebody tell his mother 

Where he was killed, and how." 

" Whom have you there ? " "A crippled courier. Major, 

Shot by mistake, we hear. 
He was with Stonewall." " Cruel work they 've made here ; 

Quick with him to the rear I " 

" Well, who comes next ? " " Doctor, speak low, speak low, sir ; 

Don't let the men find out I 
It 's Stonewall ! " '' God ! " " The brigade must not know, sir, 

While there 's a foe about I " 



Whom have we here — shrouded in martial manner, 

Crowned with a martyr's charm ? 
A grand dead hero, in a living banner,, 

Born of his heart and arm : 

The heart whereon his cause hung — see how clingeth 

That banner to his bier ! 
The arm wherewith his cause struck — hark I how ringeth 

His trumpet in their rear ! 

What have we left ? His glorious inspiration. 

His prayers in council met ; 
Living, he laid the first stones of a nation ; 

And dead, he builds it yet. 


No more o'er human hearts to wave. 
Its tattered folds forever furled : . 

We laid it in an honored grave. 
And left its memories to the world. 

The agony of long, long years. 

May, in a moment, be compressed, 

And with a grief too deep for tears, 
A heart may be oppressed. 

Oh 1 there are those who die too late 
For faith in God, and Right, and Truth, 

The cold mechanic grasp of Fate 

Hath crushed the roses of their youth. 


More blessed are the dead who fell 

Beneath it in unfaltering trust, 
Than we, who loved it passing well, 

Yet lived to see it trail in dust. 

It hath no future which endears, 
And this farewell shall be our last : 

Embalm it in a nation's tears, 
And consecrate it to the past ! 

To moldering hands that to it clung. 
And flaunted it in hostile faces. 

To pulseless arms that round it flung, 
The terror of their last embraces — 

To our dead heroes — to the hearts 
That thrill no more to love or glory. 

To those who acted well their parts, 
Who died in youth and live in glory - 

With tears forever be it told. 

Until oblivion covers all : 
Until the heavens themselves wear old. 

And totter slowly to their fall. 


Representing nothing on God's earth now, 
And naught in the waters below it. 

As the pledge of a nation that 's dead and gone, 
Keep it, dear friend, and show it. 


Show it to those who will lend an ear 

To the tale that this paper can tell 
Of Liberty bom of the patriot's dream, 

Of a storm-cradled nation that fell. 

Too poor to possess the precious ores, 

And too much of a stranger to borrow. 
We issued to-day our promise to pay. 

And hoped to repay on the morrow. 
The days rolled by and weeks became years, 

But our coffers were empty still ; 
Coin was so rare that the treasury 'd quake 

If a dollar should drop in the till. 

But the faith that was in us was strong, indeed, 

And our poverty well we discerned, 
And this little check represented the pay 

That our suffering veterans earned. 
We knew it had hardly a value in gold. 

Yet as gold each soldier received it ; 
It gazed in our eyes with a promise to pay, 

And each Southern patriot believed it. 

But our boys thought little of price or of pay, 

Or of bills that were overdue ; 
We knew if it brought us our bread to-day, 

T was the best our poor country could do. 
Keep it, it tells all our history o'er. 

From the birth of our dream till the last ; 
Modest, and bom of the angel Hope, 

Like our hope of success, it passed. 

/ - c 



[Abram Joseph Ryan was born in Norfolk, Virginia, in 1839. 
He entered the Roman Cathohc priesthood in 1861 and was a 
chaplain in the Confederate army. After the war his service to his 
church took him into almost every Southern state, his longest stay 
in any one place being twelve years in Mobile, Alabama. During 
this part of his life he busied himself with preaching, lecturing, 
editing religious periodicals, and writing verse. Father Ryan died 
in Louisville, Kentucky, in 1886.] 


Furl that Banner, for 't is weary ; 
Round its staff 't is drooping dreary ; 

Furl it, fold it, it is best ; 
For there 's not a man to wave it, 
And there 's not a sword to save it. 
And there 's not one left to lave it 
In the blood which heroes gave it ; 
And its foes now scorn and brave it ; 

Furl it, hide it — let it rest I 

Take that Banner down 1 't is tattered ; 
Broken is its staff and shattered ; 
And the valiant hosts are scattered 

Over whom it floated high. 
Oh 1 't is hard for us to fold it ; 
Hard to think there 's none to hold it ; 
Hard that those who once unrolled it 

Now must furl it with a sigh. 

Furl that Banner 1 furl it sadly I 
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, 
And ten thousands wildly, madly, 
Swore it should forever wave ; 


Swore that foeman's sword should never 
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, 
Till that flag should float forever 
O'er their freedom or their grave I 

Furl it ! for the hands that grasped it, 
And the hearts that fondly clasped it, 

Cold and dead are lying low ; 
And that Banner — it is trailing I 
While around it sounds the wailing 

Of its people in their woe. 

For, though conquered, they adore it I 
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it I 
Weep for those who fell before it ! 
Pardon those who trailed and tore it I 
But, oh ! wildly they deplore it. 
Now who furl and fold it so. 

Furl that Banner ! True, 't is gory. 
Yet 't is wreathed around with glory. 
And 't will live in song and story. 

Though its folds are in the dust : 
For its fame on brightest pages, 
Penned by poets and by sages, 
Shall go sounding down the ages — 

Furl its folds though now we must 

Furl that Banner, softly, slowly I 
Treat it gently — it is holy — 

For it droops above the dead. 
Touch it not — unfold it never. 
Let it droop there, furled forever, 

For its people's hopes are dead I 



Forth from its scabbard, pure and bright, 

Flashed the sword of Lee ! 
Far in the front of the deadly fight, 
High o'er the brave in the cause of Right, 
Its stainless sheen, like a beacon light, 

Led us to Victory. 

Out of its scabbard, where, full long, 

It slumbered peacefully. 
Roused from its rest by the battlers song. 
Shielding the feeble, smiting the strong. 
Guarding the right, avenging the wrong. 

Gleamed the sword of Lee. 

Forth from its scabbard, high in air 

Beneath Virginia's sky — 
And they who saw it gleaming there. 
And knew who bore it, knelt to swear 
That where that sword led they would dare 

To follow — and to die. 

Out of its scabbard ! Never hand 

Waved sword from stain as free, 
Nor purer sword led braver band. 
Nor braver bled for a brighter land. 
Nor brighter land had a cause so grand. 

Nor cause a chief like Lee I 

Forth from its scabbard ! how we prayed 

That sword might victor be; 
And when our triumph was delayed, 


And many a heart grew sore afraid. 
We still hoped on while gleamed the blade 
Of noble Robert Lee. 

Forth from its scabbard all in vain 

Forth flashed the sword of Lee ; 
T is shrouded now in its sheath again, 
It sleeps the sleep of our noble slain. 
Defeated, yet without a stain, \ 

Proudly and peacefully. 


[Henry Timrod-was bom in Charleston, South Carolina, in 1829. 
On his father's side he was of German descent, and on his mother's, 
of English. He was educated 
in Charleston schoob and in 
the University of Georgia, but 
was comfielled to leave coUe^ 
before taking his' degree on 
account of poverty. Returning 
to Charleston, he prepared him- 
self for the practice of law, but 
finding this distasteful, he be- 
gan to (it himself for a college 
professorship. Failing to se- 
cure the position he sought, he 
taught private classes for about 
ten years. In the meantime he 
was writing poetry and con- 
tributing his verse to the 
Southern Literary Afesseiiger 
and RusselPs Magazine. A 
volume of Timrod's verses wa» 
I of those times 


published in Boston ii 

widespread attention. At the outbreak of the war 


Timrod enlisted, but finding his constitution too weak to undergo 
the hardships of camp life, he contented himself with service as 
army correspondent. In 1864 he accepted an appointment as editor 
of the South Carolinian at Columbia. Feeling now settled, he mar- 
ried Miss Kate Goodwin, an English girl resident in Charleston. 
But his happiness was of brief duration. Disease was making in- 
roads upon his frail body, the death of his young son added to his 
sorrows, and the desolation of war rendered him destitute of prof)erty. 
Consumption eventually overcame him, and in 1867 he was laid to 
rest. Timrod wrote some beautiful and enduring lyrics dealing with 
love and nature, but he most deeply stirred his generation by his 
martial and patriotic poems. Hence his sobriquet, " The Laureate 
of the Confederacy."] 


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, 

Thy ancient fame is growing dim, 
A spot is on thy garment's rim ; 
Give to the winds thy battle hymn, 

Carolina ! 

Call on thy children of the hill, 
Wake swamp and river, coast and rill, 
Rouse all thy strength and all thy skill, 

Carolina ! 

1 The selections from Timrod are reprinted from the Memorial Edition 
through the courtesy of the holder of the copyright, B. F. Johnson Publishing 


Cite wealth and sdence, trade and ait. 
Touch with thy fire the cautious mart, 
And pour thee through the people's heart, 

Carolina I 
Till even the coward spurns his fears, 
And all thy fields and fens and meres 
Shall bristle like thy palm with spears, 


Hold up the glories of thy dead ; 
Say how thy elder children bled, 
And point to Eutaw's battle4)ed, 

Carolina I 
Tell how the patriot's soul was tried, 
And what his dauntless breast defied^ 
How Rutledge ruled and Laurcns A 

Carolina ! 

Cry ! till thy summons, heard at last,'^ 
Shall fall like Marion's bugle Uast 
Reechoed from the haunted J 

That grape fl 
Like h " 


Shout ! let it reach the sianJed Hanv : 
And roar with all thy festa] guns '. 
It is the answer of thy sons. 

Carolina 1 

They will not wait to hear th« call 
From Sachem's Head to Sumter't *taJ. 
Resounds the voice oS hut and faall. 

No 1 thou hast not a Main, tbei- wa: 
Or none save what tlx ' 
Shall wash inteaaci Um 

Thy skin* indeed ttir Iwr 
Thy robe be pkrced w^ 
They shaD not imidi Ik ■ 



Girt with such wills to do and bear, 
Assured in right, and mailed in prayer. 
Thou wilt not -bow thee to despair, 

Carolina I 
Throw thy bold banner to the breeze I 
Front with thy ranks the threatening seas 
Like thine own proud armorial trees, 

Carolina I 
Fling down thy gauntlet to the Huns, 
And roar the challenge from thy guns ; 
Then leave the future to thy sons, 

Carolina I 


Ho ! woodsmen of the mountain side I 

Ho I dwellers in the vales I 
Ho ! ye who by the chafing tide 

Have roughened in the gales I 
Leave bam and byre, leave kin and cot, 

Lay by the bloodless spade ; 
Let desk, and case, and counter rot, 

And burn your books of trade. 

The despot roves your fairest lands ; 

And till he flies or fears. 
Your fields must grow but armed bands, 

Your sheaves be sheaves of spears I 
Give up to mildew and to rust 

The useless tools of gain ; 
And feed your country's sacred dust 

With floods of crimson rain 1 


Come, with the weapons at your caU — 

With musket, pike, or knife ; 
He wields the deadliest blade of all 

Who lightest holds his life. 
The arm that drives its unbought blows 

With all a patriot's scorn. 
Might brain a tyrant with a rose, 

Or stab him with a thorn. 

Does any falter ? let him turn 

To some brave maiden's eyes, 
And catch the holy fires that bum 

In those sublunar skies. 
Oh ! could you like your women feel, 

And in their spirit march, 
A day might see your lines of steel 

Beneath the victor's arch. 

What hope, O God I would not grow warm 

When thoughts like these give cheer ? 
The Lily calmly braves the storm. 

And shall the Palm-tree fear } 
No ! rather let its branches court 

The rack that sweeps the plain ; 
And from the Lily's regal port 

Learn how to breast the strain 1 

Ho ! woodsmen of the mountain side I 
Ho ! dwellers in the vales I 

Ho 1 ye who by the roaring tide 
Have roughened in the gales I 


Come I flocking gayly to the fight, 

From forest, hill, and lake ; 
We battle for our Country's right. 

And for the Lily's sake ! 


Calm as that second summer which precedes 

The first fall of the snow. 
In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds. 

The City bides the foe. 

As yet, behind their ramparts stem and proud, 

Her bolted thunders sleep — 
Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud. 

Looms o'er the solemn deep. 

No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scar 

To guard the holy strand ; 
But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war 

Above the level sand. 

And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched, 

Unseen, beside the flood — 
Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched 

That wait and watch for blood. 

Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade, 

Walk grave and thoughtful men, 
Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade 

As lightly as the pen. 


And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim 

Over a bleeding hound, 
Seem each one to have caught the strength of him 

Whose sword she sadly bound. 

Thus girt without and garrisoned at home. 

Day patient following day. 
Old Charleston looks from roof, and spire, and dome, 

Across her tranquil bay. 

Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands 

And spicy Indian ports. 
Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands, 

And Summer to her courts. 

But still, along yon dim Atlantic line, 

The only hostile smoke 
Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine. 

From some frail, floating oak. 

Shall the Spring dawn, and she still clad in smiles. 

And with an unscathed brow. 
Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles, 

As fair and free as now ? 

We know not ; in the temple of the Fates 
God has inscribed her doom ; 

And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits 
The triumph or the tomb. 

■ l/ 


■ f 


SPRING [^'^' ' ! 


Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air 
Which dwells with all things fair, 
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, 
Is with us once again. 

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine bums 
Its fragrant lamps, and turns 
Into a royal court with green festoons 
The banks of dark lagoons. 

In the deep heart of every forest tree 
The blood is all aglee. 

And there 's a look about the leafless bowers 
As if they dreamed of flowers. 

Yet still on every side we trace the hand 
Of Winter in the land. 
Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, 
Flushed by the season *s dawn ; 

Or where, like those strange semblances we find 
That age to childhood bind. 
The elm puts on, as if in Nature*s scorn, 
The brown of Autumn com. 

As yet the turf is dark, although you know 
That, not a span below, 

A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, 
And soon will burst their tomb. 


• A.-- 



f^ ,-V 


}ri ' • 

rf . 

>v..'- ^ 




Already, here and there, on frailest stems 
Appear some azure gems. 
Small as might deck, upon a gala day, 
The forehead of a fay. 

In gardens you may note amid the dearth 
The crocus breaking earth ; 
And near the snowdrop's tender white and green, 
The violet in its screen. 

But many gleams and shadows need must pass 
Along the budding grass. 
And weeks go by, before the enamored South 
Shall kiss the rose's mouth. 

Still there 's a sense of blossoms yet unborn 
In the sweet airs of morn ; 
One almost looks to see the very street 
Grow purple at his feet. • 

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, 
And brings, you know not why, 
A feeling as when eager crowds await 
Before a palace gate 

Some wondrous pageant ; and you scarce would start, 

If from a beech's heart, 

A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, 

" Behold me 1 I am May I " 

Ah ! who would couple thoughts of war and crime 

With such a blessed time I 

Who in the west wind's aromatic breath 

Could hear the call of Death I 


Yet not more surely shall the Spring awake 
The voice of wood and brake, 
Than she shall rouse, for all her tranquil charms, 
A million men to arms. 

There shall be deeper hues upon her plains 
Than all her sunlit rains. 
And every gladdening influence around, 
Can summon from the ground. 

Oh I standing on this desecrated mold, 
Methinks that I behold. 
Lifting her bloody daisies up to God, 
Spring kneeling on the sod. 

And calling, with the voice of all her rills. 
Upon the ancient hills 
To fall and crysh the tyrants and the slaves 
Who turn her meads to graves. 


While I recline 

At ease beneath 

This immemorial pine. 

Small sphere I 

(By dusky fingers brought this morning here 

And shown with boastful smiles), 

I turn thy cloven sheath. 

Through which the soft white fibers peer. 

That, with their gossamer bands. 

Unite, like love, the sea-divided lands, 

And slowly, thread by thread, 


Draw forth the folded strands, /' *^ j ^ '^( 

Than which the trembling line, j*>r< < 

By whose frail help yon startled spider fled 

Down the tall spear grass from his swinging bed. 

Is scarce more fine ; 

And as the tangled skein 

Unravels in my hands. 

Betwixt me and the noonday light, 

A veil seems lifted, and for miles and miles 

The landscape broadens on my sight. 

As, in the little boll, there lurked a spell 

Like that which, in the ocean shell. 

With mystic sound. 

Breaks down the narrow walls that hem us round, 

And turns some city lane 

Into the restless main. 

With all his capes and isles 1 

Yonder bird, 

Which floats, as if at rest, 

In those blue tracts above the thunder, where 

No vapors cloud the stainless air, 

And never sound is heard, 

Unless at such rare time 

When, from the City of the Blest, 

Rings down some golden chime, 

Sees not from his high place 

So vast a cirque of summer space 

As widens round me in one mighty field, 

Which, rimmed by seas and sands. 

Doth hail its earliest daylight in the beams 

Of gray Atlantic dawns ; 

And, broad as realms made up of many lands, 


Is lost afar 

Behind the crimson hills and purple lawns 

Of sunset, among plains which roll their streams 

Against the Evening Star I 

And lo I 

To the remotest point of sight, 

Although I gaze upon no waste of snow, 

The endless field is white ; 

And the whole landscape glows, 

For many a shining league away. 

With such accumulated light 

As Polar lands would flash beneath a tropic day I 

Nor lack there (for the vision grows. 

And the small charm within my hands — 

More potent even than the fabled one. 

Which oped whatever golden mystery 

Lay hid in fairy wood or magic vale, 

The curious ointment of the Arabian tale — 

Beyond all mortal sense 

Doth stretch my sight's horizon, and I see. 

Beneath its simple influence. 

As if with Uriel's crown, 

I stood in some great temple of the Sun, 

And looked, as Uriel, down !) 

Nor lack there pastures rich and fields all green 

With all the common gifts of God, 

For temperate airs and torrid sheen 

Weave Edens of the sod ; 

Through lands which look one sea of billowy gold 

Broad rivers wind their devious ways ; 

A hundred isles in their embraces fold 

A hundred luminous bays ; 

And through yon purple haze 


Vast mountains lift their plumed peaks cloud-crowned ; 

And, save where up their sides the plowman creeps, 

An unhewn forest girds them grandly round, 

In whose dark shades a future navy sleeps I 

Ye Stars, which, though unseen, yet with me gaze 

Upon this loveliest fragment of the earth I 

Thou Sun, that kindlest all thy gentlest rays 

Above it, as to light a favorite hearth ! 

Ye Clouds, that in your temples in the West 

See nothing brighter than its humblest flowers I 

And you, ye Winds, that on the ocean's breast 

Are kissed to coolness ere ye reach its bowers I -^ 

iar witness with me in my song of praise, ' . v_ ' ' 
And tell the world that, since the world began, " ^..* 

\o fairer land hath fired a poet's lays, 
given a home to man ! 
But these are charms already widely blown I 
His be the meed whose pencil's trace 
Hath touched our very swamps with grace, 
And round whose tuneful way 
All Southern laurels bloom ; 
The Poet of " The Woodlands," unto whom 
Alike are known 

The flute's low breathing and the trumpet's tone, 
And the soft west wind's sighs; .i r*'"" 

Jut who shall utter all the debt, ^ a r v >: * ' 

X) land wherein all powers are met '' -^ \ \ 

^hat bind a people's heart, 

'he world doth owe thee at this day, 
And which it never can repay, 
Yet scarcely deigns to own I 
Where sleeps the poet who shall fitly sing 
The source wherefrom doth spring 


That mighty commerce which, confined 

To the mean channels of no selfish mart, 

Goes out to every shore 

Of this broad earth, and throngs the sea with ships 

That bear no thunders ; hushes hungry lips 

In alien lands ; 

Joins with a delicate web remotest strands ; 

And gladdening rich and poor, 

Doth gild Parisian domes. 

Or feed the cottage smoke of English homes, 

And only bounds its blessings by mankind I 

In offices like these, thy mission lies. 

My Country I and it shall not end 

As long as rain shall fall and Heaven bend 

In blue above thee ; though thy foes be hard 

And cruel as their weapons, it shall guard 

Thy hearth-stones as a bulwark ; make thee great 

In white and bloodless state ; 

And haply, as the years increase — 

Still working through its humbler reach 

With that large wisdom which the ages teach — 

Revive the half-dead dream of u niversal pe^ce. 1 

As men who labor in that mine 

Of Cornwall, hollowed out beneath the bed 

Of ocean, when a storm rolls overhead. 

Hear the dull booming of the world of brine 

Above them, and a mighty muffled roar 

Of winds and waters, yet toil calmly on. 

And split the rock, and pile the massive ore, 

Or carve a niche, or shape the arched roof ; 

So I, as calmly, weave my woof 

Of song, chanting the days to come, 

Unsilenced, though the quiet summer air 

HENRY TIMROD > . ./ 29 J^ 

Stirs with the bruit of battles, and each dawn 

Wakes from its starry silence to the hum 

Of many gathering armies. Still, 

In that we sometimes hear, 

Upon the Northern winds, the voice of woe 

Not wholly drowned in triumph, though I know 

The end must crown us, and a few brief years 

Dry all. our tears, 

I may not sing too gladly. To thy will 

Resigned, O Lord ! we cannot all forget 

That there is much even Victory must regret. 

And, therefore, not too long 

From the great burthen of our country's wrong 

Delay our just release ! 

And, if it may be, save 

These sacred fields of peace 

From stain of patriot or of hostile blood ! 

Oh, help us, Lord ! to roll the crimson flood 

Back on its course, and, while our banners wing 

Northward, strike with us I till the Goth shall cling 

To his own blasted altar stones, and crave 

Mercy ; and we shall grant it, and dictate 

The lenient future of his fate 

There, where some rotting ships and crumbling quays 

Shall one day mark the Port which ruled the Western seas. 


Lily I lady of the garden ! 

Let me press my lip to thine I. 
Love must tell its story, Lily ! 

Listen thoii to irdncj. 


Two I choose to know the secret — 
Thee, and yonder wordless flute ; 

Dragons watch me, tender Lily, 
And thou must be mute. 

There 's a maiden, and her name is — 

Hist I was that a rose-leaf fell ? 
See, the rose is listening, Lily, 

And the rose may tell. 

Lily-browed and lily-hearted, 

She is very dear to me ; 
Lovely ? yes, if being lovely 

Is — resembling thee. 

Six to half a score of summers 

Make the sweetest of the " teens " — 

Not too young to guess, dear Lily, 
What a lover means. 

Laughing girl and thoughtful woman, 

I am puzzled how to woo — 
Shall I praise, or pique her, Lily ? 

Tell me what to do. 

" Silly lover, if thy Lily 

Like her sister lilies be. 
Thou must woo, if thou wouldst wear her. 

With a simple plea. 

" Love 's the lover's only magic. 

Truth the very subtlest art ; 
Love that feigns, and lips that flatter, 

Win no modest heart 


" Like the dewdrop in my bosom, 

Be thy guileless language, youth ; 
Falsehood buyeth falsehood only, 

Truth must purchase truth. 

" As thou talkest at the fireside. 

With the litde children by — 
As thou prayest in the darkness. 

When thy Grod is nigh — 

" With a speech as chaste and gentle, 

And such meanings as become 
Ear of child, or ear of angel. 

Speak, or be thou dumb. 

" Woo her thus, and she shall give thee 

Of her heart the sinless whole. 
All the girl within her bosom, 

And her woman's soul." 


Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, 

Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause ; 
Though yet no-marble column craves 

The pilgrim here to pause. 

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 1 

Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 

Which keep in trust your storied tombs, 

Behold I your sisters bring their tears, 
And these memorial blooms. 


Small tributes I but your shades will smile 
More proudly on these wreaths ttwiay, 

Than when some cannon-molded pile 
Shall overlook this bay. ^ 

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies I 
There is no hoher spot of ground 

Than where defeated valor lies, 
By mourning beauty crowned ! 


[Francis Orray Ticknor was bom in Fortville, Georgia, in 1822. 
After studying medicine in New York and Philadelphia, he settled 
first at Shell Creek, Lumpkin 
County, Georgia, and later on 
a farm called "Torch Hill" 
near Columbus, Georgia, and 
there for the rest of his life led 
the lite of a country physician. 
His special passions were the 
culdvating of fruits and flowers, 
music, and the writing of 
poetry. His poems secured for 
him some local reputation, but 
as he wrote verse only for the 
pleasure of his friends, he made 
no collection of them for pub- 
lication. Five years after his 
death in [874, an incomplete 
edition was published, which 
has been supplanted by a later 
edition prepared by the poet's 
granddaughter, Michelle Cun- 
liffe Ticknor.] 




Out of the focal and foremost fire, 
Out of the hospital's walls as dire ; 
Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene — 
Eighteenth battle and he sixteen — 
Specter f — such as you seldom see, 
Little Giffen of Tennessee. 

'^ Take him and welcome 1 " the surgeons said, 
'^ Little the doctor can help the dead 1 " — 
So we took him and brought him where 
The balm was sweet in the summer air. 
And we laid him down on a wholesome bed, — 
Utter Lazarus, heel to head ! 

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 in the steel-blue eye 

Told of a spirit that would n't die. 

And did n't ! — Nay, more 1 in Death's despite 
The crippled skeleton learned to write — 
" Dear Mother " ! at first, of course, and then 
" Dear Captain " ! — inquiring about the men I 
Captain's answer : " Of eighty and five, 
Giffen and I are left alive I " 

1 The selections from Ticknor are reprinted through the courtesy of the 
lolder of the copyright, The Neale Publishing Company. 


Word of gloom from the war, one day : 

Johnston pressed at the front they say, 

Little Giffen was up and away I — 

A tear, his first, as he bade good-by, 

Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye ; — 

" I '11 write, if spared ! " — there was news of the fight 

But none of Giffen 1 — He did not write I 

I sometimes fancy that were I king 
Of the princely knights of 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. 


The knightliest of the knightly race. 

That since the days of old. 

Have kept the lamp of chivalry 

Alight in hearts of gold. 

The kindliest of the kindly band 

That, rarely hating ease, 

Yet rode with Sj)Otswood round the land, 

With Raleigh around the seas. 

Who climbed the blue embattled 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 I 

We thought they slept ! — the sons who kept 

The names of noble sires. 

And slumbered, while the darkness crept 

Around their vigil, fires I 

But aye I the ^* Golden Horse-shoe " Knights 

Their Old Dominion keep, 

Whose foes have found enchanted ground 

But not a knight asleep. 


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 I Beneath our Father's face 

The starlit hillocks lie ; 
Another rosebud I lest His grace 

Forget us when we die. 



There is dust on the doorway, there is mold on the wall — 
There 's a chill at the hearthstone — a hush through the hall ; 
And the stately old mansion stands darkened and cold 
By the leal, loving hearts that it sheltered of old. 

No light at the lattice, no smile at the door ; 
No cheer at its table, no dance on its floor ; 
But *' Glory departed," and silence alone ; 
*' Dust unto dust " upon pillar and stone I 

No laughter of childhood, no shout on the lawn ; 
No footstep to echo the feet that are gone : 
Feet of the beautiful, forms of the brave — 
Failing in other lands, gone to the grave. 

No carol at morning, no hymn rising clear. 
Nor song at the bridal, nor chant at the bier ! 
All the chords of its symphonies scattered and riven, 
Its altar in ashes, its incense in Heaven. 

'T is an ache at the heart, thus lonely to stand 
By the wreck of a home once the pride of the land ; 
Its chambers unfilled as its children depart, 
The melody stilled in its desolate heart. 

Yet softly the sunlight still rests on the grass 
And lightly and swiftly the cloud-shadows pass, 
And still the wide meadow exults in the sheen 
""'♦h its foam crest of snow, and its billows of green ! 


And the verdure shall creep to the moldering wall 
And the sunshine shall sleep in the desolate hall — 
And the foot of the pilgrim shall find to the last 
Some fragrance of home, at this shrine of the Past. 


The Douglas — in the days of old — 

The gentle minstrels sing, 
Wore at his heart, incased in gold, 

The heart of Bruce, his king. 

Through Paynim lands to Palestine, 

Befall what peril might. 
To lay that heart on Christ, his shrine, 

His knightly word he plight. 

A weary way, by night and day. 

Of vigil and of fight. 
Where never rescue came by day 

Nor ever rest by night. 

And one by one the valiant spears, 
They faltered from his side ; 

And one by one his heavy tears 
Fell for the Bruce who died. 

All fierce and black, around his track, 

He saw the combat close. 
And counted but a single sword 

Against uncounted foes. 


He drew the casket from his breast, 

He bared his solemn brow, 
Oh, kingliest and knightliest. 

Go first in battle, now I 

Where leads my Lord of Bruce, the sword 

Of Douglas shall not stay 1 
Forward — and to the feet of Christ 

I follow thee, to-day. 

The casket flashed I — The battle clashed. 

Thundered and rolled away. 
And dead above the heart of Bruce 

The heart of Douglas lay. 

** Loyal I " — Methinks the antique mold 

Is lost ! — or theirs alone. 
Who sheltered Freedom's heart of gold. 

Like Douglas with their own. - 





[Richard Malcolm Johnston was bom in Hancock County, Georgia, 
in 1822. After graduating from Mercer University, he entered upon 
the practice of law, but in 1857 became professor of English litera- 
ture at the University of Georgia. After the war he established a 
boarding school for boys at Sparta, Georgia, and afterward near 
Baltimore, Maryland. It was in Baltimore that he died, in 1898. 
His racy character studies, entitled " Dukesborough Tales," which 
had appeared in the Southern Magazine^ were first collected into 
book form in 1871, but did not attract general attention until pub- 
lished again nine years later. This initial volume was followed by 
several volumes of fiction, — novels and collections of tales, — as 
well as of literary and social papers.] 


It was the custom of the pupils in the Goosepond, as in 
most of the other country schools of those times, to study 
aloud. Whether the teachers thought that the mind could not 
act unless the tongue was going, or that the tongue going was 
the only evidence that the mind was acting, it never did appear. 
Such had been the custom, and Mr. Meadows did not aspire 
to be an innovator. It was his rule, however, that there should 
be perfect silence on his arrival, in order to give him an op- 
portunity of saying or doing anything he might wish. This 



morning there did not seem to be anything heavy on his 
mind which required to be lifted off. He, however, looked at 
Brinkly Glisson with an expression of some disappointment. 
He had beaten him the morning before for not having gotten 
there in time, though the boy's excuse was that he had gone 
a mile out of his way on an errand for his mother. He looked 
at him as if he had expected to have had some business with 
him, which now unexpectedly had to be postponed. He then 
looked around over the school, and said : " Go to studyin'." 

He had been in the habit of speaking but to command, and 
of commanding but to be obeyed. Instantaneously was heard, 
then and there, that unintelligible tumult, the almost invariable 
incident of the country schools of that generation. There were 
spellers and readers, geographers, and arithmeticians, all en- 
gaged in their several pursuits, in the most inexplicable con- 
fusion. Sometimes the spellers would have the heels of the 
others, and sometimes the readers. The geographers were 
always third, and the arithmeticians always behind. It was 
very plain to be seen that these last never would catch the 
others. The faster they added or subtracted, the oftener they 
had to rub out and commence anew. It was always but a 
short time before they found this to be the case, and so they 
generally concluded to adopt the maxim of the philosopher, 
of being slow in making haste. The geographers were a little 
faster and a little louder. But the spellers and readers had it, 
I tell you. Each speller and each reader went through the 
whole gamut of sounds, from low up to high, and from high 
down to low again; sometimes by regular ascension and de- 
scension, one note at a time, sounding what musicians call the 
diatonic intervals ; at other times, going up and coming down 
upon the perfect fifths only. It was refreshing to see the pas- 
sionate eagerness which these urchins manifested for the acqui- 
sition of knowledge I To have heard them for the first time, 


one might possibly have been reminded of the Apostles' preach- 
ing at Pentecost, when were spoken the languages of the 
Parthians and Medes, Elamites and the dwellers in Meso- 
potamia, and in Judea and Cappadocia; in Pontus and Asia, 
Phrygia and Pamphylia; in Egypt and in the parts of Syria 
about Gyrene ; and Strangers of Rome, Jews and Proselytes, 
Cretes and Arabians. Sometimes these jarring tongues sub- 
sided a little, when half a dozen or so would stop to blow; 
but in the next moment the chorus would swell again in a 
new and livelier accrescendo. When this process had gone on 
for half an hour, Mr. Meadows lifted his voice and shouted, 
" Silence I " and all was still. 

Now were to commence the recitations, during which still- 
ness like that of death was required. For as great a help to 
study as this jargon was, Mr. Meadows found that it did not 
contribute any aid to the doing of his work. 

He now performed an interesting feat. He put his hand 
behind the lapel of his coat collar, and then, after withdrawing 
it, and holding it up, his thumb and forefinger joined together, 
he said : " There is too much fuss here. I'm going to drop 
this pin, and I shall whip every single one of you little boys 
that don't hear it when it falls. Thar ! " 

" I heerd it, Mr. Meadows ! I heerd it, Mr. Meadows I " 
exclaimed, simultaneously, five or six little fellows. 

" Come up here, you little rascals. You are a liar I " said he 
to each one. ^* I never drapped it ; I never had nary one to 
drap. It just shows what liars you are. Set down and wait 
awhile ; I '11 show you how to tell /«^ lies." 

The little liars slunk to their seats, and the recitations com- 
menced. Memory was the only faculty of mind that got devel- 
opment at this school. Whoever could say exactly what the 
book said was adjudged to know his lesson. About half of the 
pupils on this morning were successful. The other half were 


found to be delinquent Among these was Asa Boatright. 
That calculating young gentleman knew his words and felt 
safe. The class had spelled around three or four times when 
lo! the contingency which Allen Thigpen had suggested did 
come to pass. Betsy Wiggins missed her word; Heneritter 
Bangs (in the language of Allen) hem; and Mandy Grizzle 
hem; and thus responsibilities were suddenly cast upon Asa 
which he was wholly unprepared to meet and which, from 
the look of mighty reproach that he gave each of these young 
ladies as she handed over her word, he evidently thought it 
the height of injustice that he should have been called upon to 
meet. Mr. Meadows, closing his book, tossed it to Asa, who, 
catching it as it was falling at his feet, turned and, his eyes 
swimming with tears, went back to his seat. As he passed 
Allen Thigpen, the latter whispered: "What did I tell you? 
You heerd the pin drap, too ! " 

Now Allen was in no plight to have given this taunt to Asa. 
He had not given five minutes' study to his arithmetic during 
the whole morning. But Mr. Meadows made a rule (this one 
for himself, though all the pupils knew it better than any rule 
he had) never to allow Allen to miss a lesson ; and as he had 
kindly taken this responsibility upon himself, Allen was wont to 
give himself no trouble about the matter. 

Brinkly Glisson was the last to recite. Brinkly was no great 
hand at pronunciation. He had been reading but a short time 
when Mr. Meadows advanced him into geography, with the 
purpose, as Brinkly afterward came to believe, of getting the 
half-dollar extra tuition. This moming he thought he knew his 
lesson ; and he did, as he understood it When called to recite, 
he went up with a countenance expressive of mild happiness, 
handed the book to Mr. Meadows, and, putting his hands in 
his pockets, awaited the questions. And now it was an inter- 

^g sight to see Mr. Meadows smile as Brinkly talked of 


is-lands and promonitaries, thismuses and hemispheries. The 
lad misunderstood that smile, and his heart was glad for the 
unexpected reception of a little complacency from the master. 
But he was not long in error. 

" Is-lands, eh ? Thismuses, eh .? Take this book and see if 
you can find any is-lands and promonitaries, and then bring 
them to me. I want to see them things, I do. Find 'em, if 
you please." 

Brinkly took the book, and it would have melted the heart 
of any other man to see the deep despair of his heart as he 
looked on it and was spelling over to himself the words as 
he came to them. 

" Mr. Meadows," he said in pleading tones, " I thought it 
was is-land. Here it is, I-s-is-1-a-n-d-land, Is-land"; and he 
looked into his face beseechingly. 

"Is-land, eh? Is-land I Now, thisniuses and promonitaries 
and hemispheries — " 

" Mr. Meadows, I did not know how to pronounce them 
words. I asked you how to pronounce 'em and you wouldn't 
tell me ; and I asked Allen, and he told me the way I said 

" I believe that to be a lie." Brinkly 's face reddened, and his 
breathing was fast and hard. He looked at the master as but 
once or twice before during the term, but made no answer. 

At that moment Allen leaned carelessly on his desk, his 
elbows resting on it, and chin on his hands, and said dryly, 
" Yess, I did tell him so." 

The man reddened a little. After a moment's pause, how- 
ever, he said : " How often have I got to tell you not to ask 
anybody but me how to pronounce words ? That '11 do, sir ; sit 
down, sir." 



[George William Bagby was bom in Buckingham County, Vir- 
ginia, in 1828. After graduating from the medical school of the 
University of Pennsylvania he made his residence in Richmond. 
He became a journalist and wrote some very witty letters under the 
pen name of ^' Mozis Addums." He also made a reputation as a 
humorous lecturer. So sympathetically did he treat the humorous 
aspects of Virginia life that he won for himself the title of " the 
Virginia Elia." He died in 1883.] 



" Jud, they say you heard Rubinstein play when you were in 
New York." 

'' I did, in the cool." 

" Well, tell us about it." 

" What ? me ? I might 's well tell you about the creation of 
the world." 

" Come, now ; no mock modesty. Go ahead." 

"Well, sir, he had the blaemedest, biggest, cattycomedest 
pianner you ever laid eyes on ; somethin' like a distractid 
billiard table on three legs. The lid was heisted, and mighty 
well it was. If it had n't been, he 'd tore the intire insides dean 
out, and scattered 'em to the four winds of heaven." 

" Played well, did he ? " 

" You bet he did ; but don't interrup' me. When he first set 
down he 'peared to keer mighty little 'bout playin', and wished 
he had n' come. He tweedle-leedled a little on the trible, and 
twoodle-oodle-oodled some on the base — just foolin' and boxin' 
the thing's jaws for bein' in his way. And I says to a man 
scttin' next to me, s' I, * What sort of fool playin* is that ? ' 
And he says, * Heish ! ' But presently his hands commenced 
chasin' one 'nother up and down the keys, like a passel of rats 


scamperin' through a garret very swift. Parts of it was sweet, 
though, and reminded me of a sugar squirrel turnin' the wheel 
of a candy cage. ' Now,' I says to my neighbor, ' he 's showin' 
off. He thinks he 's a-doin' of it ; but he ain't got no idee, no 
plan of nuthin'. If he 'd play me up a tune of some kind or 
other, I'd — ' 

But my neighbor says, ' Heish ! ' very impatient. 
I was just about to git up and go home, bein' tired of that 
foolishness, when I heard a little bird wakin' up away off in the 
woods, and callin' sleepy-like to his mate, and I looked up and 
I see that Ruben was beginnin' to take interest in his business, 
and I set down agin. It was the peep of day. The light come 
faint from the east, the breeze blowed gentle and fresh, some 
more birds waked up in the orchard, then some more in the 
trees near the house, and all begun singin' together. People 
begun to stir, and the gal opened the shutters. Just then the 
first beam of the sun fell upon the blossoms ; a leetle more 
and it techt the roses on the bushes, and the next thing it was 
broad day ; the sun fairly blazed ; the birds sang like they 'd 
split their little throats ; all the leaves was movin', and flashin' 
diamonds of dew, and the whole wide world was bright and 
happy as a king. Seemed to me like there was a good break- 
fast in every house in the land, and not a sick child or woman 
anywhere. It was a fine mornin'. 

" And I says to my neighbor, ^ That 's music, that is.' 
'* But he glared at me like he 'd like to cut my throat. 
" Presently the wind turned ; it begun to thicken up, and a 
kind of gray mist come over things ; I got low-spirited d'rectly. 
Then a silver rain begun to fall ; I could see the drops touch 
the ground ; some flashed up like long pearl earrings ; and the 
rest rolled away like round rubies. It was pretty, but melan- 
choly. Then the pearls gathered themselves into long strands 
and necklaces, and then they melted into thin silver streams 


running between golden gravels, and then the streams joined 
each other at the bottom of the hill, and made a brook that 
flowed silent except that you could kinder see the music 
specially when the bushes on the banks moved as the music 
went along down the valley. I could smell the flowers in the 
meadows. But the sun did n't shine, nor the birds sing ; it was 
a foggy day, but not cold. Then the sun went down, it got 
dark, the wind moaned and wept like a lost child for its dead 
mother, and I could a-got up then and there and preached a 
better sermon than any I ever listened to. There was n't a thing 
in the world left to live for, not a blame thing, and yet I did n't 
want the music to stop one bit. It was happier to be miserable 
than to be happy without being miserable. I couldn't under- 
stand it. . . . Then, all of a sudden, old Ruben changed his 
tune. He ripped and he rar'd, he tipped and he tar'd, he pranced 
and he charged like the grand entry at a circus. 'Feared to me 
like all the gas in the house was turned on at once, things got 
so bright, and I hilt up my head, ready to look any man in the 
face, and not afeared of nothin'. It was a circus, and a brass 
band, and a big ball, all goin' on at the same time. He lit into 
them keys like a thousand of brick, he gave 'em no rest, day 
nor night ; he set every living joint in me agoin', and not bein' 
able to stand it no longer, I jumpt spang onto my seat, and 
jest hollered: "^ Go it, my Rube!^ 

'^ Every blamed man, woman, and child in the house riz on 
mc, and shouted, * Put him out I Put him out I ' 

'* With that some' several p'licemen run up, and I had to 
simmer down. But I would a-fit any fool that laid hands on 
me, for I was bound to hear Ruby out or die. 

'' He had changed his tune agin. He hopt-light ladies and 
tiptoed fine from eend to eend of the keyboard. He played 
soft, and low, and solemn. I heard the church bells over the 
hills. The candles in heaven was lit, one by one. I saw the 


stars rise. The great organ of eternity began to play from 
the world's end to the world's end, and all the angels went 
to prayers. Then the music changed to water, full of feeling 
that could n't be thought, and began to drop — drip, drop, drip, 
drop — clear and sweet, like tears of joy fallin' into a lake 
of glory. 

" He stopt a minute or two, to fetch breath. Then he 
got mad. He run his fingers through his hair, he shoved 
up his sleeves, he opened his coat-tails a leetle further, he 
drug up his stool, he leaned over, and, sir, he just went for 
that old pianner. He slapt her face, he boxed her jaws, he 
pulled her nose, he pinched her ears, and he scratched her 
cheeks, till she farly yelled. He knockt her down and he 
stompt on her shameful. She bellowed like a bull, she bleated 
like a calf, she howled like a hound, she squealed like a pig, 
she shrieked like a rat, and then he would n't let her up. He 
run a quarter-stretch down the low grounds of the bass, till he 
got clean into the bowels of the earth, and you heard thunder 
galloping after thunder, through the hollows and caves of 
perdition ; and then he fox-chased his right hand with his left 
till he got away out of the trible into the clouds, whar the 
notes was finer than the pints of cambric needles, and you 
couldn't hear nothin' but the shadders of 'em. And then he 
wouldn't let the old pianner go. He fetcht up his right wing, 
he fetcht up his left wing, he fetcht up his center, he fetcht up 
his reserves. He fired by file, he fired by platoons, by com- 
pany, by regiments, and by brigades. He opened his cannon, 
siege-guns down thar. Napoleons here, twelve-pounders yonder, 
big guns, little guns, middle-sized guns, round shot, shell, 
shrapnel, grape, canister, mortars, mines, and magazines, every 
livin' battery and bomb a-goin' at the same time. The house 
trembled, the lights danced, the walls shuk, the floor come up, 
the ceilin' come down, the sky split, the ground rockt — Bang ! 


>«;:"THER]v LTTEtATn 

im- nisse:*' Domi-. mi< mi sr an 

'iii;- rv^^- smsnv sctxzr- jlt ol 

7 r- tnm^ t««wt anc wen: of 

::—■— sf".**: tnausaoL iivt mmdrsc 





[George Washington Cable was born in New Oileana, LouiaJana, 
in 1 S44. Though very young when the Gvil War began, he served 
in the Fourth Missisdppi Cavalry. 
After the war he was for some 
years a surveyor and then a clerk in 
a cotton factor's office. Hegaveup 
this position to become a repiorter 
on the New Orleans Picayune, for 
which he had been writing sketches. 
Reporting was, however, not to his 
taste, and finding that the stories 
he had had time to write between 
his newspaper duties were accept- 
able to Scribntr's Magaxint and | | 
other periodicals, he decided in 
1879 to devote himself to literature 
as a profession. In 1886 he moved 
to Northampton, Massachusetts, 
where he sdll resides. While en- 
gaged in newspaper work he began 
to write sketches of New Orleans 
life. These he later gathered into his book " Old Creole Days," pub- 
lished in 1879. Sines then he has written several novels and cdlec- 
tions of short stories, nearly all of which have his distinctive backgiDund 
of Louisiana Creole life. Becoming interested in philanthnqnc enter- 
prises, he has given much time and energy to the prtHnotion of societies 
for social betterment, such as the Hwne Culture Qubs, founded in 
1887, now the Northampton Peo[de's Institute. In addition to the 
writing of books, he has lectured on literary and philanthropic nbjects 
and has given readings from his own stories.] 



L Congo Square 

Whoever has been to New Orleans with eyes not totally 
abandoned to buying and selling will, of course, remember 
St. Louis Cathedral, looking southeastward — riverward — 
across quaint Jackson Square, the old Place d'Armes. And if 
he has any feeling for flowers, he has not forgotten the little 
garden behind the cathedral, so antique and imexpected, named 
for the beloved old priest Pbre Antoine. 

The old Rue Royale lies across the sleeping garden's foot 
On the street's farther side another street lets away at right 
angles, northwestward, straight, and imperceptibly downward 
from the cathedral and garden toward the rear of the dty. It 
is lined mostly with humble ground-fioor-and-garret houses of 
stuccoed brick, their wooden doorsteps on the brick sidewalks. 
This is Orleans Street, so named when the city was founded. 

Its rugged round-stone pavement is at times nearly as sunny 
and silent as the landward side of a coral reef. Thus for about 
half a mile ; and then Rampart Street, where the palisade wall 
of the town used to run in Spanish days, crosses it, and a public 
square just beyond draws a grateful canopy of oak and sycamore 
boughs. That is the Place. One may shut his buff umbrella 
there, wipe the beading sweat from the brow, and fan himself 
with his hat. Many 's the bullfight has taken place on that spot 
Sunday afternoons of the old time. That is Congo Square. 

The trees are modem. So are the buildings about the four 
sides, for all their aged looks. So are all the grounds' adorn- 
ments. Treme market, off beyond, toward the swamp, is not 

1 Owing to inability to secure permission from the publishers of Mr. Cable's 

works to include a selection from his short stories or his novels, I have avafled 

myself of this vivid sketch of a characteristic feature of the old life of New 

Orleans. The article was originally contributed to the Century Magasme^ 

XXXI, page 517. 


so very old, and the scowling, ill-smelling prison on the right, 
so Spanish-looking and dilapidated, is not a third the age it 
seems ; not fifty-five. In that climate every year of a building's 
age counts for ten. Before any of these M. Cayetano's circus 
and menagerie were here. Cayetane the negroes called him. 
He was the Barnum of that region and day. 

Mich^ Cayetane. qui sortie de I'Havane, 
Avec so chouals et somacaques. 

That is, '' who came from Havana with his horses and baboons." 
Up at the other end of Orleans Street, hid only by the old 
padre's garden and the cathedral, glistens the ancient Place 
d'Armes. In the early days it stood for all that was best; the 
place for political rallying, the retail quarter of all fine goods 
and wares, and at sunset and by moonlight the promenade of 
good society and the haunt of true lovers ; not only in the 
military, but also in the most unwarlike sense the place of 
arms, and of hearts and hands, and of words tender as well 
as words noble. 

The Place Congo, at the opposite end of the street, was at 
the opposite end of everything. One was on the highest ground ; 
the other on the lowest. The one was the rendezvous of the 
rich man, the master, the military officer — of all that went to 
make up the ruling class ; the other of the butcher and baker, 
the raftsman, the sailor, the quadroon, the painted girl, and 
the negro slave. No meaner name could be given the spot. 
The negro was the most despised of human creatures and the 
Congo the plebeian among negroes. The white man's plaza 
had the army and navy on its right and 'left, the courthouse, 
the council-hall and the church at its back, and the world before 
it. The black man's was outside the rear gate, the poisonous 
wilderness on three sides and the proud man's contumely on 
its front. 


Before the city overgrew its flimsy palisade walls, and closing 
in about this old stamping-ground gave it set bounds, it was 
known as Congo Plains. There was wide room for much field 
sport, and the Indian villagers of the town's outskirts and the 
lower class of white Creoles made it the ground of their wild 
ball game of raquette, Sunday afternoons were the time for it. 
Hence, beside these diversions there was, "notably, another. 

The hour was the slave's term of momentary liberty, and his 
simple, savage, musical and superstitious nature dedicated it to 
amatory song and dance tinctured with his rude notions of 
supernatural influences. 

IL Grand Orchestra 

The booming of African drums and blast of huge wooden 
horns called to the gathering. It was these notes of invitation, 
reaching beyond those of other outlandish instruments, that 
caught the Ethiopian ear, put alacrity into the dark foot, and 
brought their owners, male and female, trooping from all quar- 
ters. The drums were very long, hollowed, often from a single 
piece of wood, open at one end and having a sheep or goat 
skin stretched across the other. One was large, the other much 
smaller. The tight skin heads were not held up to be struck ; 
the drums were laid along on the turf and the drummers be- 
strode them, and beat them on the head madly with fingers, 
fists, and feet, — with slow vehemence on the great drum, and 
fiercely and rapidly on the small one. Sometimes an extra per- 
former sat on the ground behind the larger drum, at its open 
end, and '^ beat upon the wooden sides of it with two sticks." 
The smaller drum was often made from a joint or two of very 
large bamboo, in the West Indies where such could be got, and 
this is said to be the origin of its name ; for it was called the 


In stolen hours of night or the basking-hour of noon the black 
man contrived to fashion these rude instruments and others. 
The drummers, I say, bestrode the drums ; the other musicians 
sat about them in an arc, cross-legged on the ground. One im- 
portant instrument was a gourd partly filled with pebbles or 
grains of corn, flourished violently at the end of a stout staff 
with one hand and beaten upon the palm of the other. Other 
performers rang triangles, and others twanged from jew's-harps 
an astonishing amount of sound. Another instrument was the 
jawbone of some ox, horse, or mule, and a key ratded rhyth- 
mically along its weather-beaten teeth. At times the drums 
were reenforced by one or more empty barrels or casks beaten 
on the head with the shank bones of cattle. 

A queer thing that went with these when the affair was pre- 
tentious — full dress, as it were — at least it was so in the 
West Indies, whence Congo Plains drew all inspirations — was 
the Marimba brett, a union of reed and string principles. A 
single strand of wire ran lengthwise of a bit of wooden board, 
sometimes a shallow box of thin wood, some eight inches long 
by four or five in width, across which, under the wire, were 
several joints of reed about a quarter of an inch in diameter 
and of graduated lengths. The performer, sitting cross-legged, 
held the board in both hands and plucked the ends of the reeds 
with his thumb-nails. The result was called — music. 

But the grand instrument at last, the first violin, as one might 
say, was the banjo. It had but four strings, not six : beware of 
the dictionary. It is not the " favorite musical instrument of the 
negroes of the Southern States of America." Uncle Remus 
says truly that that is the fiddle ; but for the true African dance, 
a dance not so much of legs and feet as of the upper half of the 
body, a sensual, devilish thing tolerated only by Latin-American 
masters, there was wanted the dark inspiration of African drums 
and the banjo's thrump and strum. 


And then there was that long-drawn human cry of tremen- 
dous volume, richness, and resound, to which no instrument 
within their reach could make the faintest approach: 

Eh ! pou' la belle Layotte ma mourri 'nocent, 
Oui 'nocent ma mourri ! 

all the instruments silent while it rises and swells with mighty 
energy and dies away distantly, " Yea-a-a-a-a-g^ ! " — then the 
crash of savage drums, horns, and ratdes — 

For the fair Layotte I must crazy die ! 
Yes, crazy I must die ! 

To all this there was sometimes added a Pan's-pipe of but 
three reeds, made from single joints of the common brake cane, 
and called by English-speaking negroes " the quills." . . . 

Such was the full band. All the values of contrast that dis- 
cord can furnish must have been present, with whatever there 
is of ecstasy in maddening repetition, for of this the African 
can never have too much. 

And yet there was entertaining variety. Where? In the 
dance ! There was constant, exhilarating novelty — endless 
invention — in the turning, bowing, arm-swinging, posturing, 
and leaping of the dancers. Moreover, the music of Congo 
Plains was not tamed to mere monotone. Monotone became 
subordinate to many striking qualities. The strain was wiW. 
Its contact with French taste gave it often great tenderness 
of sentiment. It grew in fervor, and rose and sank, and rose 
again, with the play of emotion in the singers and dancers. 

III. The Gathering 

It was a weird one. The negro of colonial Louisiana was a 
most grotesque figure. He was nearly naked. Often his neck 
and arms, thighs, shanks, and splay feet were shrunken, tough, 


sinewy like a monkey's. Sometimes it was scant diet and cruel 
labor that had made them so. Even the requirement of law 
was only that he should have not less than a barrel of com — 
nothing else — a month, nor get more than thirty lashes to 
the twenty-four hours. The whole world was crueler those 
times than now ; we must not judge them by our own. 

Often the slave's attire was only a cotton shirt, or a pair of 
pantaloons hanging in indecent tatters to his naked waist. The 
bondwoman was well clad who had on as much as a coarse 
chemise and petticoat. To add a tignon — a Madras handker- 
chief twisted into a turban — was high gentility, and the num- 
ber of kerchiefs beyond that one was the measure of absolute 
wealth. Some were rich in tignons\ especially those who served 
within the house, and pleased the mistress, or even the master 
— there were Hagars in those days. However, Congo Plains 
did not gather the house servants so much as the " field-hands." 

These came in troops. See them ; wilder than gypsies ; 
wilder than the Moors and Arabs whose strong blood and 
features one sees at a glance in so many of them ; gangs, — 
as they were called, — gangs and gangs of them, from this and 
that and yonder direction ; tall, well-knit Senegalese from Cape 
Verde, black as ebony, with intelligent, kindly eyes and long, 
straight, shapely noses; Mandingoes, from the Gambia River, 
lighter of color, of cruder form, and a cunning that shows in 
the countenance ; whose enslavement seems specially a shame, 
their nation the " merchants of Africa," dwelling in towns, 
industrious, thrifty, skilled in commerce and husbandry, and 
expert in the working of metals, even to silver and gold ; and 
Fulahs, playfully miscalled " Poulards^^ — fat chickens, — of 
goodly stature, and with a perceptible rose tint in the cheeks; 
and Sosos, famous warriors, dexterous with the African targe ; 
and in contrast to these, with small ears, thick eyebrows, bright 
eyes, flat, upturned noses, shining skin, wide mouths and whitq 


teeth, the negroes of Guinea, true and unmixed, from the Gold 
Coast, the Slave Coast, and the Cape of Palms — not from the 
Grain Coast; the English had that trade. See them comel 
Popoes, Cotocolies, Fidas, Socoes, Agwas, short, copper- 
colored Mines — what havoc the slavers did make ! — and 
from interior Africa others equally proud and warlike: fierce 
Nagoes and Fonds ; tawny Awassas ; Iboes, so light-colored 
that one could not tell them from mulattoes but for their 
national tattooing; and the half-civilized and quick-witted but 
ferocious Arada, the original Voudoo worshiper. And how 
many more I For here come, also, men and women from all 
that great Congo coast, — Angola, Malimbe, Ambrice, etc., — 
small, good-natured, sprightly " boys," and gay, garrulous 
"gals," thick-lipped but not tattooed; chattering, chaffering, 
singing, and guffawing as they come : these are they for whom 
the dance and the place are named, the most numerous sort of 
negro in the colonies, the Congoes and Franc-Congoes, and 
though serpent worshipers, yet the gentiest and kindliest 
natures that came from Africa. Such was the company. 
Among these bossals — that is, native Africans — there was, of 
course, an ever-growing number of negroes who proudly called 
themselves Creole negroes, that is, bom in America;^ and 
at the present time there is only here and there an old native 
African to be met with, vain of his singularity and trembling 
on his staff. 

IV. The Bamboula 

The gathering throng closed in around, leaving unoccupied 
the circle indicated by the crescent of musicians. The short, 
harsh turf was the dancing floor. The crowd stood. Fancy the 

1 This broader use of the term is very common. The Creole " dialect" is die 
broken English of the Creoles^ while the Creole /aiois is the corrupt French, not 
of the Creoles, but rather of the former slave race in the country of the Creoles. 
So of Creole negroes and Creole dances and songs. [Author's note.] 


picture. The pack of dark, tattered^ figures touched off every 
here and there with the bright colors of a Madras tignon, . The 
squatting, cross-legged musicians. The low-roofed, embowered 
town off in front, with here and there a spire lifting a finger of 
feeble remonstrance; the flat, grassy plain stretching around 
and behind, dotted with black stumps; in the distance the 
pale-green willow undergrowth, behind it the cyprihre — the 
cypress swamp — and in the pale, seven-times-heated sky the 
sun, only a little declined to south and westward, pouring down 
its beams. 

With what particular musical movements the occasion oegan 
does not now appear. May be with very slow and measured 
ones; they had such that were strange and typical. I have 
heard the negroes sing one — though it was not of the dance- 
ground but of the cane-field — that showed the emphatic bar- 
barism of five bars to the line, and was confined to four notes 
of the open horn. . 

But I can only say that with some such slow and quiet strain 
the dance may have been preluded. It suits the Ethiopian fancy 
for a beginning to be dull and repetitious; the bottom of the 
ladder must be on the ground. 

The singers almost at the first note are many. At the end 
of the first line every voice is lifted up. The strain is given the 
second time with growing spirit. Yonder glistening black Her- 
cules, who plants one foot forward, lifts his head and bare, 
shining chest, and rolls out the song from a mouth and throat 
like a cavern, is a candio^ a chief, or was before he was over- 
thrown in battle and dragged away, his village burning behind 
him, from the mountains of High Soudan. That is an African 
amulet that hangs about his neck — a greegree. He is of the 
Bambaras, as you may know by his solemn visage and the long 
tattoo streaks running down from the temples to the neck, 
broadest in the middle, like knife-gashes. See his play of 


restrained enthusiasm catch from one bystander to another. 
They swing and bow to right and left, in slow time to the 
piercing treble of the Congo women. Some are responsive! 
others are competitive. Hear that bare foot slap the ground ! 
one sudden stroke only, as it were the foot of a stag. The 
musicians warm up at the sound. A smiting of breasts with 
open hands begins very softly and becomes vigorous. The 
women's voices rise to a tremulous intensity. Among the 
chorus of Franc-Congo singing-girls is one of extra good voice, 
who thrusts in, now and again, an improvisation. This girl 
here, so tall and straight, is a Yaloff. You see it in her almost 
Hindu features, and hear it in the plaintive melody of her 
voice. Now the chorus is more piercing than ever. The 
women clap their hands in time, or standing with arms akimbo 
receive with faint courtesies and head-liftings the low bows of 
the men, who deliver them swinging this way and that. 

See ! Yonder brisk and sinewy fellow has taken one short, 
nervy step into the ring, chanting with rising energy. Now he 
takes another, and stands and sings and looks here and there, 
rising upon his broad toes and sinking and rising again, with 
what wonderful lightness I How tall and lithe he is. Notice 
his brawn shining through his rags. He too is a "candiOy and 
by the three long rays of tattooing on each side of his face, a 
Kiamba. The music has got into his feet. He moves off to 
the farther edge of the circle, still singing, takes the prompt 
hand of an unsmiling Congo girl, leads her into the ring, and, 
leaving the chant to the throng, stands her before him for 
the dance. 

Will they dance to that measure? Wait I A sudden frenzy 
seizes the musicians. The measure quickens, the swaying, 
attitudinizing crowd starts into extra activity, the female voices 
grow sharp and staccato, and suddenly the dance is the furious 


Now for the frantic leaps 1 Now for frenzy 1 Another pair 
are in the ring I The man wears a belt of little bells, or, as a 
substitute, little tin vials of shot, " bram-bram sonnette 1 " And 
still another couple enter the circle. What wild — what terrible 
delight I The ecstasy rises to madness ; one — two — three of 
the dancers fall — bloucoutoum ! boum ! — with foam on their 
lips and are dragged out by arms and legs from under the 
tumultuous feet of crowding newcomers. The musicians know 
no fatigue ; still the dance rages on : 

Quand patate la cuite na va mang^ li ! 

And all to that one nonsense line meaning only, 

When that 'tater 's cooked don't you eat it up ! 

It was a frightful triumph of body over mind, even in those 
early days when the slave was still a genuine pagan; but as his 
moral education gave him some hint of its enormity, and it be- 
came a forbidden fruit monopolized by those of reprobate will, 
it grew everywhere more and more gross. No wonder the police 
stopped it in Congo Square. . . . 

It is odd that such fantastical comicality of words should 
have been mated to such fierce and frantic dancing, but so 
it was. The reeking faces of the dancers, moreover, always 
solemnly grave. So we must picture it now if we still fancy 
ourselves spectators on Congo Plains. The bamboula still 
roars and rattles, twangs, contorts, and tumbles in terrible 
earnest, while we stand and talk. So, on and on. 



[Joel Chandler Hanis was bom in Eatonton, Georgia, in 1848, 
He left school at the age of twelve to go to the farm 'of a Mr. 
Turner, nine miles from Eaton- 
ton, to learn the printer's traiie 
in connection with the publi' 
cation of a newspaper. Most 
of his training for his future 
work was obtained from the 
books of Mr. Turner's library 
and from the negroes on the 
plantation, from whom he 
stored his mind with their folk- 
lore. In 1876 Harris became 
a member of the editorial staff 
of the Atlanta Constitution. 
For this paper he wrote the 
negro folk tales which were 
gathered into the volume 
" Uncle Remus ; his Songs and 
Sayings," published in 1880. 
This book at once gave the 
author a national reputation, 
which has been sustained by 
his further volumes dealing with negro folklore and the life of 
Georgia country people. He died at his home, " Sign of the Wren's 
Nest," in a suburb of Atlanta, Georgia, in 1908.] 



When the little boy, whose nights with Uncle Retnus are as 
entertaining as those Arabian ones of blessed memory, had 
finished supper the other evening and hurried out to sit with 
his venerable patron, he found the old man in great glee. 
Indeed, Uncle Remus was talking and laughing to himself at 


such a rate that the little boy was afraid he had company. The 
truth is, Uncle Remus had heard the child coming, and when 
the rosy-cheeked chap put his head in the door, was engaged 
in a monologue, the burden of which seemed to be : 

Ole Molly Ha'r 
Wat you doin' d'ar 
Settin' in de cornder 
Smokin' yo' seegyar? 

As a matter of course, this vague allusion reminded the little 
boy of the fact that the wicked Fox was still in pursuit of the 
Rabbit, and he immediately put his curiosity in the shape of a 

" Uncle Remus, did the Rabbit have to go clean away when 
he got loose from the Tar-baby } " 

'^ Bless grashus, honey, dat he did n't. Who ? Him ? You 
dunno nuthin' 'tall 'bout Brer Rabbit ef dat 's de way you put- 
tin' 'em down. Wat he gwine 'way fer ? He mouter stayed 
sorter close 'twell de pitch rub off' n his ha'r, but 'twan't menny 
days 'fo' he waz lopin' up en down de naberhood same ez ever, 
en I dunno ef he were n't mo' sassier den befo'. 

'^ Seem like dat de tale 'bout how he got mixt up wid de Tar- 
baby got 'roun' 'mongst de nabers. Leas'ways, Miss Meadows 
en de gals got win' un it, en de nex' time Brer Rabbit paid um 
a visit. Miss Meadows tackled 'im 'bout it, en de gals sot up a 
monst'us gigglement. Brer Rabbit, he sot up des ez cool ez 
a cowcumber, he did, en let 'em run on." 

" Who was Miss Meadows, Uncle Remus ? " inquired the 
little boy. 

*^ Don' ax me, honey. She was in de tale, en de tale I give 
you like hit were gun ter me. Brer Rabbit, he sot dar, he did, 
sorter lam 'like, en den bimeby he cross his legs, he did, en 
wink his eye slow en up en say, sezee : 


" ^ Ladies, Brer Fox wuz my daddy's ridin' boss fer thirty 
year ; maybe mo', but thirty year dat I knows un ! ' sezee, en 
den he paid 'em his 'spects, en tip his beaver, en march off, he 
did, des ez stiff en ez stuck up ez a fire-stick. 

" Nex' day. Brer Fox cum callin', en w'en he gim fer ter laff 
'bout Brer Rabbit, Miss Meadows en de gals, dey ups en tells 
'im 'bout w'at Brer Rabbit said. Den Brer Fox grit his toof 
sho' nuff, he did, en he look mighty dumpy, but w'en he riz fer 
ter go, he up en say, sezee : 

" * Ladies, I ain't 'sputin' w'at you say, but I '11 make Brer 
Rabbit chaw up his words en spit um out right here whar you 
kin see 'im,' sezee, en wid dat off Brer Fox marcht 

^* En w'en he got in de big road, he shuck de dew off'n his 
tail, en made a straight shoot fer Brer Rabbit's house. W'en 
he got dar. Brer Rabbit wuz 'spectin' un 'im, en de do* was 
shet fas'. Brer Fox knock. Nobody never ans'er. Brer Fox 
knock. Nobody ans'er. Den he knock ag'in — blam, blam. 
Den Brer Rabbit holler out mighty weak : 

" ^ Is dat you, Brer Fox ? I want you to run fer ter fetch de 
doctor. Dat bait er pusly w'at I et dis mawnin' is gittin* 'way 
wid me. Do please run quick, Brer Fox,' sez Brer Rabbit, 


I come atter you. Brer Rabbit,' sez Brer Fox, sezee. 
* Dere 's gwineter be a party over at Miss Meadows's,' sezee. 
^ All de gals '11 be dere, en I promus' dat I'd fetch you. De 
gals, dey 'lowed dat hit would n't be no party 'ceppin' I fotch 
you,' sez Brer Fox, sezee. 

*' Den Brer Rabbit say he was too sick, en Brer Fox say he 
wuzzent, en dar dey had it up and down, 'sputin' en contendin'. 
Hrcr Rabbit say he could n't walk. Brer Fox say he 'd tote *im. 
Brer Rabbit say how ? Brer Fox say in his arms. Brer Rabbit 
say he 'd drap 'im. Brer Fox 'low he would n't. Bimeby, Brer 
Rabbit say he 'd go ef Brer Fox tote 'im on his back. Brer Fox 


say he would. Brer Rabbit say he could n't ride widout a 
saddle. Brer Fox say he 'd git de saddle. Brer Rabbit say he 
could n't set in de saddle less he had bridle fer ter hoF by. Brer 
Fox say he 'd git de bridle. Brer Rabbit say he could n't ride 
widout bline-bridle, kaze Brer Fox 'd be shyin' at stumps 'long 
de road, en fling 'im off. Brer Fox say he 'd git de bline-bridle. 
Den Brer Rabbit say he 'd go. Den Brer Fox say he 'd ride 
Brer Rabbit mos' up ter Miss Meadows's en den he could git 
down en w^lk de balance er de way. Brer Rabbit 'greed, en 
den Brer Fox lipt out atter de saddle en bridle. 

'' Co'se Brer Rabbit know'd de game dat Brer Fox wuz fixin' 
fer ter play, en he 'termined fer ter outdo 'im, en by de time he 
koam his ha'r en twis' his mustash, en sorter rig up, here come 
Brer Fox, saddle en bridle on, en lookin' ez peart ez a circus 
pony. He trot up ter de do' en stood dar pawin' de groun' en 
chompin' de bit same like sho' nuff boss, en Brer Rabbit he 
mounted, he did, en dey amble off. Brer Fox couldn't see 
behine wid de bline-bridle on, but bimeby he feel Brer Rabbit 
raise one er his foots. 

" ' Wat you doin't now. Brer Rabbit ? ' sezee. 

" ' Short'nin' de lef stir'p. Brer Fox,' sezee. 

" Bimeby, Brer Rabbit raise up de udder foot. 

" ' Wat you doin't now. Brer Rabbit ? ' sezee. 

" * Pullin' down my pants. Brer Fox,' sezee. 

" All de time, bless grashus, honey, Brer Rabbit were puttin' 
on his spurrers en w'en dey got close to Miss Meadows's, whar 
Brer Rabbit wuz to git off, en Brer Fox made a motion fer ter 
put on brakes. Brer Rabbit slap de spurrers inter Brer Fox's 
flanks, en you better b'leeve he got over groun'. W'en dey got 
ter de house, Miss Meadows en all de gals wuz er settin' on de 
peazzer, en 'stidder stoppin' at de gate. Brer Rabbit rid on by, 
he did, en come gallopin' down de road en up ter de boss rack, 
w'ich he hitch Brer Fox at, en den he santer inter de house, 


he did, en shake han's wid de gals en set dar smokin' his 
seegyar same ez town man. Bimeby, he draw in long puff en 
den let hit out in er cloud, en squar' hisse'f back, en holler out, 
he did : 

" * Ladies, ain't I done tell you Brer Fox wuz de ridin' hoss 
f er our fambly ? He 's sorter losin' his gait now, but I 'speck 
I kin fetch 'im all right in a mont' er so,' sezee. 

" En den Brer RabbJt smile, he did, en de gals giggle, en Miss 
Meadows, she praise up de pony, en dar wuz Brer Fox hitch 
fas' ter de rack en could n't he'p hisse'f." 

" Is that all. Uncle Remus ? " asked the little boy as the old 
man paused. 

" Dat ain't all, honey, but 't won't do fer to give out too 
much cloff fer ter cut one pa'r pants," replied the old man 


When " Miss Sally's " little boy went to Uncle Remus the 
next night to hear the conclusion of the adventure in which the 
Rabbit made a riding horse of the Fox to the great enjoyment 
and gratification of Miss Meadows and the girls, he found the 
old man in a bad humor. 

^* I ain't tellin' no tales ter bad chilluns," said Uncle Remus, 

" But, Uncle Remus, I ain't bad," said the little boy, plain- 

"Who dat chunkin' dem chickens dis mawnin'? Who dat 
knockin' out fokes's eyes wid dat Yaller-bammer sling des *fo' 
dinner ? Who dat sickin' dat pinter puppy atter my pig ? Who 
dat scatterin' my ingun sets ? Who dat flingin* rocks on top er 
my house, w'ich a little mo' en one un um would er drapt spang 
on my head ? " 


** Well, now, Uncle Remus, I did n*t go to do it I wbn't do 
so any more. Please, Uncle Remus, if you will tell me 1 11 run 
in the house and bring you some tea-cakes." 

" Seein 's better 'n hearin' tell un um," replied the old man, 
the severity of his countenance relaxing into a smile ; but the 
little boy darted out and in a few minutes came running back 
with his pockets full and his hands full. 

" I lay yo' mammy '11 'spishun dat de rats' stummudcs is 
widenin' in dis naberhood, w'en she come fer ter count up *er 
cakes," said Uncle Remus, with a chuckle. "Deze," he con- 
tinued, dividing the cakes into two equal parts, **deze IH 
tackle now, en deze I '11 lay by fer Sunday. 

^* Lemme see. I mos' dis'member wharbouts Brer Fox en 
Brer Rabbit wuz." 

" The Rabbit rode the Fox to Miss Meadows's and hitdied 
him to the horse rack," said the little boy. 

" W'y co'se he did," said Uncle Remus, '* co'se he did. Well, 
Brer Rabbit rid Brer Fox up, he did, en tied 'im to de rack, en 
sot out in de peazzer wid de gals smokin' er his se^jyar wid 
mo' proudness dan w'at you mos' ever see. Dey talk, en dey 
sing, en dey play on de peanner, de gals did, twell bimeby 
hit come time fer Brer Rabbit fer to be gwine, en he teQ um 
all good-bye, en strut out to de boss rack same 's ef he wuz 
de king er de patter-rollers, en den he moimted Brer Fox and 
rid off. 

" Brer Fox ain't sayin' nothin' 'talL He des rack off en keep 
his mouf shet, en Brer Rabbit know'd der wuz bizness oookin' 
up fer him, en he feel monst'us skittish. Brer Fox amble on 
twell he got in de long land outer sight er Miss Meadows's house, 
en den he turn loose, he did. He rip en he r'ar en he cuss en 
he swar ; he snort en he cavort" 

" What was he doing that for, Unde Remus ? " the little boy 


" He wuz tiyin' fer ter fling Brer Rabbit, bless yo' soul. But 
he des might ez well er rastled wid his own shadder. Ev'y time 
he hump hisse^f, Brer Rabbit slap de spurrers in 'im, en dar 
dey had it up en down. Brer Fox fa'rly to' up de groun', he did, 
en he jump so high en he jump so quick dat he mighty nigh 
snatch his own tail off. Dey kep' on gwine on dis way twell 
bimeby Brer Fox lay down en roll over, he did, en dis sorter 
unsettle Brer Rabbit, but by de time Brer Fox got back on his 
footses ag'in, Brer Rabbit wuz gwine thoo de underbresh mo' 
samer dan a race boss. Brer Fox, he lit out atter 'im, he did, en 
he push Brer Rabbit so close dat it wuz 'bout all he could do fer 
ter git in a holler tree. Hole too little fer Brer Fox fer ter git 
in, en he hatter lay down en res' en gedder his mine tergedder. 

" While he wuz layin' dar Mr. Buzzard come fioppin' long en 
seein' Brer Fox stretch out on de groun' he lit en view de 
premusses. Den Mr. Buzzard sorter shake his wing, en put his 
head on one side, en say to hisse'f like, sezee : 
Brer Fox dead, en I so sorry,' sezee. 
No I ain't dead nudder,' sez Brer Fox, sezee. * I got ole 
man Rabbit pent up in here,' sezee, ' en I'm gwineter git 'im 
dis time ef it takes twell Chris'mus,' sezee. 

" Den atter some mo' palaver. Brer Fox make a bargain dat 
Mr. Buzzard wuz ter watch de hole en keep Brer Rabbit dar 
w'ilst Brer Fox went atter his axe. Den Brer Fox, he lope 
off, he did, en Mr. Buzzard, he tuck up his stan' at de hole. 
Bimeby, w'en all got still. Brer Rabbit sorter scramble down 
close ter de hole, he did, en holler out : 

" ' Brer Fox ! oh. Brer Fox 1 ' 

" Brer P'ox done gone, en nobody say nuthin'. Den }5rer 
Rabbit squall out like he wuz mad, sezee: 

" * You need n't talk les' you wanter,' sezee. 'I knows youer 
dar, en T ain't kcerin,' sezee. * I des wanter tell you dat I wish 
mighty bad Brer Turkey Buzzard wuz here,' sezee. 


Den Mr. Buzzard try to talk like Brer Fox : 
Wat you want wid Mr. Blizzard ? ' sezee. 
Oh, nothin' 'tickler, 'cep' dere 's de fattes' gray squirl in 
yer dat I ever see,' sezee, * en ef Brer Turkey Buzzard was 
'roun' he'd be mighty glad fer ter git 'im,' sezee. 

" * How Mr. Buzzard gwine ter git 'im ? ' sez de Buzzard, 

" ' Well, dar 's a little hole 'roun' on de udder skie er de tree,' 
sez ferer Rabbit, sezee, * en ef Brer Turkey Buzzard wuz here 
so he could take up his stan' dar,' sezee, * I coukl drive* de 
squir'l out,' sezee. 

" Den Brer Rabbit kick up a racket like he wer* drivin' sumpin' 
out, en Mr. Buzzard he rush 'roun' fer ter ketch de squirl, en 
Brer Rabbit, he dash out, he did, en he des fly fer home." 

At this point, Uncle Remus took one of the tea-cakes, hekl 
his head back, opened his mouth, dropped the cake in witii a 
sudden motion, looked at the litde boy with an expressk)n of 
astonishment, and then closed his eyes and b^^ to chew, 
mumbling as an accompaniment the plaintive tune of " Don't 
you grieve atter me." 

The stance was over ; but before the littliB boy went into the 
" big house," Uncle Remus laid his rough hand tender^ on the 
child's shoulder and remarked in a confidential tone : 

" Honey, you mus' git up soon Chris'mus mawnin' en open 
de do' ; kaze I'm gwineter bounce in on Marse John en Miss 
Sally, en holler ' Chris'mus gif ',' des like I useter endurin' de 
fahmin' days 'fo' de war, w'en ole Miss wuz live. I boun' dey 
don't fergit de ole nigger, nudder. W'en you hear me calHn' de 
pigs, honey, you des hop up en onfassen de do'. I lay I *11 give 
Marse John wxmner deze yer 'sprize parties." 



[Mary Noailles Murfree known m hterature as Charles Egbert 
Craddock was horn near Murfreesboro Tennessee in 1850 Bang 
left shghtly lame from a stroke 
of paralysis when a child she 
devoted herself largely to read- 
ing and study For many years 
she spent her summers in the 
mountains of East Tennessee 
and thus she became fainikar 
with the material that appears 
in her stones — the beauty of 
the mountains and the pnmitive 
life of the mountaineers In 
1S84 she collected her earhest 
stones into a volume entitled 

In the Tennessee Mountains 
This has been followed by other 
volumes about the mountaineers 
I novels of life in other sections 

MARY NOAiLLt^ MLRFREE °* ^^ South and vanous maga- 

zine articles For a number of 
years after the war the Murfree family lived in St. Louis, returning 
in 1890 to Murfreesboro, which has since been the novelist's home.] 

The breeze freshened, after the sun went down, and the hop 
and gourd vines were all astir as they clung about the little 
porch where Clarsie was sitting now, idle at last The raJn- 
clouds had disappeared, and there bent over the datk, heavily 
wooded ridgeS a pale blue sky, with here and there the crys- 
talline sparkle of a star. A halo was shimmering in the cast, 

1 Ri-prinicd from "In the Tenncsurc Mountains" by spec 
wilh 1)11.- holders of the copyright, Houghton Mifflin Company. 


where the mists had gathered about the great white moon, 
hanging high above the mountains. Noiseless wings flitted 
through the dusk ; now and then the bats swept by so dose as 
to wave Clarsie's hair with the wind of their flight What an 
airy, glittering, magical thing was that gigantic spider-web sus- 
pended between the silver moon and her shining eyes I Ever 
and anon there came from the woods a strange, weird, long- 
drawn sigh, unlike the stir of the wind in the trees, unlflce the 
fret of the water on the rocks. Was it the voiceless sorrow of 
the sad earth? There were stars in the night besides those 
known to astronomers : the stellular fire-flies gemmed the black 
shadows with a fluctuating brilliancy ; they circled in- and out 
of the porch, and touched the leaves above Clarsk's head with 
quivering points of light. A steadier and an intenser gleam was 
advancing along the road, and the sound of languid footsteps 
came with it; the aroma of tobacco graced the atmosphere, and 
a tall figure walked up to the gate. 

" Come in, come in," said Peter Giles, rising, and tendering 
the guest a chair. " Ye air Tom Pratt, ez well ez I kin make 
out by this light. Waal, Tom, we hain't furgot ye sence ye done 
been hyar." 

As Tom had been there on the previous evening, this might 
be considered a joke, or an equivocal compliment The young 
fellow was restless and awkward under it, but Mrs. Giles diuckled 
with great merriment. . . . 

" Waal," said Peter Giles, " what 's the news out yer way, 
Tom ? Ennything a-goin' on ? " 

"Thar war a shower yander on the Backbone; it rained 
tolerable hard fur a while, an' sot up the com wonderful. Did 
ye git enny hyar ? " 

" Not a drap." 

" Tears ter me ez I kin see the ctouds a-drdin' round 
Chilhowee, an' a-rainin' on everybody's comfidd 'ceptin' oum," 


said Mrs. Giles. " Some folks is the favored of tljie Lord, an' 
toothers hev ter work fur everything an' git nuthin'. Waal, 
waal ; we-uns will see our reward in the nex' worF. Thar 's 
a better worF than this, Tom." 

"That 's a fac'," said Tom, in orthodox assent. 

"An' when we leaves hyar once, we leaves all trouble an' 
care behind us, Tom ; fur we don't come back no more." 
Mrs. Giles was drifting into one of her pious moods. 

" I dunno," said Tom. " Thar hev been them ez hev." 

" Hev what? " demanded Peter Giles, starded. 

" Hev come back ter this hyar yearth. Thar's a hamt that 
walks Chilhowee every night o' the worl'. I know them ez hev 
seen him." 

Clarsie's great dilated eyes were fastened on the speaker's 
face. There was a dead silence for a moment, more eloquent 
with these looks of amazement than any words could have been. 

" I reckons ye remember a puny, shriveled little man, named 
Reuben Crabb, ez used ter live yander, eight mile along the ridge 
ter that thar big sulphur spring," Tom resumed, appealing to 
Peter Giles. " He war bom with only one arm." 

" I 'members him," interpolated Mrs. Giles, vivaciously. " He 
war a mighty porely, sickly little critter, all the days of his life. 
'T war a wonder he war ever raised ter be a man, — an' a pity, 
too. An' 'twar powerful comical, the way of his takin' off; a 
stunted, one-armed little critter a-ondertakin' ter fight folks an' 
shoot pistols. He hed the use o' his one arm, sure." 

" Waal," said Tom, " his house ain't thar now, lease Sam 
Grim's brothers burned it ter the ground fur his a-killin' of 
Sam. That war n't all that war done ter Reuben fur killin' 
of Sam. The sheriff run Reuben Crabb down this hyar road 
'bout a mile from hyar, — mebbe less, — an' shot him dead in 
the road, jes' whar it forks. Waal, Reuben war in company 
with another evil-doer, — he war from the Cross-Roads, an' I 


furgits what he hed done, but he war a-tryin' ter hide in the 
mountings, too ; an' the sheriff lef Reubai a-ljrin* thar in the 
road, while he tries ter ketch up with the t'other ; but his horse 
got a stone in his hoof, an' he los' time, an' hed ter gin it up. 
An' when he got back ter the forks o' the road whar he had 
lef ' Reuben a-lyin' dead, thar war nuthin' thar 'ceptin' a pool 
o' blood. Waal, he went right on ter Reuben's house, an' them 
Grim boys hed burnt it ter the ground ; but he seen Reuben's 
brother Joel. An' Joel, he tole the sheriff that late that evenin' 
he hed tuk Reuben's body out 'n the road an' buried it, Icase^it 
hed been lyin' thar in the road ever sence eariy in the momin', 
an' he could n't leave it thar all night, an' he hed n't no shelter fur 
it, sence the Grim boys hed burnt down the house. So he war 
obleeged ter bury it. An' Joel showed the sheriff a new-made 
grave, an' Reuben's coat whar the sheriff's bullet hed gcme in 
at the back an' kem out 'n the breast. The sheriff lowed ez 
they 'd fine Joel fifty dollars fur a-buryin' of Reuben afoie tihe 
cor'ner kem ; but they never done it, ez I knows on. The sheriff 
said that when the cor'ner kem the body woukl be tuk up fur 
a 'quest. But thar hed been a powerful big frishet, an' the 
river 'twixt the cor'ner's house an' ChiUiowee could n't be forded 
fur three weeks. The cor'ner never kem, an* so thar it all stayed. 
That war four year ago." 

" Waal," said Peter Giles, dryly, " I ain't seen no bamt yit 
I knowed all that afore." 

Clarsie's wondering eyes upon the young man's moonlit face 
had elicited these facts, familiar to the* elders, but strange, he 
knew, to her. 

" I war jes' a-goin' on ter tell," saki Tom, abashed. " Waal, 
ever sence his brother Joel died, this spring, Reuben's hamt 
walks Chilhowee." . . . 

" My Lord I " exclaimed Peter Giles. *' I 'tow I could n't five 
a minit ef I war ter see that thar hamt that walks Chilhowee t " 


" I know /couldn't," said his wife. 

" Nor me, nuther," murmured Clarsie. . . . 

" Tears ter me," said Mrs. Giles, '* ez many mountings ez 
thar air round hyar, he mought hev tuk ter walkin' some o' 
them, stiddier Chilhowee." 

[When the young man had taken his leave, and the house- 
hold had retired, Clarsie, finding herself unable to sleep, arose 
and stole from the house to try a method of telling fortunes she 
knew in order to determine whether she was really going to 
marry Sam Bumey. While she was engaged in these procedures, 
she became aware of a stirring in the laurel bushes.] 

Her eyes were fixed upon the dense growth with a morbid 
fascination, as she moved away ; but she was once more rooted 
to the spot when the leaves parted and in the golden moonlight 
the ghost stood before her. She could not nerve herself to run 
past him, and he was directly in her way homeward. His face 
was white, and lined, and thin; that pitiful quiver was never 
still in the parted lips ; he Ipoked at her with faltering, beseech- 
ing eyes. Clarsie's merciful heart was stirred. " What ails ye, 
ter come back hyar, an' f oiler me?" she cried out abruptly. 
And then a great horror fell upon her. Was not one to whom 
a ghost should speak doomed to death, sudden and immediate ? 

The ghost replied in a broken, shivering voice, like a wail 
of pain, " I war a-starvin', — I war a-starvin'," with despairing 

It was all over, Clarsie thought. The ghost had spoken, and 
she was a doomed creature. She wondered that she did not fall 
dead in the road. While those beseeching eyes were fastened 
in piteous appeal on hers, she could not leave him. " I never 
hearn that 'bout ye," she said, reflectively. " I knows ye hed 
awful troubles while ye war alive, but I never knowed tt ye 
war starved." 




Surely that was a gleam of sharp surprise in the ghost's 
prominent eyes, succeeded by a sly intelligence. 

" Day is nigh ter breakin'," Clarsie admonished him, as the 
lower rim of the moon touched the silver mists of the west 

What air ye a-wantin' of me ? " . . . 

" Ye do ez ye air bid, or it '11 be the worse for ye," said the 

hamt," in the same quivering, shrill tone. " Thar 's hunger in • 
the nex' wori' ez well ez in this, an* ye bring me some vittles 
hyar this time ter-morrer, an' don't ye tell nobody ye hev seen 
me, nuther, or it '11 be the worse for ye." 

There was a threat in his eyes as he disappeared in the 
laurel, and left the girl standing in the last rays of moonlight . . . 

The next morning, before the moon sank, Clarsie, with a tin 
pail in her hand, went to meet the ghost at the appointed place. 
She understood now why the terrible doom that falls upon 
those to whom a spirit may chance to speak had not descended 
upon her, and that fear was gone; but the secrecy of Her 
errand weighed heavily. She had beoi scrupulously careful to 
put into the pail only such things as had fallen to her share at 
the table, and which she had saved from the meals of yester- 
day. " A gal that goes a-robbin' fur a hongry hamt," was her 
moral reflection, " oughter be throwed bodadously off'n the 

She found no one at the forks of the road. In the marshy 
dip were only the myriads of mountain azaleas, only the masses 
of feathery ferns, only the constellated glories of the laurel 
blooms. A sea of shining white mist was in the valley, witii 
glinting golden rays striking athwart it from the great cresset 
of the sinking moon ; here and there the long, daric, horizontal 
line of a distant mountain's summit rose above the vaporous 
shimmer, like a dreary, somber island in the midst of enchanted 
waters. Her large, dreamy eyes, so wild and yet so gentle, 
gazed out through the laurel leaves upon the floatmg gilded 


flakes of light, as in the deep coverts of the mountain, where 
the fulvous-tinted deer were lying, other eyes, as wild and as 
gentle, dreamily watched the vanishing moon. Overhead, the 
filmy, lacelike clouds, fretting the blue heavens, were tinged 
with a faint rose. Through the trees she caught a glimpse of 
the red sky of dawn, and the glister of a great lucent, trem- 
ulous star. From the ground, misty blue exhalations were 
rising, alternating with the long lines of golden light yet drift- 
ing through the woods. It was all very still, very peaceful, 
almost holy. One could hardly believe that these consecrated 
solitudes had once reverberated with the echoes of man's death- 
dealing ingenuity, and that Reuben Crabb had fallen, shot 
through and through, amid that wealth of flowers at the forks 
of the road. She heard suddenly the far-away baying of a 
hound. Her great eyes dilated, and she lifted her head to 
listen. Only the solemn silence of the woods, the slow sinking 
of the noiseless moon, the voiceless splendor of that eloquent 

Morning was close at hand, and she was beginning to wonder 
that the ghost did not appear, when the leaves fell into abrupt 
commotion, and he was standing in the road, beside her. He 
did not speak, but watched her with an eager, questioning 
intentness, as she placed the contents of the pail upon the 
moss at the roadside. " I'm a-comin' agin ter-morrer," she 
said gently. He made no reply, quickly gathered the food 
from the ground, and disappeared in the deep shades of the 

She had not expected thanks, for she was accustomed only 
to the gratitude of dumb beasts ; but she was vaguely conscious 
of something wanting, as she stood motionless for a moment, 
and watched the burnished rim of the moon slip down behind 
the western . mountains. Then she slowly walked along her 
misty way in the dim light of the coming dawn. There was 


a footstep in the road behind her ; she thought it was the 
ghost once more. She turned, and met Simon Bumey, face to 
face. His rod was on his shoulder, and a strii^ of fish was ia 
his hand. 

" Ye air a-doin' wrongful, Clarsie," he said sternly. " It air 
agin the law fur follts ter feed an' shelter them ez is a-runnin' 
from jestice. An' ye 'II git yerself inter trouble. Other folks 
will find ye out, besides me, an' then the sheriff '11 be up hyar 
arter ye." 

The tears rose to Clarsie'a eyes. This prospect was infinitely 
more terrifying than the awful doom which follows the horror 
of a ghost's speech. 

'■' I can't help it," she said, however, doggedly swinging the 
pail back and forth. " 1 can't gin my consent ter starvin' of 
folks, even ef they air a-hidin' an' a-runnin' from jestice." . . . 

He left her walking on toward the rising sun, and retraced 
his way to the forks of the road. The jubilant morning was 
filled with the song of birds ; the sunlight flashed on the dew ; 
all the delicate enameled bells of the pink and white azaleas 
were swin^g tremulously in the wind ; the aroma of ferns 
and mint rose on the delicious fresh air, Presendy he checked 
his pace, creeping stealthily on the moss and grass beside the 
road rather than in the beaten path. He pulled aside the leaves 
of the laurel with no more stir than the wind might have made, 
and stole cautiously through its dense growth, till he came sud- 
denly upon the puny little ghost, lying in the sun at the foot of 
a tree. The frightMied creature sprang to his feet with a wild 
cry of terror, but before he could move a step he was caught 
and held fast in the strong grip of the stalwart mountaineer 
beside him. " I hev kcm hyar ter tell ye a word, Reuben 
Crabb," said Simon Bumey. " I hev kem hyar ter tell ye that 
the whole mounting air a-goin' ter turn out ter sarch fur ye ; 
the sheriff air a-ridin' now, an' ef ye don't come along with me 


they '11 hcv ye afore night, 'kase thar air two hunderd dollars 
reward fur ye." 

What a piteous wail went up to the smiling blue sky, seen 
through the dappling leaves above them 1 What a horror, and 
despair, and prescient agony were in the hunted creature's 
face 1 The ghost struggled no longer ; he slipped from his feet 
down upon the roots of the tree, and turned that woful face, 
with its starting eyes and drawn muscles and quivering parted 
lips, up toward the unseeing sky. 

" God A'mighty, man I " exclaimed Simon Bumey, moved to 
pity. " Why n't ye quit this hyar way of livin' in the woods like 
ye war a wolf? Why n't ye come back an' stand yer trial? 
From all I 've hearn tell, it 'pears ter me ez the jury air 
obleeged ter let ye off, an' I '11 take keer of ye agin them 

^' I hain't got no place ter live in," cried out the ghost, with 
a keen despair. 

Simon Bumey hesitated. Reuben Crabb was possibly a 
murderer, — at the best could but be a burden. The burden, 
however, had fallen in his way, and he lifted it. 

" I tell ye now, Reuben Crabb," he said, " I ain't a-goin* ter 
holp no man ter break the law an' hender jestice; but ef ye 
will go an' stand yer trial, I '11 take keer of ye agin them Grims 
cz long ez I kin fire a rifle. An' arter the jury hev done let ye 
off, ye air welcome ter live along o' me at my house till ye die. 
Ye air no 'count ter work, I know, but I ain't a-goin' ter grudge 
yc fur a livin' at my house." 

iVnd so it came to pass that the reward set upon the head of 
the hamt that walked Chilhowee was never claimed. 

With his powerful ally, the forlorn little specter went to stand 
his trial, and the jury acquitted him without leaving the box. 
Then he came hack to the mountains to live with Simon Bur- 
ney. 'J ho cruel gibes of his burly m<jckers that had beset his 


feeble life from his childhood up, the deprivation and loneliness 
and despair and fear that had filled those days when he walked 
Chilhowee, had not improved the harnt's temper. He was a 
helpless creature, not able to carry a gun or hold a plow, and 
the years that he spent smoking his cob pipe in Simon Barney's 
door were idle years and unhappy. But Mrs. Giles said she 
thought he was '' a mighty lucky little critter : fust, he hed Joel 
ter take keer of him an' feed him, when he tuk ter the woods 
ter pertend he war a harnt ; an' they do say now that Clarsie 
Pratt, afore she war married, used ter kerry him vittles, too ; 
an' then old Simon Burney tuk him up an' fed him ez plenty 
ez ef he war a good workin' hand, an' gin him clothes an' 
house-room, an' put up with his jawin' jes' like he never 
hearn a word of it. But law 1 some folks dunno when they 
air well off." 

There was only a sluggish current of peasant blood in Simon 
Bumey's veins, but a prince could not have dispensed hospitality 
with a more royal hand. Ungrudgingly he gave of his best ; 
valiantly he defended his thankless guest at the risk of his life ; 
with a moral gallantry he struggled with his sloth, and worked 
early and late, that there might be enough to divide. There 
was no possibility of a recompense for him, not even in the 
encomiums of discriminating friends, nor the satisfaction of 
tutored feelings and a practiced spiritual discernment ; for he 
was an uncouth creature, and densely ignorant. 

The grace of culture is, in its way, a fine thing, but the best 
that art can do — the polish of a gentleman — is hardly equal 
to the best that Nature can do in her higher moods. 



[Thomas Nelson Page was born in Hanover County, Virginia, in 
1853. He was educated at Washington and Lee University. He then 
studied law at the University of 
Virginia, and between 187J and 
1 893 he practiced his profession 
in Richmond Since 1893 Mr. 
Page has hved in Washington 
and has given himself entirely 
to hterary work Like atba 
Southern wnters of his time be 
began his hterary career 1^ writ 
ing stones and sketches for the 
newspapers and magazines. His 
first stones were collected in 1887 
and pubhshed under the title 
In Ole Virginia. His later 
wntings have included in addi- 
tion to several volumes of short 
stones novels and collections of 
essays. Since 1893 Mr. Page has 
lived in Washington and given himself entirely to literary work. In 
1913 he was appointed by President Wilson Ambassador to Italy.] 

The narrator is an old darky, who is pictured in the begin- 
ning of the story as standing with a hoe and a watering pot 
in his hand, waiting at the "worm-fence" for the advent down 
the path of a noble-looking old setter, gray with age and over- 
round frorn too abundant feeding. The setter, like some old- 
time planter, sauntered slowly, and in lordly oblivion of the 
negro, up to the fence, while the latter began to take down the 
rails, talking meanwhile to the dog in a pretended tone of 



criticism : " Now, I got to pull down de gap, I suppose ! Yo' so 
sp'ilt yo' kyahn hardly walk. Jes' ez able to git over it as I is I 
Jes' like white folks — think 'cuz you's white and I's black, I 
got to wait on yo' all de time. Ne'm mine, I ain* gwi' do it I" 
As his dogship marched sedately through the "gap" and down 
the road, the negro suddenly discovered fi stranger looking on, 
and hastened to remark somewhat apologetically: "He know I 
don* mean nothin' by what I sez. He 's Marse Chan's dawg, 
an' he's so ole he kyahn git long no pearter. He know I'se 
jes' prodjickin' wid 'im." 

The darky explained to the stranger that " Marse Chan " 
(or Channin') was his young master, that the place with "de 
rock gate-pos's " which the stranger had just passed was " ole 
Cun'l Chamb'lin's," and that since the war "our place" had 
been acquired by certain "unknowns" wh6 were probably "half- 

At the request of the stranger to tell him all about "Marse 
Chan " the old negro recalled, " jes' like 't wuz yistiddy," how 
"ole marster" (Marse Chan's father), smiling "wus'n a 'pos- 
sum," came out on the porch with his new-bom son in his 
arms, and catching sight of Sam (the narrator, who was then 
but eight years old), called him up on the porch and put the 
baby in his arms, with the solemn injunctk)n that Sam was to 
be the young master's body servant as long as he lived. " Yo' 
jes' ought to a-heard de folks sayin', 'Lawd I marster, dat boy 11 
drap dat chile 1 ' * Naw, he won't,' sez marster ; * I kin trust 
'im.' " And then the old master walked after Sam canying the 
young master, until Sam entered the house and lakl his precious 
burden on the bed. 

Sam recalled, too, how Marse Chan, when in sdiool, once 
carried Miss Anne, Colonel Chamberlin's little daughter, on his 
shoulders across a swollen creek, and how the next day, when 
his father gave him a pony to show his pleasure over his son's 


chivalry, Marse Chan came walking home from school, having 
given his pony to Miss Anne. " * Yes/ sez ole marster, laughing 
^ I s'pose you ^s already done giv' her yo'se% an' nex' thing I 
know you '11 be givin' her this plantation and all my niggers.' " 
It was only a fortnight later that Colonel Chamberlin invited 
the "ole marster" and his whole family over to dinner, — ex- 
pressly naming Marse Chan in the note, — and after dinner 
two ponies stood at the door, the one Marse Chan had given 
Miss Anne, and the other a present to Marse Chan from the 
(Colonel. And after a '' gre't " speech by the Colonel, the two 
young lovers went off to ride, while the '" grown folks " laughed 
and chatted and smoked their cigars. 

To the eye of Sam's endearing memory those were the good 
old times, — '* de bes' Sam ever see 1 Dey wuz, in facM Niggers 
did n' hed nothin' 't all to do — jes' hed to 'ten' to de feedin' an' 
cleanin' de horses, an' doin' what de marster tell 'em to do; 
an' when dey wuz sick, dey had things sont 'em out de house, 
an' de same doctor come to see 'em whar 'ten' to de white 
folks when dey wuz po'ly. Dyar warn' no trouble nor nothin'." 

The considerate affection shown for the young Sam by 
Marse Chan was illustrated by the little incident of the punish- 
ment inflicted on both of them by the " ole mkrster " for sliding 
down the straw-stacks against orders. The master first whipped 
young Marse Chan and then began on Sam, who was using his 
lungs to lighten the severity of his punishment. Marse Chan 
took his own whipping without a murmur ; " but soon ez he 
commence warmin' me an' I begin to holler, Marse Chan he 
bu'st out cr}'in', an' stept right in befo' old marster, an' ketchin' 
de whup, sed : " * Stop, sch ! Vo' sha'n't whup 'im ; he blongs 
to me, an' cf you hit 'im another lick I '11 set 'im free I ' . . . 

'^ Marse Chan he war n' mo' 'n eight years ole, an' dyah dey 
wuz — ole marster standin' wid he whup raised up, an' Marse 
Chan red an' cr\'in', hol'in' on to it, an' sayin' I b'longs to 'im. 


" Ole marster, he raise' de whup, an' den he drapt it, an' bK>ke 
out in a smile over he face, an' he chuck Marse Chan onder de 
chin, an' tu'n right roun' an' went away; laughin' to hisse'f ; an' 
I heah 'im tellin' ole missis dat evenin", an' laughin' 'bout it." 

Sam's vivid memory saw again the picture of the dawn-light 
on the river when Marse t^han and old Colimel Chambedin 
fought their famous duel that grew out of the unfounded charges 
against Marse Chan's father made by the Colonel in a political 
speech, Sam could see again the early morning light on his 
young master's face, and could hear the ominous voice of one 
of the seconds saying, "Gentlemen, are you ready!"' 

"An' he sez, 'Fire, one, two' — an' ez he said 'one' ole 
Cun'l Chamb'lin raised he pistil an' shot right at Marse Chan. 
De ball went th'oo' his hat, I seen he hat sort o' settle on he 
head ez de buUit hit it. an' he jes' tilted his pistil up in de a'r an' 
shot — bang ; an' ez de pistil went hang, he sez to Cun'l Cham- 
b'lin, ' I mek you a present to yo' famly, seh I ' , . , 

" But ole Cuni Chamb'lin he nuver did furgive Marse 
Chan, an' Miss Anne she got mad too, Wimmens is mons'us 
onreasonable nohow. Dey 's jes' like a catfish : you can n' tek 
hole on 'em like udder folks, an' when you gits 'm yo' can n' 
always hole 'em," 

In sympathetic and picturesque language the old darky 
recounted the last meeting between Marse Chan and Miss 
Anne, as they stood together in the moonlight, and Sam over- 
heard the fateful words of the implacable Southern woman, 
" ' But I don' love yo'.' (Jes' deni th'ee wuds I) De wuds fall 
right slow — like dirt falls out a spade on a coffin when yo 's 
buryin' anybody, an' seys, ' Uth to ufh.' Marse Chan he jes' let 
her hand drap, an' he sliddy hisse'f 'g'inst de gate-pos', an' he 
did n' speak torekly.'" 

Sam's account of how Marse Chan went to the ivar, of 
how in the tent he knocked down Mr. Ronny for speaking 


contemptuously of Colonel Chamberlin and his daughter, and 
of the effect on Marse Chan's face of the letter of reconciliation 
and love he received from Miss Anne, — brings the vivid narra- 
tive to Marse Chan's splendid charge on the field at the head of 
the regiment, carrying its fallen flag up the hill, and inspiring 
it by his dauntless leadership. ** I seen 'im when he went, de 
sorrel four good lengths ahead o' ev'ry urr boss, jes' like he 
use' to be in a fox-hunt, an' de whole rigimint right arfter him." 
But suddenly the sorrel came galloping back, the rein hanging 
down on one side to his knee, — and poor Sam knew that 
Marse Chan was killed. He found his master among the dead, 
still holding in his hand the flag. " I tu'n 'im over an' call 
'im, * Marse Chan 1 ' but 't wan' no use, he wuz done gone home, 
sho' 'nuff. I pick' 'im up in my arms wid de fleg still in he 
ban's, an' toted 'im back jes' like I did dat day when he wuz 
a baby, an' ole marster gin 'im to me in my arms, an' sez he 
could trus' me, an' tell me to tek keer on 'im long ez he lived." 

And when Sam reached home with the body in the ambu- 
lance and had gone over to let Miss Anne know the awful 
news that " Marse Chan he done got he furlough," and she 
had ridden back and prostrated herself before Marse Chan's 
old mother, there is the close of the tragic story as told by the 
old negro in these words : 

" Ole missis stood for 'bout a minit lookin' down at her, an' den 
she drapt down on de flo' by her, an' took her in bofe her arms. 

^* I could n' see, I wuz cryin' so myse'f, an' ev'ybody wuz cryin'. 
But dey went in arfter a while in de parlor, an' shet de do' ; an' 
I heahd 'em say, Miss Anne she tuk de coffin in her arms an' 
kissed it, an' kissed Marse Chan, an' call 'im by his name, an' 
her darlin', an' ole missis lef her cryin' in dyar tell some one on 
'em went in, an' found her done faint on de flo'." And it was not 
long before Miss Anne, broken by nursing in the hospitals and 
by fever and sorrow, was laid beside the body of Marse Chan. 



His training was not always that of the modem law-class ; 
but it was more than a substitute for it ; and it was of its own 
kind complete. He " read law under " some old lawyer, some 
friend of his father or himself, who, although not a professor, 
was, without professing it. an admirable teacher. He associated 
with him constandy, in season and out of season ; he saw him in 
his every mood ; he him in intercourse with his clients, 
with his brothers of the bar, with the outside world ; he heard him 
discourse of law, of history, of literature, of religion, of philoso- 
phy ; he learned from him 10 ponder every manifestation of 
humanity ; to consider tlie great underlying principles into which 
every proposition was resolvable ; he found in hira an exemplifi- 
cation of much that he inculcated, and a frank avowa! of that 
wherein he failed. He learned to accept Lord Coke's dictum, 
" melior est petere fontes qiiam sfctari rivuhs" — to look to the 
sources rather than to lap the streams ; he fed upon the strong 
meat of the institutes and the commentaries with the great leading 
cases which stand now as principles ; he received by absorption 
the traditions of the profession. On these, like a healthy child, 
he grew strong without taking note. Thus in due time when his 
work came he was fully equipped. His old tutor had not only 
taught him law ; he had taught him that the law was a science, 
and a great, if not the greatest, science. He had impressed him 
with the principles which he himself held, and they were sound ; 
he had stamped upon his mind the conviction, that he, his tutor, 
was the greatest lawj'er of his time, a coriviction which no 
subsequent observation or experience ever served to remove. 

He had made his mark, perhaps unejipectedly, in some case 
in which the force of his maturing intellect had suddenly burst 
forth, astonishing ahTce the bar and the bench and enrapturing 
the public Perhaps it was a criminal case ; perhaps one in 



manhood Peter had been a woodchopper ; but he had one 
day had his leg broken by the limb of a falling tree, and after- 
wards, out of consideration for his limp, had been made super- 
visor of the woodpile, gardener, and a sort of nondescript servitor 
of his master's luxurious needs. Nay, in larger and deeper 
characters must his history be writ, he having been, in days 
gone by, one of those ministers 
of the gospel whum conscien- 
tious Kentucky masters often 
urged to the exercise of spiritual 
functions in behalf of their be- 
nighted pjeople.''] 

About two "years after the 
:lose of the war, therefore, the 
colonel and i'eter were to be 
found in the city, ready to turn 
over a new leaf in the volumes 
of their lives, which already 
had an old-fashioned binding, a 
i somewhat musty odor, and but 
[ few written leaves remaining. 
AftK a iotig, dry SDinmcr 


woods, for his cattle, for familiar faces. He haunted Cheapside 
and the courthouse square, where the farmers always assembled 
when they came to town ; and if his eye lighted on one, he 
would buttonhole him on the street comer and lead him into a 
grocery and sit down for a quiet chat Sometimes he would 
meet an aimless, melancholy wanderer like himself, and the two 
would go off and discuss over and over again their departed 
days ; and several times he came unexpectedly up>on some of 
his old servants who had fallen into bitter want, and who more 
than repaid him for the help he gave by contrasting the hard- 
ships of a life of freedom with the ease of their shackled years. 

In the course of time, he could but observe that human life 
in the town was reshaping itself slowly and painfully, but with 
resolute energy. The colossal structure of slavery had fallen, 
scattering its ruins far and wide over the state ; but out of the 
very debris was being taken the material to lay the deeper 
foundations of the new social edifice. Men and women as old 
as he were beginning life over and trying to fit themselves for 
it by changing the whole attitude and habit of their minds, — 
by taking on a new heart and spirit But when a great building 
falls, there is always some rubbish, and the colonel and others 
like him were part of this. Henceforth they possessed only 
an antiquarian sort of interest, like the stamped brides of 

Nevertheless he made a show of doing something, and in a 
year or two opened on Cheapside a store for the sale of hard- 
ware and agricultural implements. He knew more about the 
latter than anything else; and, furthermore, he secredy felt 
that a business of this kind would enable him to establish in 
town a kind of headquarters for the farmers. His account 
books were to be kept on a system of twelve months' credit; 
and he mentally resolved that if one of his customers could n't 
pay then, he should have another year's time. 


Business began slowly. The farmers dropped in and found 
a good lounging place. On county-court days, which were great 
market days for the sale of sheep, horses, mules, and catde in 
front of the colonel's door; they swarmed in from the hot |im 
and sat around on the counter and the plows and madiines till 
the entrance was blocked to other customers. When a cus- 
tomer did come in, the colonel, who was probably talking with 
some old acquaintance, would tell him just to look around and 
pick out what he wanted and the price would be all right If 
one of those acquaintances asked for a pound of naUs, the 
colonel would scoop up some ten pounds and say, '* I reckon 
that 's about a pound, Tom." He had never seen a pound of 
nails in his life ; and if one had been weighed on his scales, he 
would have said the scales were wrong. He had no great idea 
of commercial dispatch. One morning a lady came in for some 
carpet tacks, an article that he had overiooked. But he at once 
sent off an order for enough to have tadced a carpet pretty 
well all over Kentucky ; and when they came, two wedcs later, 
he told Peter to take her up a double handful with his compli- 
ments. He had laid in, however, an ample and especially fine 
assortment of pocket-knives, for that instrument had always 
been to him one of gracious and very winning qualities. Then 
when a friend dropped in he woiild say, " General, dcm't you 
need a new pocket-knife?" and, taking out one, would open 
all the blades and commend the metal and the handle. The 
''general" would inquire the price, and the colonel, having 
shut the blades, would hand it to him, saying in a careless, 
fond way, " I reckon I won't diarge you anydiing for that** 
His mind could not come down to the low level of such ignoble 
barter, and he gave away the whole case of knives. 

These were the pleasanter aspects of his business Hfe, wfaidi 
did not lack as well its tedium and crosses. Thus there were 
many dark stormy days when no one he cared to see came 


in ; and he then became rather a pathetic figure, wand^ng 
absently around amidst the symbols of his past activity, and 
stroking the plows, like dumb companions. Or he would stand 
at the door and look across at the old courthouse, where he 
had seen manj a slave sold and had listened to the great 
Kentucky orators. Once, too, while he was deep in conver- 
sation, a brisk young farmer drove up to the door in a sulky 
and called in pretty sharply that he wanted him to go out and 
set up a machine. The colonel's mind just then was busy with 
certain scenes of great power in his own past life, and had 
swelled to the old heroic proportions ; wherefore, burning over 
the indignity, he seized an ax handle and started out in a 
manner that led the young man to drive quickly away. • 

But what hurt him most was the talk of the newer farming 
and the abuse of the old which he was forced to hear ; and he 
generally refused to handle the improved implements and 
mechanical devices by which labor and waste were to be saved. 

Altogether he grew tired of " the thing," and sold out at the 
end of the year with a loss of over a thousand dollars, though 
he insisted he had done a good business. 

As he was then seen much on the streets again and several 
times heard to make remarks in regard to the sidewalks, 
gutters, and crossings, when they happened to be in bad con- 
dition, the Daily Press one morning published a card stating 
that if Colonel Romulus Plelds would consent to make the 
race for mayor he would receive the support of many Demo- 
crats, adding a tribute to his virtues and his influential past It 
touched the colonel, and he walked down towTi with a rather 
commanding figure. But it pained him to see how many of 
his acquaintances returned his salutations very coldly ; and just 
as he was passing the Northern Bank he met the young oppo- 
sition candidate, — a little red-haired fellow, walking between 
two ladies, with a rosebud in his buttonhole, — who refused to 


speak at all, but made the ladies laugh by some remark he 
uttered as the colonel passed. The card had been inserted 
humorously, but he took it seriously; and when his friends 
found this out, they rallied round him. The day of election 
drew near. They told him he would have to buy votes. He 
said he would n't buy a vote to be mayor of the New Jmisalem. 
They told him he must "mix" and "treat" He refused 
Foreseeing he had no chance, they besought him to withdraw. 
He said he would not. They told him he woiild n't poll twenty 
votes. He replied that one would satisfy him, provided it was 
neither begged nor bought. When his defeat was announced 
he accepted it as another evidence that he had no part in the 
newer day, and regretted it only because there was thus lost to 
him another chance of redeeming his idleness. 

A sense of this weighed heavily on him at times; but it is 
not likely that he realized how pitifully he was undeigoing a 
moral shrinkage in consequence of mere disuse. Actually, ex- 
tinction had set in with him long prior to dissolution, and he 
was dead years before his heart ceased beating. The very 
basic virtues on which had rested his once spacious and 
stately character were now but the moldy comer stones of a 
crumbling ruin. 

It was a subtle evidence of deterioration in manliness 4iiat 
he had taken to dress. When he had Hved in the countxy, he 
had never dressed up unless he came to town. When he had 
moved to town, he thought he must remain dressed up all the 
time ; and this fact first fixed his attention on a matter whidi 
afterwards began to be loved for its own sake. Usually he 
wore a Derby hat, a black diagonal coat, gray trousers, and a 
white necktie. But the article of attire in which he todc chief 
pleasure was hose ; and the better to show the gay colors of 
these, he wore low-cut shoes of the finest calfskin, turned up 
at the toes. Thus his feet kept pace with the present, however 


far his head may have lagged in the past ; and it may be that 
this stream of fresh fashions, flowing perennially over his lower 
extremities like water about the roots of a tree, kept him from 
drying up altogether. Peter always polished his shoes with too 
much blacking, perhaps thinking that the more the blacking the 
greater the proof of love. He wore his clothes about a season 
and a half — having several suits — and then passed them on 
to Peter, who, foreseeing the joy of such an inheritance, bought 
no new ones. In the act of transferring them the colonel made 
no comment until he came to the hose, from which he seemed 
unable to part without a final tribute of esteem, as: "These 
are fine, Peter " ; or, " Peter, these are nearly as good as new." 
Thus Peter too was dragged through the whims of fashion. To 
have seen the colonel walking about his grounds and garden 
followed by Peter, just a year and a half behind in dress and a 
yard and a half behind in space, one might well have taken the 
rear figure for the coloneFs double, slightly the worse for wear» 
somewhat shrunken, and cast into a heavy shadow. . . . 

Peter, meantime, had been finding out that his occupation too 
was gone. 

Soon after moving to town, he had tendered his pastoral serv- 
ices to one of the fashionable churches of the dty, — not be- 
cause it was fashionable, but because it was made up of his 
brethren. In reply he was invited to preach a trial sermon, 
which he did with gracious unction. It was a strange scene, as 
one calm Sunday morning he stood on the edge of the pulpit, 
dressed in a suit of the colonel's old clothes, with one hand in 
his trousers pocket, and his lame leg set a little forward at an 
angle familiar to those who know the statues of Henry Clay. 

How self-possessed he seemed, yet with what a rush of mem- 
ories did he pass his eyes slowly over that vast assemblage of 
his emancipated people ! With what feelings must he have 
contrasted those silk hats, and walking canes, and broaddoths ; 


those gloves and satins, laces and feathers, jewelry and fans — 
that whole many-colored panorama of life — with the weary, 
sad, and sullen audiences that had often heard him of old under 
the forest trees or by the banks of some turbulent stream ! 

In a voice husky, but heard beyond the flirtation of the utter- 
most pew, he took his text : " Consider the lilies of the field, 
how they grow ; they toil not, neither do they spin." From 
this he tried to preach a new sermon, suited to the newer day. 
But several times the thoughts of the past were too much for 
him, and he broke down with emotion. The next day a grave 
committee waited on him and reported that the sense of the 
congregation was to call a colored gentleman from Louisville. 
Private objections to Peter were that he had a broken leg, wore 
Colonel Field s's second-hand clothes, which were too big for 
him, preached in the old-fashioned way, and lacked self-control 
and repose of manner. 

Peter accepted his rebuff as sweetly as Socrates might have 
done. Humming the burden of an old hymn, he took his 
righteous coat from a nail in the wall and folded it away in a 
little brass-nailed deerskin trunk, laying over it the spelling book 
and the Pilgrim's Progress, which he had ceased to read. Thence- 
forth his relations to his people were never intimate, and even 
from the other servants of the colonel's household he stood apart. 
In paying them, the colonel would sometimes say, ** Peter, I 
reckon I'd better begin to pay you a salary ; that 's the style 
now." But Peter would turn off, saying he didn't "have no 
use fur no salary." 

Thus both of them dropped more and more out of life, but 
as they did so, only drew more and more closely to each other. 
The colonel had bought a home on the edge of the town, with 
some ten acres of beautiful ground surrounding. A high osage- 
orange hedge shut it in, and forest trees, chiefly maples and elms, 
gave to the lawn and house abundant shade. Wild-grape vines, 


the Virginia creeper, and the climbing oak swung their long 
festoons from summit to summit, while honeysuckles, dematis, 
and the Mexican vine clambered over arbors and trellises, or 
along the chipped stone of the low, old-fashioned house. Just out- 
side the door of the colonel's bedroom slept an ancient sundial. 

The place seemed always in half-shadow, with hedgerows of 
box, clumps of dark holly, darker firs half a century old, and 
aged,, crapelike cedars. 

It was in the seclusion of this retreat, which looked almost 
like a wild bit of country set down on the edge of the town, 
that the colonel and Peter spent more of their time as they fell 
farther in the rear of onward events. There were no such 
flower gardens in the city, and pretty much the whole town went 
thither for its flowers, preferring them to those that were to be 
had for a price at the nurseries. There was perhaps a sugges- 
tion of pathetic humor in the fact that it should have called on 
the colonel and Peter, themselves so nearly defunct, to give 
the flowers for so many funerals ; but, it is certain, almost 
weekly the two old gentlemen received this chastening admo- 
nition of their all-but-spent mortality. The colonel cultivated 
the rarest fruits also, and had under glass varieties that were 
not friendly to the climate ; so that by means of the fruits and 
flowers there was established a pleasant social bond with many 
who otherwise would never have sought them out. But others 
came for better reasons. To a few deep-seeing eyes the colonel 
and Peter were momentous figures, disappearing types of a once 
vast social system, ruined landmarks on a fading historic land- 
scape, and their devoted friendship was the last steady burning- 
down of that pure flame of love which can never again shine 
out in the future of the two races. Hence a softened charm 
invested the drowsy quietude of that shadowy paradise in which 
the old master without a slave and the old slave without a 
master still kept up a brave pantomime of their obsolete 


relations. No one ever saw in their intercourse aught but the 
finest courtesy, the most delicate consideration. The very tones 
of their voices in addressing each other were as good as sermons 
on gentleness, their antiquated playfulness as melodious as the 
babble of distant water. To be near them was to be exorcised 
of evil passions. The sun of their day had indeed long since set ; 
but, like twin clouds lifted high and motionless into some far 
quarter of the gray twilight skies, they were still radiant with 
the glow of the invisible orb. 

Henceforth the colonel's appearances in public were few and 
regular. He went to church on Sundays, where he sat on the 
edge of the choir in the center of the building, and sang an 
ancient bass of his own improvisation to the older hymns, and 
glanced furtively around to see whether anyone noticed that he 
could not sing the new ones. At the Sunday-school picnics the 
committee of arrangements allowed him to carve the mutton, 
and after dinner to swing the smallest children gently beneath 
the trees. He was seen on Commencement Day at Morrison 
Chapel, where he always gave his bouquet to the valedictorian, 
whose address he preferred to any of the others. In the autumn 
he might sometimes be noticed sitting high up in the amphi- 
theater at the fair and looking over into the ring where the 
judges were grouped around the music-stand. Once he had 
been a judge himself, with a blue ribbon in his buttonhole, 
while the band played '* Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt," and "Gentle 
Annie." The ring seemed full of young men now, and no one 
thought of offering him the privileges of the grounds. In his 
day the great feature of the exhibition had been cattle; now 
everything was turning into a horse show. He was always glad 
to get home again to Peter, his true yokefellow. For just as 
two old oxen — one white and one black — that have long toiled 
under the same yoke will, when turned out to graze at last in 
the widest pasture, come and put themselves horn to horn and 


flank to flank, so the colonel and Peter were never so happy as 
when ruminating side by side. ... 

It was in the twilight of a late autumn day in the same year 
that nature gave the colonel the first direct intimation to pre- 
pare for the last summons. They had been passing along the 
garden walks, where a few pale flowers were trying to flourish 
up to the very winter's edge, and where the dry leaves had 
gathered unswept and rustled beneath their feet All at once 
the colonel turned to Peter, who was a yard and a half behind, 
as usual, and said : " Give me your arm, Peter " ; and thus the 
two, for the first time in all their lifetime walking abreast, passed 
slowly on. 

" Peter," said the colonel, gravely, a minute or two later, " we 
are like two dried-up stalks of fodder. I wonder the Lord lets 
us live any longer." 

" I reckon He 's managin' to use us somg-way, or we would n' 
be heah," said Peter. 

** Well, all I have to say is, that if He 's using me, He can't 
be in much of a hurry for his work," replied the colonel. 

" He uses snails, en I ^now we ain' ez slow ez dem" argued 
Peter, composedly. 

" I don't know. I think a snail must have made more progress 
since the war than I have." 

The idea of his uselessness seemed to weigh on him, for a 
little later he remarked, with a sort of mortified smile : " Do you 
think, Peter, that we would pass for what they call representative 
men of the New South .? " 

" We done /ta^ ou' day, Marse Rom," replied Peter. " We 
got to pass fur what we 7i'uz, Mebbe de Lohd 's got mo' use 
fur us yit 'n people has," he added, after a pause. 

From this time on the colonel's strength gradually failed him ; 
but it was not until the following spring that the end came. 
A night or two before his death his mind wandered backward, 


after the familiar manner of the dying, and his delirious dreams 
showed the shifting, faded pictures that renewed themselves for 
the last time on his wasting memory. It must have been that 
he was once more amidst the scenes of his active farm life, for 
his broken snatches of talk ran thus : 

^' Come, boys, get your cradles 1 Look where the sun is I 
You are late getting to work this morning. That is the finest 
field of wheat in the county. Be careful about the bundles I 
Make them the same size and tie them tight. That swath is too 
wide, and you don't hold your cradle right, Tom. 

'' Sell Peter ! Sell Peter Cotton ! No, sir 1 You might buy 
me some day and work me in your cotton field ; but as long 
as he 's mine, you can't buy Peter, and you can't buy any of 
my negroes. 

^^ Boys ! boys I If you don't work faster, you won't finish 
this field to-day. You 'd better go in the shade and rest now. 
The sun 's very hot. Don't drink too much ice water. There 's 
a jug of whisky in the fence corner. Give them a good dram 
around, and tell them to work slow till the sun gets lower." 

Once during the night a sweet smile played over his features 
as he repeated a few words that were part of an old rustic song 
and dance. Arranged, not as they now came broken and 
incoherent from his lips, but as he once had sung them, they 
were as follows : 

" O Sister Phoebe ! How merry were we 
When we sat under the juniper-tree, 

The juniper-tree, heigho ! 
Put this hat on your head ! Keep your head warm ; 
Take a sweet kiss ! It will do you no harm, 

Do you no harm, I know ! " 

After this he sank into a quieter sleep, but soon stirred with 
a look of intense pain. 


** Helen 1 Helen 1 " he murmured. " Will you break your 
promise? Have you changed in your feeling towards me? 
I have brought you the pinks. Won't you take the pinks, 
Helen ? " 

Then he sighed as he added, " It was n't her fault If she 
had only known — " 

Who was the Helen of that far-away time? Was this the 
colonel's love-story ? How much remained untold ? 

But during all the night, whithersoever his mind wandered, at 
intervals it returned to the burden of a single strain, — the 
harvesting. Towards daybreak he took it up again for the 
last time : 

" O boys, boys, boys 1 If you don't work faster you won't 
finish the field to-day. Look how low the sun is I — I am 
going to the house. They can't finish the field to-day. Let them 
do what they can, but don't let them work late. I want Peter 
to go to the house with me. Tell him to come on." 

In the faint gray of the morning Peter, who had been 
watching by the bedside all night, stole out of the room, and 
going into the garden pulled a handful of pinks — a thing he 
had never done before — and, reentering the colonel's bednxxn, 
put them in a vase near his sleeping face. Soon afterwards the 
colonel opened his eyes and looked around him. At the foot of 
the bed stood Peter, and on one side sat the physician and a 
friend. The night lamp burned low, and through the folds of 
the curtains came the white light of early day. 

" Put out the lamp and open the curtains," he said feebly. 
" It 's day." When they had drawn the curtains aside, his eyes 
fell on the pinks, sweet and fresh with the dew on them. He 
stretched out his hand and touched them caressingly, and his 
eyes sought Peter's with a look of grateful tenderness. 

" I want to be alone with Peter for a while," he said, turning 
his face towards the others. 


When they were left alone, it was some minutes before they 
could speak. Peter, not knowing what he did, had gone to the 
window and hid himself behind the curtains, drawing them 
tightly around his form as though to shroud himself from the 
coming sorrow. 

At length the colonel said, " Come here 1 " 

Peter, almost staggering forward, fell at the foot of the bed, 
and, clasping the colonel's feet with one arm, pressed his cheek 
against them. 

'' Come closer ! " 

Peter crept on his knees and buried his head on the coloneFs 

"Come up here, — closer^' \ and putting one arm around 
Peter-s neck he laid the other hand softly on his head, and 
looked long and tenderly into his eyes. 

" Peter," he said with ineffable gentleness, " if I had served 
my Master as faithfully as you have served yours, I should not 
feel ashamed to stand in his presence." 

" If my Marseter is ez mussiful to me ez you have been, he 
will save my soul in heaven." 

" I have fixed things so that you will be comfortable after I 
am gone. When your time comes, I should like you to be laid 
close to me. We can take the long sleep together. Are you 
willing ? " 

" That 's whar I want to be laid." 

The colonel stretched out his hand to the vase, and, taking 
the bunch of pinks, said very calmly : " Leave these in my hand 
when I am dead ; I '11 carry them with me." A moment more, 
and he added : " If I should n't wake up any more, good-by, , 
Peter ! " 

" Good-by, Marse Rom ! " 

And they shook hands. After this the colonel lay back on 
the pillows. His soft, silvery hair contrasted strongly with his 


childlike, unspoiled, open face. To the day of his death, as is 
apt to be true of those who have lived pure lives but never 
married, he had a boyish strain in him, a softness of nature, 
showing itself even now in the gentle expression of his mouth. 
His brown eyes had in them the same boyish look when, just 
as he was falling asleep, he scarcely opened them to say, 
"Pray, Peter." 

Peter, on his knees, and looking across the colonel's face 
towards the open door, through which the rays of the rising 
sun streamed in upon his hoary head, prayed while the colonel 
fell asleep, adding a few words for himself now left alone. 

Several hours later memory led the colonel back again 
through the dim gateway of the past, and out of that gateway 
his spirit finally took flight into the future. 

Peter lingered a year. The place went to the colonel's sister, 
but he was allowed to remain in his quarters. With much think- 
ing of the past, his mind fell into a lightness and a weakness. 
Sometimes he would be heard crooning the burden of oW 
hymns, or sometimes seen sitting beside the old brass-nailed 
trunk, fumbling with the spelling-book and the Pilgrim's Progress. 
Often too he walked out to the cemetery on the edge of the 
town, and each time could hardly find the colonel's grave amidst 
the multitude of the dead. One gusty day in spring, the Scotch 
sexton, busy with the blades of blue grass springing from the 
animated mold, saw his familiar figure standing motionless be- 
side the coloners resting place. He had taken off his hat — 
one of the colonel's last bequests —;- and laid it on the colonel's 
headstone. On his body he wore a strange coat of faded blue, 
patched and weather-stained and so moth-eaten that parts of 
the curious tails had dropped entirely away. In one hand he 
held an open Bible, and on a much-soiled page he was pointing 
with his finger to the following words : " I would not have you 
ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep." 


It would seem that, impelled by love and faith, and guided 
by his wandering reason, he had come forth to preach his last 
sermon on the immortality of the soul over the dust of his 
dead master. 

The sexton led him home, and soon afterwards a friend, who 
had loved them both, laid him beside the colonel. 

It was perhaps fitting that his winding sheet should be the 
vestment in which, years agone, he had preached to his fellow 
slaves in bondage ; for if it so be that the dead of this planet 
shall come forth from their graves clad in the trappings of 
mortality, then Peter should arise on the Resurrection Day 
wearing. his old jeans coat. 


[William Sidney Porter, better known by his pen name " O. Henry," 
was born in 1862 at Greensboro, North Carolina. His disposition 
early led him into a roving life, and he successively lived on a cattle 
ranch in Texas, did newspaper work in Houston and Austin, spent 
a while in South America, moved to New Orleans, and in 1902 
settled in New York, where he was living at the time of his death, 
in 1 910. He achieved widespread popularity as a writer of short 
stories, which in the collected edition of his works fill some nine 
or ten volumes.] 


In the Gate City of the South the Confederate Veterans 
were reuniting; and I stood to see them march, beneath the 
tangled flags of the great conflict, to the hall of their oratory 
and commemoration. 

While the irregular and halting line was passing I made 
onslaught upon it and dragged forth from the ranks my friend 

1 Reprinted from " Roads of Destiny " by permission of the holder of the 
copyright, Doubleday, Page & Company. 


Barnard C)*Keefe, who had no right to be there. For he was 
a Northerner born and bred; and what should he be doing 
hallooing for the Stars and Bars among those gray and mori- 
bund veterans? And why should he be trudging, with his 
shining, martial, humorous, broad face, among those warriors 
of a previous and alien generation? 

I say I dragged him forth, and held him till the last hickory 
leg and waving goatee had stumbled past And then I hustled 
him out of the crowd into a cool interior; for the Gate City 
was stirring that day, and the hand organs wisely eliminated 
" Marching through Georgia " from their repertories. 

" Now, what deviltry are you up to ? " I asked of O'Keefe 
when there were a table and things in glasses between us. 

O'Keefe wiped his heated face and instigated a commotion 
among the floating ice in his glass before he chose to answer. 

" I am assisting at the wake," said he, " of the only nation 
on earth that ever did me a good turn. As one gentleman to 
another, I am ratifying and celebrating the foreign policy of the 
late Jefferson Davis, as fine a statesman as ever settled the 
financial question of a country. Equal ratio — that was his 
platform — a barrel of money for a barrel of flour — a pair of 
$20 bills for a pair of boots — a hatful of currency for a new 
hat — say, ain't that simple compared with W. J. R's little old 
oxidized plank ? " 

" What talk is this ? " I asked. " Your financial digression is 
merely a subterfuge. Why are you marching in the ranks of 
the Confederate Veterans ? " 

" Because, my lad," answered O'Keefe, " the Confederate 
government in its might and power interposed to protect and 
defend Barnard O'Keefe against immediate and dangerous 
assassination at the hands of a bloodthirsty foreign country, 
after the United States of America had overruled his appeal 
for protection and had instructed Private Secretary Cortelyou 


to reduce his estimate of the Republican majority for 1905 
by one vote." 

" Come, Barney," said I, "the Confederate States of America 
has been out of existence for nearly forty years. You do not 
look older yourself. When was it that the deceased government 
exerted its foreign policy in your behalf ? " 

" Four months ago," said O'Keefe, promptly. " The infa- 
mous foreign power I alluded to is still staggering from the 
official blow dealt it by Mr. Davis's contraband aggregation of 
states. That 's why you see me cakewalking with the ex-rebs 
to the illegitimate tune about simmon seeds and cotton. I votfc 
for the Great Father in Washington, but I am not going back 
on Mars' Jeff. You say the Confederacy has been dead forty 
years ? Well, if it had n't been for it, I'd have been breathing 
to-day with soul so dead I couldn't have whispered a single 
* cuss-word ' about my native land. The O'Keefes are not over- 
burdened with ingratitude." 

I must have looked bewildered. " The war was over," I 
said vacantly, '^ in — " 

O'Keefe laughed loudly, scattering my thoughts. 

" Ask old Doc Millikin if the war is over 1 " he shouted, 
hugely diverted. " Oh, no I Doc has n't surrendered yet. And 
the Confederate States 1 Well, I just told you they bucked offi- 
cially and solidly and nationally against a foreign government 
four months ago and kept me from being shot. Old Jeff's 
country stepped in and brought me off under its wing while 
Roosevelt was having a gunboat repainted and waiting for the 
National Campaign Committee to look up whether I had ever 
scratched the ticket." 

" Is n't there a story in this, Barney ? " I asked. 

"No," said O'Keefe; "but I'll give you the facts. You 
know how I went down to Panama when this irritation about a 
canal began. I thought I'd get in on the ground floor. I did, 


and had to sleep on it, and drink water with little zoos in it; 
so, of course I got the Chagres fever. That was in a little town 
called San Juan on the coast. 

" After I got the fever hard enough to kill a Port-au-Prince 
nigger, I had a relapse in the shape of Doc Millikin. 

" There was a doctor to attend a sick man 1 If Doc Millikin 
had your case, he made the terrors of death seem like an in- 
vitation to a donkey party. He had the bedside manners of a 
Piute medicine man and the soothing presence of a dray loaded 
with bridge girders. When he laid his hand on your fevered 
brow you felt like Cap. John Smith just before Pocahontas 
went his bail. 

" Well, this old medical outrage floated down to my shack 
when I sent for him. He was built like a shad, and his eye- 
brows was black, and his white whiskers trickled down from his 
chin like milk coming out of a sprinkling pot. He had a nigger 
boy along carrying an old tomato can full of calomel, and a saw. 

" Doc felt my pulse, and then he began to mess up some 
calomel with an agricultural implement that belonged to the 
trowel class. . . . 

'* By this time Doc Millikin had thrown up a line of fortifica- 
tions on square pieces of paper ; and he says to me : ' Yank, 
take one of these powders every two hours. They won't kill you. 
I '11 be around again about sundown to see if you 're alive.' 

** Old Doc's powders knocked the Chagres. I stayed in San 
Juan, and got to knowing him better. He was from Mississippi, 
and the red-hottest Southerner that ever smelled mint He made 
Stonewall Jackson and R. E. Lee look like Abolitionists. He 
had a family somewhere down near Yazoo City ; but he stayed 
away from the States on account of an uncontrollable liking he 
had for the absence of a Yankee government. Him and me got 
as thick personally as the emperor of Russia and the dove of 
peace, but sectionally we didn't amalgamate. 


" 'T was a beautiful system of medical -practice introduced by 
old Doc into that isthmus gf land. He 'd take that bracket saw 
and the mild chloride and his hypodermic, and treat anything 
from yellow fever to a personal friend. 

" Besides his other liabilities Doc could play a flute for a 
jninute or two. He was guilty of two tunes — ' Dixie ' and 
another one that was mighty close to ' Suwanee River' — you 
might say it was one of its tributaries. He used to come down 
and sit with me while I was getting well, and aggrieve his flute 
and say unreconstructed things about the North. You 'd have 
thought the smoke from the first gun at Fort Sumter was still 
floating around in the air. 

[O'Keefe tells how, participating in a Colombian revolutbn 
on the insurgent side, he was captured by the government 
troops and after a trial was sentenced to be shot in two 
weeks. His appeal to the American consul for protectiofi 
proving ineffectual, he requests the consul to have Doc Millikin 
come to see him.] 

^^ Doc comes and looks through the bars at me, surrounded 
by dirty soldiers, with even my shoes and canteen confiscated, 
and he looks mightily pleased. 

" ' Hello, Yank,' says he, ' getting a little taste of Johnson's 
Island, now, ain't ye ? ' 

" ' Doc,' says I, ' I Ve just had an interview with the U. S. 
consul. I gather from his remarks that I might just as well have 
been caught selling suspenders in Kishineff under the name of 
Rosenstein as to be in my present condition. It seems that the 
only maritime aid I am to receive from the United States is some 
navy plug to chew. Doc,' says I, ' can't you suspend hostilities 
on the slavery question long enough to do something for me ? ' 

" ' It ain't been my habit,' Doc Millikin answers, ' to do any 
painless dentistry when I find a Yank cutting an eyetooth. So 
the Stars and Stripes ain't landii^ any marines to shcH the huts 


of the Colombian cannibals, hey ? Oh, say, can )rou see by the 
dawn's early light the star-spangled banner has fluked in the 
fight? What's the matter with the War Department, hey? It's 
a great thing to be a citizen of a gold-standard nation, ain't it?* 

'* ' Rub it in, Doc, all you want,' says I. ' I guess we 're 
weak on foreign policy.' 

" * For a Yank,' says Doc, putting on his specs and talking 
more mild, * you ain't so bad. If you had come from below the 
line I reckon I would have liked you right smart Now since 
your country has gone back on you, you have to come to the 
old doctor whose cotton you burned and whose mules you stole 
and whose niggers you freed to help you. Ain't that so, Yank?' 

*' * It is ' says I, heartily, * and let 's have a diagnosis of the 
case right away, for in two weeks' time all you can do is to 
hold an autopsy and I don't want to be amputated if I can 
help it.' 

" * Now,' says Doc, businesslike, * it 's easy enough for you 
to get out of this scrape. Money '11 do it. You 've got to pay 
a long string of 'em from General Pomposo down to this 
anthropoid ape guarding your door. About ten dollars will 
do the trick. Have you got the money?' 

" * Me ? ' says I. * I 've got one Chile dollar, two real pieces, 
and a medio. ^ 

'* ^ Then if you 've any last words, utter 'em,' says that old 
reb. * The roster of your financial budget sounds quite much to 
me like the noise of a requiem.' 

" ^ Change the treatment,' says I. ' I admit that I'm short 
Call a consultation or use radium or smuggle me in some saws 
or something.' 

"* Yank,' says Doc Millikin, * I've a good notion to help you. 
There 's only one government in the world that can get you 
out of this difficulty; and that's the Confederate States of 
America, the grandest nation, that; ever existed.' 


'* Just as you said to me I says to Doc : * Why, the Confed- 
eracy ain't a nation. It 's been absolved forty years ago.' 

" * That 's a campaign lie/ says Doc. * She 's running along 
as solid as the Roman Empire. She 's the only hope you Ve 
got. Now, you, being a Yank, have got to go through with 
some preliminary obsequies before you can get official aid. 
You Ve got to take the oath of allegiance to the Confederate 
government. Then I '11 guarantee she does all she can for: you. 
What do you say, Yank ? — it 's your last chance.' 

" * If you 're fooling with me, Doc,' I answers, * you 're no 
better than the United States. But as you say it's the last 
chance, hurry up and swear me. I always did like com whisky 
and possum anyhow. I believe I'm half Southerner by nature. 
I'm willing to try the Ku-Klux in place of the khaki. Get brisk.' 

'' Doc Millikin thinks awhile, and then he offers me this oath 
of allegiance to take without any kind of chaser : 

'^ ^ I, Barnard O'Keefe, Yank, being of sound body but a Re- 
publican mind, do hereby swear to transfer my fealty, respect, 
and allegiance to the Confederate States of America, and the gov- 
ernment thereof in consideration of said government, through 
its official acts and powers, obtaining my freedom and release 
from confinement and sentence of death brought about by the 
exuberance of my Irish proclivities and my general pizenness 
as a Yank.' 

" I repeated these words after Doc, but they seemed to me 
a kind of hocus-pocus ; and I don't believe any life-insurance 
company in the countr}' would have issued me a policy on the 
strength of 'em. 

" Doc went away, saying he would communicate with his 
government immediately. 

" Say — you can imagine how I felt — me to be shot in two 
weeks and my only hope for help being in a government that's 
been dead so long that it isn't even remembered except on 


Decoration Day and when Joe Wheeler signs the voucher for 
his pay check. But it was all there was in sight ; and somehow 
I thought Doc Millikin had something up his old alpaca sleeve 
that was n't all foolishness. 

" Around to the jail comes old Doc again in about a week. 
I was fleabitten, a mite sarcastic, and fundamentally hungry. 

"'Any Confederate ironclads in the offing?* I asks. *Do 
you notice any sounds resembling the approach of Jeb Stewart's 
cavalry overland or Stonewall Jackson sneaking up in the rear? 
If you do, I wish you 'd say so.' 

" ' It 's too soon yet for help to come,' says Doc. 

'* ' The sooner the better,' says I. ' I don't care if it gets in 
fully fifteen minutes before I am shot ; and if you happen to 
lay eyes on Beauregard or Albert Sidney Johnston or any of 
the relief corps, wigwag 'em to hike along.' 

" * There 's been no answer received yet,' says Doc. 

" ' Don't forget,' says I, ' that there 's only four days more. 
I don't know how you propose to work this thing, Doc,' I says 
to him ; ' but it seems to me I'd sleep better if you had got a 
government that was alive and on the map — like Afghanistan 
or Great Britain, or old man Kruger's kingdom, to take this 
matter up. I don't mean any disrespect to your Confederate 
States, but I can't help feeling that my chances of being pulled 
out of this scrape was decidedly weakened when General Lee 

" ' It 's your only chance,' says Doc ; ' don't quarrel with it 
What did your own country do for you ? ' 

" It was only two days before the morning I was to be shot, 
when Doc Millikin c^ime around again. 

** ' All right, Vank,' says he. * Help 's come. The Confeder- 
ate States of America is going to apply for your release. The 
representatives of the government arrived on a fruit steamer 
last night.' 


'* ' Bully ! ' says I — ' bully for you, Doc I I suppose it *s 
marines with a Gatling. I am going to love your country all I 
can for this.' 

'* * Negotiations,' says old Doc, ' will be opened between the 
two governments at once. You will know later on to-day if 
they are successful.' 

" About four in the afternoon a soldier in red trousers brings 
a paper round to the jail, and they unlocks the door*nd I 
walks out. The guard at the door bows and I bows, and I steps 
into the grass and wades around to Doc Millikin's shack. 

" Doc was sitting in his hammock, playing * Dixie,' soft and 
low and out of tune, on his flute. I interrupted him at ' Look 
away ! look away ! ' and shook his hand for five minutes. 

" ' I never thought,' says Doc, taking a chew fretfully, * that 
I'd ever try to save any blame Yank's life. But, Mr. O'Keefe, 
I don't see but what you are entitled to be considered part 
human, anyhow. I never thought Yanks had any of the rudi- 
ments of decorum and laudability about them. I reckon I 
might have been too aggregative in my tabulation. But it ain't 
me you want to thank — it's the Confederate States of America.' 

'' ' And I'm much obliged to 'em,' says I. * It 's a poor man 
that would not be patriotic with a country that 's saved his life. 
I '11 drink to the Stars and Bars whenever there 's a flagstaff 
and a glass convenient. But where,' says I, ' are the rescuing 
troops ? If there was a gun fired or a shell burst, I did n't 
hear it.' 

" Doc Millikin raises up and points out the window with his 
flute at the banana steamer loading with fruit. 

" ^ Yank,' says he, * there 's a steamer that 's going to sail in 
the morning. If I was you, I'd sail on it. The Confederate 
government 's done all it can for you. There was n't a gun 
fired. The negotiations was carried on secretly between the 
two nations by the purser of that steamer. I got him to do it 


because I did n't want to appear in it Twelve thousand dollars 
was paid to the officials in bribes to let you go.' 

"'ManT says I, sitting down hard, 'twelve thousand — 
how will I ever — who could have — where did the money 
come from?' 

" * Yazoo City/ says Doc Millikin. ' I Ve got a little saved 
up there. Two barrels full of it. It looks good to these 
Colombians. Twas Confederate money, every dollar of it 
Now do you see why you 'd better leave before they try to 
pass some of it on an expert } ' 

'' ' I do/ says L 

" ' Now let 's hear you give the password,' says Doc Millikin. 
Hurrah for Jeff Davis 1 ' says I. 

Correct/ says Doc. * And let me tell you something : The 
next tune I learn on my flute is going to be " Yankee Doodle." 
I reckon there 's some Yanks that are not so pizen. Or, if you 
was me, would you try " The Red, White, and Blue " ? ' " 



[Mrs. Susan Dabney Smedes was born at Raymond, Mississippi, 
in 1840, and was the daughter of Thomas S. Dabney, a planter 
whose life forms the basis of her description of life on a Southern 
plantation, entitled " Memorials of a Southern Planter." She was 
married in i860 to Lyell Smedes, but was in a few months left a 
widow. Her life has been largely devotfcd to philanthropic work. 
Her home at present is Sewanee, Tennessee.] 


And now a great blow fell on Thomas Dabney. Shortly 
before the war he had been asked by a trusted friend to put 
his name as security on some papers for a good many thousand 
dollars. At the time he was assured that his name would only 
be wanted to tide over a crisis of two weeks, and that he would 
never hear of the papers again. It was a trap set, and his 
unsuspicious nature saw no danger, and he put his name to 
the papers. Loving this man, and confiding in his honor as in 
a son's, he thought no more of the transaction. 

It was now the autumn of 1866. One night he walked up- 
stairs to the room where his children were sitting, with a paper 
in his hand. " My children," he said, " I am a ruined man. 
The sheriff is downstairs. He has served this writ on me. It 
is for a security debt. I do not even know how many more 
such papers have my name to them." His face was white as 

1 Reprinted from " Memorials of a Southern Planter," by permission of the 
holder of the copyright, James Pott & Company. 



he said tlicsc words. He was sixty-eight years of age, with 
a lar^c and liclpless family on his hands, and the country in 
siu'h a condition that young men scarcely knew how to make 
a livelihood. 

'I'he sheriff came with more writs. Thomas roused himself 
to meet them all. He detemriined to pay every dollar. 

I5ut to do this he must have time. The sale of everything 
that he owned would not pay all these claims. He put the 
business in the hands of his lawyer, Mr. John Shelton, of 
Raymond, who was also his intimate friend. Mr. Shelton 
contested the claims, and this delayed things till Thomas 
could decide on some way of paying the debts. 

A gentleman to whom he owed personally several thousand 
dollars courteously forbore to send in his claim. Thomas was 
determined that he should not on this account fail to get his 
money, and wrote urging him to bring a friendly suit, that, if 
the worst came, he should at least get his proportion. Thus 
urged, the friendly suit was brought, the man deprecating the 
proceeding, as looking like pressing a gentleman. 

And now the judgments, as he knew they would, went 
against him one by one. On the 27th of November, 1866, 
the Burleigh plantation was put up at auction and sold, but 
the privilege of buying it in a certain time reserved to Thomas. 
At this time incendiary fires were common. There was not 
much law in the land. We heard of the ginhouses and cotton- 
houses that were burned in all directions. One day as Thomas 
came back from a business journey the smoldering ruins of 
his ginhouse met his eye. The building was itself valuable and 
necessary. All the cotton that he owned was consumed in it. 
He had not a dollar. He had to borrow the money to buy a 
postage stamp, not only during this year but during many years 
to come. It was a time of deepest gloom. Thomas had been 
wounded to the bottom of his affectionate heart by the perfidy 


of the man who had brought this on his house. In the midst 
of the grinding poverty that now fell in full force on him, he 
heard of the reckless extravagance of this man on the money 
that should have been used to meet these debts. 

Many honorable men in the South were taking the benefit 
of the bankrupt law. Thomas's relations and friends urged 
him to take the law. It was madness, they said, for a man of 
his age, in the condition the country was then in, to talk of 
settling the immense debts that were against him. He refused 
with scorn to listen to such proposals. But his heart was well- 
nigh broken. 

He called his children around him, as he lay in bed, not 
eating and scarcely sleeping. 

" My children," he said, " I shall have nothing to leave you 
but a fair name. But you may depend that I shall leave you 
that. I shall, if I live, pay every dollar that I owe. If I die, I 
leave these debts to you to discharge. Do not let my name be 
dishonored. Some men would kill themselves for this. I shall 
not do that. But I shall die." 

The grief of betrayed trust wa^ the bitterest drop in his cup 
of suffering. But he soon roused himself from this depression 
and set about arranging to raise the money needed to buy 
in the plantation. It could only be done by giving up all the 
money brought in by the cotton crop for many years. This 
meant rigid self-denial for himself and his children. He could 
not bear the thought of seeing his daughters deprived of com- 
forts. He was ready to stand unflinchingly any fate that might 
be in store for him. But his tenderest feelings were stirred 
for them. His chivalrous nature had always revolted from the 
sight of a woman doing hard work. He determined to spare 
his daughters all ^ such labor as he could perform. General 
Sherman had said that he would like to bring every Southern 
woman to the wash tub. " He shall never bring my daughters 


to the washtiib/' Thomas Dabney said. " I will do the washing 
niyscli." And he did it for two years. He was in his seventieth 
)ear when he be<i^an to do it. 

This may give some idea of the labors, the privations, the 
hardships, of those terrible years. The most intimate friends 
of Thomas, nay, his own children, who were not in the daily 
life at Burleigh, have never known the unprecedented self- 
denial, carried to the extent of acutest bodily sufferings, which 
he practiced during this time. A curtain must be drawn over 
this part of the life of my lion-hearted father I 

When he grew white and thin, and his frightened daughters 
prepared a special dish for him, he refused to eat the delicacy. 
It would choke him, he said, to eat better food than they had, 
and he yielded only to their earnest solicitations. He would 
have died rather than ask for it. When the living was so 
coarse and so ill-prepared that he could scarcely eat it, he 
never failed, on rising from the table, to say earnestly and 
reverently, as he stood by his chair, " Thank the Lord for 
this much." 

During a period of eighteen months no light in summer, and 
none but a fire in winter, except in some case of necessity, was 
seen in the house. He was fourteen years in paying these 
debts that fell on him in his sixty-ninth year. He lived but 
three years after the last dollar was paid. 


[Basil Lanneau Gildersleeve was born in Charleston, South Caro- 
lina, in 1 83 1 . After graduating from Princeton he studied in several 
German universities and then returned to the United States to en- 
gage in teaching. For several years he was professor of Latin and 
Greek in the University of Virginia, and since 1876 he has been 
professor of Greek in Johns Hopkins University. While he is wdl 


known as the author of textbooks and monographs in his chosen 
field of scholarship, he has also shown himself in such volumes as 
" Essays and Studies " and " Hellas and Hesperigi " to be gifted as 
an English stylist.] 


A few months ago, as I was leaving Baltimore for a summer 
sojourn on the coast of Maine, two old soldiers of the war be- 
tween the states took their seats immediately behind me in the 
car and began a lively conversation about the various battles in 
which they had faced each other more than a quarter of a cen- 
tury ago, when a trip to New England would have been no 
holiday jaunt for one of their fellow travelers. The veterans 
went into the minute detail that always puts me to shame, 
when I think how poor an account I should give if pressed 
to describe the military movements that I have happened to 
witness ; and I may as well acknowledge at the outset that I 
have as little aptitude for the soldier's trade as I have for the 
romancer's. Single incidents I remember as if they were of 
yesterday. Single pictures have burned themselves into my 
brain. But I have no vocation to tell how fields were lost and 
won, and my experience of military life was too brief and fitful 
to be of any value to the historian of the war. For my own 
life that experience has been of the utmost significance, and 
despite the heavy price I have had to pay for my outings, 
despite the daily reminder of five long months of intense 
suffering, I have no regrets. An able-bodied young man, with 
a long vacation at his disposal, could not have done otherwise, 
and the right to teach Southern youth for nine months was 
earned by sharing the fortunes of their fathers and bro^Jiers 
at the front for three. Self-respect is everything; and it is 

1 Reprinted from " The Creed of the Old South," by permission of the 
holder of the copyright, the Johns Hopkins Press. 


something to have belonged in deed and in truth to an heroic 
generation, to have shared in a measure its perils and priva- 
tions, liut that, heroic generation is apt to be a bore to a 
generation whose heroism is of a different type, and I doubt 
whether the young people in our car took much interest in the 
very audible conversation of the two veterans. Twenty-five 
years hence, when the survivors will be curiosities, as were 
Revolutionary pensioners in my childhood, there may be a 
renewal of interest. As it. is, few of the present generation 
pore over " The Battles and Leaders of the Civil War," and a 
grizzled old Confederate has been heard to declare that he in- 
tended to bequeath his copy of that valuable work to someone 
outside of the family, so provoked was he at the supineness 
of his children. And yet,- for the truth's sake, all these batdes 
must be fought over and over again, until the account is cleared 
and until justice is done to the valor and skill of both sides. 

The two old soldiers were talking amicably enough, as all 
old soldiers do, but they " yarned," as all old soldiers do, and 
though they talked from Baltimore to Philadelphia, and from 
Philadelphia to New York, their conversation was lost on me, 
for my thoughts went back into my own past, and two pictures 
came up to me from the time of the war. 

In the midsummer of 1863 I was serving as a private in the 
First Virginia Cavalry. Gettysburg was in the past and there 
was not much fighting to be done, but the cavalry was not 
wholly idle. Raids had to be intercepted, and the enemy was 
not to be allowed to vaunt himself too much ; so that I gained 
some experience of the hardships of that arm of the service 
and found out by practical participation what is meant by a 
cavalry charge. To a looker-on nothing can be finer. To the 
one who charges, or is supposed to charge, — for the horse 
seemed to mc mainly responsible, — the details are somewhat 
cumbrous. Now in one of these charges some of us captuied 


a number of the opposing force, among them a young lieu- 
tenant. Why this particular capture should have impressed me 
so, I cannot tell, but memory is a tricky thing. A large red fox 
scared up from his lair by the fight at Castleman's Ferry stood 
for a moment looking at me, and I shall never forget the stare 
of that red fox. At one of our fights near Kernstown a spent 
bullet struck a horse on the side of his nose, which happened 
to be white, and left a perfect imprint of itself ; and the jerk 
of the horse's head and the outline of the bullet are present to 
me still. The explosion of a particular caisson, the shriek of a 
special shell, will ring in one's ears for life. A captured lieu- 
tenant was no novelty, and yet this captured lieutenant caught 
my eye and held it. A handsomer young fellow, a more noble- 
looking, I never beheld among Federals or Confederates, as he 
stood there, bareheaded, among his captors, erect and silent. 
His eyes were full of fire, his lips showed a slight quiver of 
scorn, and his hair seemed to tighten its curls in defiance. 
Doubtless I had seen as fine specimens of young manhood 
before, but if so, I had seen without looking, and this man 
was evidently what we called a gentleman. 

Southern men were proud of being gentlemen, although they 
have been told in every conceivable tone that it was a foolish 
pride — foolish in itself, foolish in that it did not have the 
heraldic backing that was claimed for it; the utmost conces- 
sion being that a number of " deboshed '* younger sons of 
decayed gentry had been shipped to Virginia in the early 
settlement of that colony. But the very pride played its part 
in making us what we were proud of being, and whether 
descendants of the aforesaid " deboshed," of simple English 
yeoman, of plain Scotch-Irish Presbyterians (a doughty stock), 
or of Huguenots of various ranks of life, we all held to the 
same standard, and showed, as was thought, undue exclusive- 
ness on this subject. But this prisoner was the embodiment 


of the best type of Northern youth, with a spirit as high, as 
resolute, as could be found in the ranks of Southern gentle- 
men ; and though in theory all enlightened Southerners recog- 
nized the high qualities of some of our opponents, this one 
noble figure in "flesh and blood" was better calculated to 
inspire respect for " those people," as we had learned to call 
our adversaries, than many pages of "gray theory." 

A little more than a year afterwards, in Early's Valley cam- 
paign, — a rude school of warfare, — I was serving as a vol- 
unteer aid on General Gordon's staff. The day before the 
disaster of Fisher's Hill I was ordered, together with another 
staff officer, to accompany the general on a ride to the front 
The general had a well-known weakness for inspecting the out- 
posts — a weakness that made a position in his suite somewhat 
precarious. The officer with whom I was riding had not been 
with us long, and when he joined the staff he had just recovered 
from wounds and imprisonment. A man of winning appear- 
ance, sweet temper, and attractive manners, he soon made 
friends of the military family, and I never learned to love a 
man so much in so brief an acquaintance, though hearts knit 
quickly in the stress of war. He was highly educated, and 
foreign residence and travel had widened his vision without 
affecting the simple faith and thorough consecration of the 
Christian. Here let me say that the bearing of the Confeder- 
ates is not to be understood without taking into account the 
deep religious feeling of the army and its great leaders. It is 
a historical element, like any other, and is not to be passed 
over in summing up the forces of the conflict. "A soldier 
without religion," says a Prussian officer, who knew our army 
as well as the German, " is an instrument without value," and 
it is not unlikely that the knowledge of the part that faith 
played in sustaining the Southern people may have lent em- 
phasis to the expression of his conviction. 


We rode together towards the front, and as we rode our 
talk fell on Goethe and on Faust, and of all passages the 
soldiers' song came up to my lips — the song of soldiers of 
fortune, not the chant of men whose business it was to defend 
their country. Two lines, however, were significant : 

Kiihn ist das Miihen, 
Herrlich der Lohn* 

We reached the front. An occasional " zip " gave warning 
that the sharpshooters were not asleep, and the quick eye of 
the general saw that our line needed rectification, and how. 
Brief orders were given to the officer in command. My com- 
rade was left to aid in carrying them out. The rest of us with- 
drew. Scarcely had we ridden a hundred yards towards camp 
when a shout was heard, and, turning round, we saw one of 
the men running after us. " The captain had been killed." 
The peace of heaven was on his face as I gazed on the noble 
features that afternoon. The bullet had passed through his 
official papers and found his heart. He had received his dis- 
charge, and the glorious reward had been won. 

This is the other picture that the talk of the two old soldiers 
called up — dead Confederate against living Federal ; and these 
two pictures stand out before me again, as I am trying to make 
others understand and to understand myself what it was to be a 
Southern man twenty-five years ago ; what it was to accept with 
the whole heart the creed of the Old South. The image of the 
living Federal bids me refrain from harsh words in the presence 
of those who were my captors. The dead Confederate bids me 
uncover the sacred memories that the dust of life's Appian Way 
hides from the tenderest and truest of those whose business it 
is to live and work. For my dead comrade of the Valley cam- 
paign is one of many — some of them my friends, some of them 
my pupils as well. The eighteenth of July, 1861, laid low one 


of my Princeton College roommates ; on the twenty-first, the 
day of the great battle, the other fell — both bearers of historic 
names, both upholding the cause of their state with as unclouded 
a conscience as any saint in the martyrology ever wore ; and from 
that day to the end, great battle and outpost skirmish brought 
me, week by week, a personal loss in men of the same t3rpe. . . . 
The war began, the war went on. Passion was roused to 
fever heat. Both sides " saw red," that physiological condition 
which to a Frenchman excuses everything. The proverbial good 
humor of the American people did not, it is true, desert the 
country, and the Southern men who were in the field, as they 
were much happier than those who stayed at home, if I may 
judge by my own experience, were often merry enough by the 
camp fire and exchanged rough jests with the enemy's pickets. 
But the invaded people were very much in earnest, however 
lightly some of their adversaries treated the matter, and as the 
pressure of the war grew tighter, the more somber did life 
become. A friend of mine, describing the crowd that besieged 
the Gare de Lyon in Paris, ^hen the circle of fire was drawing 
round the city and foreigners were hastening to escape, told 
me that the press was so great that he could touch in every 
direction those who had been crushed to death as they stood and 
had not had room to fall. Not wholly unlike this was the pres- 
sure brought to bear on the Confederacy. It was only neces- 
sary to put out your hand and you touched a corpse ; and that 
•not an alien corpse, but the corpse of a brother or a friend. 
Every Southern man becomes grave when he thinks of that 
terrible stretch of time, partly, it is true, because life was nobler, 
but chiefly because of the memories of sorrow and suffering. 
A professional Southern humorist once undertook to write in 
dialect a " Comic History of the War," but his- heart failed him, 
as his public would have failed him, and the serial lived only for 
a number or two. 


The war began, the war went on. War is a rough game. 
It is an omelet that cannot be made without breaking eggs, not 
only eggs in esse, but also eggs in posse. So far as I have 
read about war, ours was no worse than other wars. While it 
lasted, the conduct of the combatants on either side was rep- 
resented in the blackest colors by the other. Even the ordinary 
and legitimate doing to death was considered criminal if the 
deed was done by a ruthless rebel or ruffianly invader. Non- 
combatants were especially eloquent. In describing the end of 
a brother who had beea killed while trying to get a shot at a 
Yankee, a Southern girl raved about the " murdered patriot " 
and the '^ dastardly wretch " who had anticipated him. But 
I do not criticize, for I remember an English account of the 
battle of New Orleans, in which General Pakenham was repre- 
sented as having been picked off by a " sneaking Yankee rifle." 
Those who were engaged in the actual conflict took more rea- 
sonable views, and the annals of the war are full of stories of 
battlefield and hospital in which a common humanity asserted 
itself. But brotherhood there was none. No alienation could 
have been more complete. Into the fissure made by the dis- 
ruption poured all the bad blood that had been breeding from 
Colonial times, from Revolutionary times, from "bleeding Kan- 
sas" and the engine-house at Harper's Ferry; and a great gulf 
was fixed, as it seemed forever, between North and South. The 
hostility was a very satisfactory one — for military purposes. 

The war began, the war went on — this politicians' conspiracy, 
this slaveholders' rebellion, as it was variously called by those 
who sought its source, now in the disappointed ambition of the 
Southern leaders, now in the desperate determination of a slave- 
holding oligarchy to perpetuate their power and to secure for- 
ever their proprietorship in their " human chattels." On this 
theory the mass of the Southern people were but puppets in 
the hands of political wirepullers or blind followers of hectoring 


" : .i\T\:.i.:.<." T • :r. -^r \\b.-* know the Southern people 
. ::•. ': «■ ::: :v :i:-^;:r'.i — :■' :!n»se who know their pers 
■ ir: •■:.::r. r. : ■ :':. -^c uh«' know the deep interest whi 
h:\:' :-^\\.i\^ :.i'rivr. i:i :»»!i:ics. the keen intelligrence witl 
:':\r\ :va\\- ;r.\\.i;.s fi.'!!- i-.wd ihc questions of the day. Th 
h"U-r i^rt-vn was the pi)litical university of the Southern 
aivl the hustinL:s the jjn )t"essorial chair, from which th 
pojitual and economical questions of the day were prese 
sav the least, as fully and intelligently as in the newspj 
which sn much enliirhtcnment is attributed. There was i 
system uf rntten boroui^hs, no such domination of a 
aristocracy. thnnifjh«»ut the South as has been imagin< 
venality, which is the disgrace of current politics, was pn 
unknown. The men who represented the Southern pG 
Washington came from the people, and not from a ring. 
em writers who have ascribed the firm control in Cong 
the national government which the South held so long 
superir)r character, ability, and experience of its represei 
do not seem to be aware that the choice of such represei 
and their prolonged tenure show that in politics, at le; 
education of the Southerner had not been neglected. Tl 
and file then were not swayed simply by blind passion or 
by the representatives of political gamesters. Nor did th 
need the leavening of the large percentage of men of th< 
classes who served as privates, some of them from the 
ning to the end of the war. The rank and file were, t( 
with, in full accord with the great [)rinciplcs of the \\'< 
were sustained by the abiding conviction of the justice 
cause. ( )f course there were in the Southern armv, as ii 
armv, manv who went with the multitude in the first enthi 
rush, or who were brought into the ranks by the needful ] 
of conscription ; but it is not a little remarkable that few 
p()or<,'si and the most ignorant could be induced to forsw 


cause and to purchase release from the sufferings of imprison- 
ment by the simple process of taking the oath. Those who 
have seen the light of battle on the faces of these humble 
sons of the South or witnessed their steadfastness in camp, 
on the march, in the hospital, have not been ashamed of their 

There is such a thing as fighting for a principle, an idea; 
but principle and idea must be incarnate, and the principle of 
state rights was incarnate in the historical life of the Southern 
people. Of the thirteen original states, Virginia, North Carolina, 
South Carolina, and Georgia were openly and officially upon 
the side of the South. Maryland as a state was bound hand 
and foot. We counted her as ours, for the Potomac and Ches- 
apeake Bay united as well as divided. Everyone was some- 
thing more than a certain aggregate of square miles wherein 
dwelt an uncertain number of uncertain inhabitants, something 
more than a territory transformed into a state by the magic of 
political legerdemain — a creature of the central government, 
and duly loyal to its creator. 

In claiming this individuality, nothing more is claimed for 
Virginia and for South Carolina than would be conceded to 
Massachusetts and Connecticut; and we believed then that 
Massachusetts and Connecticut would not have behaved other- 
wise than we did, if the parts had been reversed. The 
brandished sword would have shown what manner of placida 
quies would have ensued, if demands had been made on Massa- 
chusetts- at all commensurate with the federal demands on 
Virginia. These older Southern states were proud of their his- 
tory, and they showed their pride by girding at their neighbors. 
South Carolina had her fling at Georgia, her fling at North 
Carolina ; and the wish that the little State had been scuttled 
at an early day was a plagiarism from classical literature that 
might have emanated from the South as well as from the North. 


Virginia assumed a superiority that was resented by her South- 
ern sisters as well as by her Northern p>artners. The Old North 
State derided the pretensions of the commonwealths that flanked 
her on either side, and Georgia was not slow to give South 
Carolina as good as she sent. All this seemed to be harmless 
banter, but the rivalry was old enough and strong enough to 
encourage the hopes of the Union leaders that the Confederacy 
would split along state lines. The cohesive power of the Revo- 
lutionary War was not sufficientiy strong to make the states 
sink their contributions to the 'common cause in the common 
glory. Washington was the one national hero, and yet the 
Washington Light Infantry of Charleston was named, not after 
the illustrious George, but after his kinsman, WUiam. The 
story of Lexington and Concord and Bunker Hill did not thrill 
the South Carolinian of an earlier day, and those great achieve- 
ments were actually criticized. Who were "Putnam and Staik 
that South Carolinians should worship them, when they had a 
Marion and a Sumter of their own ? Vermont went wild, the 
other day, over Bennington as she did not over the centenary 
of the surrender at Yorktown. Take away this local patriotism 
and you take out all the color that is left in American life. 
That the local patriotism may not only consist with a wider 
patriotism, but may serve as a most important element in a 
wider patriotism, is true. Witness the strong local life in the 
old provinces of France. No student of history, no painter of 
manners can neglect it. In " Gerfaut," a novel written before 
the Franco-Prussian War, Charles de Bernard represents an 
Alsatian shepherd as saying, " I am not French ; I am Alsa- 
tian." " Trait de patriotisme de clocher assez commun dans la 
belle pnrvince dii Rhiti'' adds the author, littie dreaming of the 
national significance of that " patriotisme de docher." The 
Breton's love of his home is familiar to everyone who has read 
his " Renan," and Blanche Willis Howard, in ** Guenn," makes 


her priest exclaim : " Monsieur, I would fight with France against 
any other nation, but I would fight with Brittany against France. 
I love France. I am a Frenchman. But first of all I am a 
Breton. '* The Provencal speaks of France as if she were a 
foreign country, and fights for her as if she were his alone. 
What is true of France is true in a measure of England. Dev- 
onshire men are notoriously Devonshire men first and last. If 
this is true of what have become integral parts of a kingdom 
or republic by centuries of incorporation, what is to be said of 
the states that had never renounced their sovereignty, that had 
only suspended it in part ? 

The example of state pride set by the older states was not 
lost on the younger Southern states, and the Alabamian and 
the Mississippian lived in the same faith as did the stock from 
which they sprang; and the community of views, of interest, 
of social order, soon made a larger unit and prepared the way 
for a true nationality, and with the nationality a great conflict. 
The heterogeneousness of the elements that made up the Con- 
federacy did not prove the great source of weakness that was 
expected. The Border states looked on the world with different 
eyes from the Gulf states. The Virginia farmer and the Creole 
planter of Louisiana were of different strains; and yet there 
was a solidarity that has never failed to surprise the few 
Northerners who penetrated the South for study and pleasure. 
There was an extraordinary ramification of family and social ties 
throughout the Southern states, and a few minutes* conversa- 
tion sufficed to place any member of the social organism from 
Virginia to Texas. Great schools, like the University of Virginia, 
within the Southern border did much to foster the community 
of feeling, and while there were not a few Southerners at Har- 
vard and Yale, and while Princeton was almost a Southern col- 
lege, an education in the North did not seem to nationalize 
the Southerner. On the contrary, as in the universities of the 


M:Jd!c A^es. ;z^oi:ps were formed in accordance widi nati\'it}'; 
and >cv::: Tial lines, though effaced at certain points, were 
sircr.^'thened a: others. There may have been a certain broad-,^ ni view : there was no weakening of home ties. West 
Point made fewer converts to this side and to that than did the 
N«jrthcm wives of Southern husbands, the Southern wives of 
Northern husbands. 

All this is doubtless controvertible, and what has been written 
may ser\e only to amuse or to disgust those who are better 
versed in the facts of our histor}* and keener analysts of its 
laws. All I vouch for is the feeling ; the only point that I have 
tried to make is the simple fact that, right or wrong, we were 
fully persuaded in our own minds, and that there was no lurk- 
ing suspicion of any moral weakness in our cause. Nothing 
could be holier than the cause, nothing more imperative than 
the duty of upholding it. There were those in the South who, 
when they saw the issue of the war, gave up their faith in God, 
but not their faith in the cause. 


[William Peterfield Trent was born at Richmond, Virginia, in 
1862. After graduating from the University of Virginia and pur- 
suing postgraduate studies at Johns Hopkins University, he became 
professor of English in the University of the South, Sewanee, 
Tennessee. This position he held from 1888 to 1900, when he 
accepted a professorship in English literature in Columbia Univer- 
sity, New York City, which he now holds. His many books on 
historical and literary subjects (especially notable being " Life of 
William (iilmore Simms," "Authority of Criticism," and "A History 
of American Literature ") have made him known of the foremost 
critics of literature in the United States. While at the University 
of the South he was the first editor of the Sewanee Review — a 
magazine important to literary and historical research in the South.] 



A " Solid South " would seem to presuppose a homogeneous 
Southern people coextensive with the geographical, or rather 
political, area thus designated ; but to draw this inference would 
be to make a mistake almost equal to that made by the Euro- 
pean who thinks Chicago a three or four hours' ride from 
New York, and confounds our Eastern and Western populations. 
If political opinions and prejudices be not taken into account, 
the typical Charlestonian will be found to differ as much from 
the average inhabitant of Nashville as the typical New Yorker 
does from his rival of Chicago. The Virginian and the Georgian 
have points of contact, to be sure, but they differ radically in 
many important respects — just as radically as a citizen of 
New Jersey does from a citizen of Wisconsin. They may, per- 
haps, differ more radically, on account of the fact that state 
lines are more strictly drawn in the South than in any other 
portion of the Union. It is, of course, measurably true to affirm 
that the Southern people are descendants in the main of that 
portion of the English people " who had been least modernized, 
who still retained a large element of the feudal notion." The 
usual assumption that the civilization of the North is Puritan, 
while that of the South is Cavalier, rests on a substantial though 
small basis of fact. It is further true that the institution of 
slavery gave a more or less uniform patriarchal tone to society 
in every Southern state. But when all the points of resem- 
blance are numbered and estimated, it will still be found that 
the tidewater South differs from the Southwest as much as 
New England does from the Northwest, that each state of a 
subsection differs from its neighbors, and that there are im- 
portant lines of cleavage within some of the states themselves. 

1 Reprinted from the article " Dominant Tendencies of the South," Ailaniic 
Monthly^ Vol. LXXIX, page 42. 


Such a general proposition, however, is of little value unless it 
is accompanied by particular illustrations. 

The two leading types of Southern population are plainly the 
Virginian and the South Carolinian of the tidewater. For this 
fact there are both historical and physiog^aphical reasons. 
Virginia was the first and South Carolina the second Southern 
colony to be settled by well-to-do Englishmen who desired to 
found permanent homes. The introduction of slavery and its 
application to staple crops speedily gave an aristocratic tone to 
society in both provinces ; but between them, in North Caro- 
lina, and to the south of them, in Georgia, there were fewer 
wealthy settlers and no staple crops to speak of, so that from 
the first, society in these provinces was more or less democratic 
in spite of slavery. Before, however, the gentry of the coast 
could expand and occupy the country lying between the Bhie 
Ridge and the Alleghenies, and beyond the latter range of 
mountains, a very different sort of people had moved in and 
taken possession. Hardy Scotch-Irish Presb)rterians, thrifty 
German Lutherans, sober and industrious Quakers, had occa- 
pied the "up country," and in North Carolina had spread 
toward the coast Among these people, owing to their habits 
and the nature of their soil, slavery could take no strong hold ; 
hence they remained democratic and distinct from their tide- 
water neighbors, as indeed they are to this day. So it came to 
pass that when, after the Revolution, tidewater Virginians, in 
consequence of debt and the impoverishment of the land, deter- 
mined to emigrate, they passed over the two mountain ranges 
and settled in Kentucky, or went as far to the southwest as 
Alabama, later on, while the hardy mountain people, hungiy 
for land and eager for adventure, moved along the valleys and 
over convenient passes and founded setdements, the more 
important of which were destined to coalesce into the distinc- 
tively democratic commonwealth of Tennessee. Meanwhile» tbe 


invention of the cotton gin made it worth the South Carolinian's 
while to bide at home, and opened up to immigration and set- 
tlement the states bordering on the Gulf. As in the case of all 
new countries, the inflowing population was extremely mixed, 
but the man who had most slaves could clear his land and start 
his cotton soonest ; and so throughout the lower tier of south- 
western states aristocracy triumphed, on the whole, over 
democracy, being somewhat aided by the presence of French 
and Spanish populations at Mobile and New Orleans. But in 
the midst of all this movement and confusion the tidewater 
Virginians and South Carolinians stood for political and social 
ideals before which the rest of the South and the Southwest 
bowed until the advent of Jackson and his frontier Democrats 
to power. The Virginian fell before the storm, but the South 
Carolinian bent and rose again. Slavery, not Tennessee de- 
mocracy, represented the aspirations -of the Southern people 
during the three momentous decades before the Civil War, and 
slavery's banner Calhoun and his South Carolinians were ob- 
viously best fitted to bear. So it has come about that the eariy 
prestige of Virginia and the later prestige of South Carolina 
have invested the " low country " inhabitants of those states — 
for it is " low country " ideals that have prevailed — with an 
importance in the eyes of their fellow Southerners and of the 
rest of the world that is only just beginning to be shaken by 
the progress of commonwealths that have learned better how 
to utilize their material resources. But what now can one say 
of these two types of Southerners ? 

In the first place, they are nearer to the type of Englishmen 
that originally settled in the two colonies than might be ex- 
pected, when the lapse of time is considered. They are distinctly 
less American in their habits of thought and action than are 
Georgians or Tennesseeans, New Yorkers, or lowans. In the 
cities one naturally finds all sorts and conditions of people, but 


in the country and in the bosom of indigenous families one 
finds oneself continually confronted with some survival or 
recrudescence of English trait or custom. There is a certain 
colonialism in the attitude assumed by many of these good folks 
toward all things modem and American that strikes one as odd 
in people who gave Washington and the Pinckneys to the cause 
of independence. There is a persistence in customs, a loyalty 
to beliefs and traditions, a naivetk of self-satisfaction that cannot 
be called conceit, a clannishness, an attachment to the soil, 
that are radically English and thoroughly picturesque, but are 
certainly not American. 

These and similar traits the tidewater inhabitants of the two 
states have in common. And yet they differ to such a degree 
that even the superficial observer has no difficulty in dis- 
tinguishing them without having recourse to such external 
peculiarities as dialect or physical appearance. The Virginian 
is more democratic than the South Carolinian ; he has more 
bonhomie ; he is not nearly so punctilious, or stem, or fiery. 
A true South Carolinian gentleman would never have sat in the 
White House with slippers worn down at the heels, as Jefferson 
did. Many Virginian gentlemen would not have done it, either, 
but they would have comprehended how it was possible to 
do it. In some way or other, the Virginian developed from a 
seventeenth-century into an eighteenth-century English squire. 
He became more or less an easy-going optimist, fond of good 
company and good living, never so vulgar as Squire Western, 
but likely to fall into careless, slipshod habits unless uphekl, 
as was often the case, by the refined women about him. With 
the South Carolinian it seems to have been different What 
with the infusion of sober Huguenot blood, what with the mas- 
terful qualities necessitated by his isolated position among great 
masses of black barbarians, he took himself and life more seri- 
ously than the Virginian did, and he does so to this day. He 


has the earnestness and much of the courtly charm of the best 
type of seventeenth-century Englishman. If the Virginian gen- 
tleman is a Squire All worthy, the South Carolinian is, if it can 
be conceived, a Colonel Hutchinson fighting on the Royalist 
side. One even finds that a Virginian boy of the better classes 
has more bonhomie and less dignity than a South Carolinian of 
similar age and breeding. The Virginian loves his state and ii^ 
proud of her history, but on alien soil, amid a pleasant com- 
pany, he can forget her. The South Carolinian is rarely so 
unbending, and is, unintentionally no doubt, supercilious toward 
all other peoples and states. He is not merely glad to hail 
from his native state, he is not merely anxious to return thither 
to die, he is miserable whenever and as long as he is not living 
there. Nay, he actually wishes to be rooted to a particular 
parish or town. The genius loci is the god he worships, and he 
stands for everything that is not cosmopolitan. Hence he is 
par excellence the Southern conservative, so thoroughgoing in 
his provincialism that it ceases to appear narrow and small, 
and reaches the infinite if not the sublime. On this side, as 
indeed in general intensity of nature, he goes far beyond the 
Virginian. The latter is conservative and slow to move, yet 
after all he is a disciple of Jefferson, and he cannot help re- 
membering that his kinsfolk peopled Kentucky and that there 
are men of Virginian stock thriving in all parts of the country. 
But even on him the waves of progress have had to dash and 
dash in order to produce any effect, and he stands to-day, with 
the South Carolinian, like a promontory jutting out into a 
rising sea. His promontory is, however, a littie greener than 
that of his neighbor. 

Such, in the main, is the material on which the Zeitgeist has 
had to work in the two Southern states that were in the lead 
before the Civil War practically leveled everything. Very differ- 
ent, as we have seen, is the material in the state lying betweei 


the Old Dominion and the commonwealth that had a philoso- 
pher for godfather. The North Carolinian is, and has always 
been, the typical Southern democrat. If he has not progressed 
rapidly, it is not because he has been unwilling to give up his 
traditions, though he has them, but because he has always been 
more or less hampered by physical difficulties, and more or less 
.cast in the shade by his greater neighbors. He has ever been 
unpretending, but his virtues have been many and solid. He 
has had his history miswritten, but instead of uttering bitter 
complaints has set to work to rewrite it. He has labored in- 
defatigably, although with small success as yet, to obtain a good 
system of public instruction, seeing that large portions of his 
state would without this remain unexploited for generations. 
He is still backward in many respects, and still has to bide 
taunts about not having produced many great men, about smell- 
ing of turpentine, and about allowing the practice of " dipping " 
to continue within his borders. But like the patient, thorough- 
going democrat he is, he takes it all good-naturedly, and has 
determined not to be last in the race of progress that he is 
running with his neighbors, though he does at times stop to 
listen, open-mouthed, to a quack proclaiming the virtues of 
some political nostrum. 

The South Carolinian has always arrogated to himself the 
name '^ Carolinian," and he has never been on very familiar 
terms with his northern neighbor. His feeling for his southern 
neighbor, the Georgian, is also one of mere tolerance, for the 
latter has long been called the Southern Yankee, and fairly de- 
serves the appellation. He has much of the shrewdness and 
push that mark the typical " Down-Easter," and he has a con- 
siderable share of that worthy's moral earnestness. In addition 
he has a good deal of the Virginian's geniality and love of com- 
fort, of the North C'arolinian's unpretending democracy, and of 
the South CarolilTian's tendency to exhibitions of fiery temper. 


But over and above everything else he has an honest and 
hearty and not unfounded pride in Georgia, and a sort of ma- 
sonic affiliation with every person, animal, institution, custom — 
in short, thing — that can be called Georgian. He may not 
always stand for culture, but he does always stand for patriot- 
ism, state and national. He loves success, strength, straight- 
forwardness, and the solid virtues generally, — neither is he 
averse to the showy ones, — but above all he loves virtue in 
action. Though possessed of a strong, clear intellect, he is more 
particularly a man of five senses, of which he makes as good 
use as he can. He may not always taste the sweetness or see 
the light of the highest civilization, but he has a good healthy 
appetite for life. In fine, the Georgian is the Southerner of all 
others who comes nearest to being a normal American. There 
are, to be sure, varieties of Georgians, and different phases of 
civilization are represented in different sections of the state, but 
the features of character that make for uniformity are more 
numerous and important than those that make for divergence. 
The various elements that compose the population — original 
settlers, incomers from Virginia and the two Carolinas — seem 
to have been fused, save perhaps on the coast about Savannah, 
rather than to have preserved their individuality, and the result 
is the typical Georgian, energetic, shrewd, thrifty, brave, reli- 
gious, patriotic, tending in the extremes of society to become 
narrow and hard, or self-assertive and pushing. 

The Floridian on the one hand, and the Alabamian on the 
other, may be fairly described as modified Georgians. Florida, 
being a comparatively new state, settled under great difficulties 
and by various stocks, has not until recent years played any 
great part in Southern history, and even now represents little 
that is suggestive of an indigenous civilization. This is not true 
of Alabama, save of the mineral region in the northern part of 
the state ; but the Alabamian, while a distinct personality, has 


never impressed himself upon the South as his neighbors on 
the Atlantic coast have done. He seems to hold partly by the 
Georgian and partly by the Virginian (with whom he is often 
connected by ties of blood), and has many of the best qualities 
of both. He is either a " limbered-up " Virginian or a mellowed 
Georgian. He is also a much less strenuous type of man than 
his neighbor to the west of him, although in their dates of 
settlement and in their physiographical features the two states 
do not present striking points of difference. As for the Missis- 
sippian, he too possesses well-defined but mixed characteristics. 
He seems to hold by the South Carolinian on the one hand, 
and by the Tennesseean on the other, which is another way of 
saying that he is a Southwestemer whose natural democratic 
proclivities have been somewhat modified by institutions and 
customs of an aristocratic cast. On his large plantation, amid 
his hundreds of slaves, it was a matter of course that he should 
develop some of the South Carolinian's masterful traits, while 
his position as a frontiersman and pioneer necessarily gave him 
a basis of character not dissimilar to that of the hardy settler 
on the Watauga or the Cumberland. To understand the Mis- 
sissippian, then, or indeed any Southwestemer as far as the 
Rio Grande, we must know something about the Tennesseean. 
This stalwart citizen of a state which has already played an 
important part in our history, and which from its position and 
resources ought to play a still more important part in the future, 
naturally holds by the North Carolinian in many of his charac- 
teristics. He can generally point to Scotch-Irish ancestors from 
whom he has inherited the love of independence and the sturdy 
democratic virtues that characterize the people of the mountain 
sections of the states on his eastern border, but he owes to 
these ancestors something that differentiates him from his kins- 
people east of the Alleghenies. The latter have been somewhat 
abashed, somewhat kept in check, by their contact with the 


civilization of the tidewater, but he wears upon his forehead, 
whether he dwell on hill or plain, that " freedom of the moun- 
taineer " of which Wordsworth sang. His fathers, whether they 
owned slaves or not, never ceased to be democrats, and so he 
is a democrat through and through, of a less unpretending type 
than the North Carolinian. Through the valor and the exer- 
tions of those fathers he has a wide and fair domain in which 
to choose his dwelling place, but whether he has his abode 
among the mineral treasures of his mountains, or in the blue- 
grass plains, or amid the low-lying fields that whiten with the 
cotton boll, he is always and everywhere the open-handed, self- 
reliant, easily excited son of equality and freedom that Welling- 
ton's regulars went down before in the fatal trenches of New 
Orleans. In fact, the Tennesseean is not, stricdy speaking, a 
Southerner at all. The basis of his character is Western, and 
though his sympathies were divided in the Civil War, and 
though he helps to make up the " Solid South," he has really 
as little affiliation with the Southerners of the Atlantic coast as 
Andrew Jackson had with John C. Calhoun. He has not, in- 
deed, the murderous intentions of his great hero and idol, but 
when he counts himself as being of the Southern people he 
ought to change his preposition and say that he is with them. 

The other Southwestern states naturally have more distinc- 
tively Southern features than Tennessee, but we need hardly 
go into particulars. Arkansas and Texas are as yet too new to 
have stood for much in the history of Southern culture, and 
save in certain localities they are still in the transition stage 
common to pioneer states. When their various strains of pop- 
ulation have been fused and their immense territory has been 
really settled, the emerging civilization will be almost inevitably 
Western in tone. It will not be Western in exactly the same 
way that the civilization of Wisconsin and Illinois is Western, 
but then the civilization of the latter states differs from that of 


Nebraska, or Colorado, or the Dakotas. Yet it will most assur- 
edly not be Southern in any true sense of the term, for in this 
country the meridians of longitude have on the whole prevailed 
over the parallels of latitude. 

In Louisiana a Southern civilization has been developed in 
the lower part of the state, and will probably always dominate 
it. The Louisianian of this section is quite different from his 
Western compatriots of the towns on the Texas and Arkansas 
borders, and he possibly comes nearer to the foreigner's idea of 
what a Southerner is than any other of the types that have 
been described. Perhaps this is because most foreigners get 
their ideas of the South from " Uncle Tom's Cabin." Be this 
as it may, the typical Louisianian seems to understand the dola 
far niente better than the Virginian ; he keeps social life going 
with less trouble than the South Carolinian; he woukl never 
think of bustiing and working like a Georgian ; he would die of 
the blues if he had to exchange the picturesque contrasts of his 
chief city and the lower half of his state with the gray-cok)red 
uniformity of the life that the North Carolmian has led for 
generations. But if the Louisianian has enjoyed life, he has 
not had the wisdom to develop all portions of his interesting 
commonwealth, and he has never taken a commanding position 
among his Southern brethren. With him, however, our modest 
efforts at portraiture must cease. 


bom in Charieston, South Carolina, 
> the wealthy and aristocratic drde of 

[Paul Hamilton Hayne wa 
101830. His family belonged 
that city. After graduat- 
ing from Charleston Col- 
lege, Hayne studied law, 
but his love of literature 
proved too strong for the 
practice of his profession. 
In 1857 he became editor 
of Russell'i Magazine, 
which he made a decided 
success. Before the war 
Hayne had published three 
volumes of poetry, made 
up chiefly of pieces which 
he had contributed to va- 
rious periodicals. At the 
outbreak of hostilities he 
became an aide on Gover- 
nor Pickens's staff, but 
after a brief service he 
was forced to resign on 
account of ill health. Findii^ himself impoverished at the dose 
of the war, he moved to the pine barrens of Georgia and about 
eighteen miles from Augusta built a very plain cottage, which he 
called " Copse Hill." Here he struggled bravely with poverty as 
best he could, through his contributions of poetry and other kinds 
of writing to the magazines. Gradually his genius gained reo li- 
tion throughout the country at large and he came to have the ti 



of " the Laureate of the South." In 1882 a complete edition of his 
poems was published in Boston. Shortly after the publication of this 
volume, Hayne's health began to give way, and he died in 1886.] 


O fresh, how fresh and fair 

Through the crystal gulfs of air, 
The fairy South Wind floateth on her subtle wings of balm I 

And the green earth lapped in bliss, 

To the magic of her kiss 
Seems yearning upward fondly through the golden-crested calm 1 

From the distant Tropic strand. 

Where the billows, bright and bland, 
Go creeping, curling round the palms with sweet, faint imdertune. 

From its fields of purpling flowers 

Still wet with fragrant showers. 
The happy South Wind lingering sweeps the royal blooms of June. 

All heavenly fancies rise 

On the perfume of her sighs, 
Which steep the inmost spirit in a languor rare and fine, 

And a peace more pure than sleep's 

Unto dim, half-conscious deeps. 
Transports me, lulled and dreaming, on its twilight tides divine. 

Those dreams 1 ah me 1 the splendor, 

So mystical and tender, 
Wherewith like soft heat-lightnings they gird their meaning round. 

And those waters, calling, calling. 

With a nameless charm enthralling. 
Like the ghost of music melting on a rainbow spray of sound 1 

1 The selections from Hayne are reprinted by permission of the holder of the 
copyright, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. 


Touch, touch me not, nor wake me, 

Lest grosser thoughts overtake me, 
From earth receding faintly with her dreary din and jars, — 

What viewless arms caress me ? 

What whispered voices bless me. 
With welcomes dropping dewlike from the weird and wondrous 


Alas 1 dim, dim, and dimmer 

Grows the preternatural glimmer 
Of that trance the South Wind brought me on her subtle wings of 


For behold ! its spirit flieth, 

And its fairy murmur dieth. 
And the silence closing round me is a dull and soulless calm I 


Tall, somber, grim, against the morning sky 
They rise, scarce touched by melancholy airs, 

Which stir the fadeless foliage dreamfully, 
As if from realms of mystical despairs. 

Tall, somber, grim, they stand with dusky gleams 
Brightening to gold within the woodland's core, 

Beneath the gracious noontide's tranquil beams — 
But the weird winds of morning sigh no more. 

A stillness, strange, divine, ineffable, 

Broods round and o'er them in the wind's surcease, 
And on each tinted copse and shimmering dell 

Rests the mute rapture of deep-hearted peace. 


Last, sunset comes — the solemn joy and mig^t 

Borne from the West when cloudless day declines — 

Low, flutelike breezes sweep the waves of light, 
And lifting dark green tresses of the pines, 

Till every lock is luminous — gentiy float, 
Fraught with hale odors up the heavens afar 

To faint when twilight on her virginal throat 
Wears for a gem the tremulous vesper star. 


I remember it well ; 't was a morn dull and gray. 

And the legion lay idle and listless that day, 

A thin drizzle of rain piercing chill to the soul, 

And with not a spare bumper to brighten the bowl, 

When Macdonald arose, and unsheathing his blade, 

Cried, " Who '11 back me, brave comrades ? I'm hot for a raid 

Let the carbines be loaded, the war harness ring, 

Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the King I " 

We leaped up at his summons, all eager and bright. 

To our finger tips thrilling to join him in fight ; 

Yet he chose from our numbers /our men and no more. 

" Stalwart brothers," quoth he, " you '11 be strong as fourscore, 

If you follow me fast wheresoever I lead, 

With keen sword and true pistol, stanch heart and bold steed. 

Let the weapons be loaded, the bridle bits ring, 

Then swift death to the Redcoats, and down with the King I " 

In a trice we were mounted ; Macdonald's tall form 
Seated firm in the saddle, his face like a storm 
When the clouds on Ben Lomond hang heavy and staik, 
And the red veins of lightning pulse hot through the daric ; 


His left hand on his sword belt, his right lifted free, 

With a prick from the spurred heel, a touch from the knee, 

His lithe Arab was off like kn eagle on wing — 

" Ha I death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King ! " 

'T was three leagues to the town, where, in insolent pride 

Of their disciplined numbers, their works strong and wide, 

The big Britons, oblivious of warfare and arms, 

A soft t/o/ce were wrapped in, not dreaming of harms. 

When fierce yells, as if borne on some fiend-ridden rout, 

With strange cheer after cheer, are heard echoing without. 

Over which, like the blast of ten trumpeters, ring, 

" Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King 1 " 

Such a tumult we raised with steel, hoof-stroke, and shout. 

That the foemen made straight for their inmost redoubt, 

And therein, with pale lips and cowed spirits, quoth they, 

" Lord, the whole rebel army assaults us to-day. 

Are the works, think you, strong ? God of heaven, what a din ! 

'T is the front wall besieged — have the rebels rushed in ? 

It must, be ; for, hark ! hark to that jubilant ring 

Of * Death to the Redcoats, and down with the King ! ' " 

Meanwhile, through the town like whirlwind we sped, 

And ere long be assured that our broadswords were red ; 

And the ground here and there by an ominous stain 

Showed how the stark soldier beside it was slain : 

A fat sergeant-major, who yawed like a goose. 

With his waddling bowlegs, and his trappings all loose. 

By one back-handed blow the Macdonald cuts down. 

To the shoulder-blade, cleaving him sheer through the crown. 

And the last words that greet his dim consciousness ring 

With " Death, death to the Redcoats, and down with the King ! " 


Having cleared all the streets, not an enemy left 
Whose heart was unpierced, or whose headpiece iincleft, 
What should we do next, but — as careless and calm 
As if we were scenting a summer mom's balm 
'Mid a land of pure peace — just serenely drop down 
On a few constant friends who still stopped in the town. 
What a welcome they gave us I One dear littie thing, 
As I kissed her sweet lips, did I dream of the King ? — 

Of the King or his minions ? No ; war and its scars 

Seemed as distant just then as the fierce front of Mars ' 

From a love-girdled earth ; but, alack ! on our bliss, 

On the close clasp of arms and kiss showering on kiss, 

Broke the rude bruit of battle, the rush thick and fast 

Of the Britons made 'ware of our rash ruse at last ; 

So we haste to our coursers, yet flying, we fling 

The old watchwords abroad, " Down with Redcoats and King I " 

As we scampered pell-mell o'er the hard-beaten track 
We had traversed that morn, we glanced momently back, 
And beheld their long earthworks all compassed in flame ; 
With a vile plunge and hiss the huge musket balls came, 
And the soil was plowed up, and the space 'twixt the trees 
Seemed to hum with the war song of Brobdingnag bees ; 
Yet above them, beyond them, victoriously ring 
The shouts, " Death to the Redcoats, and down with the King ! " 

Ah 1 that was a feat, lads, to boast of 1 What men 
Like you weaklings to-day had durst cope with us then ? 
Though I say it who should not, I am ready to vow 
I'd o'ermatch a half score of your fops even now — 


The poor puny prigs, mincing up, mincing down, 
Through the whole wasted day the thronged streets of the town : 
Why, their dainty white necks 't were but pastime to wring — 
Ay I my muscles are firm still ; / fought 'gainst the King ! 

Dare you doubt it ? well, give me the weightiest of all 
The sheathed sabers that hang there, uplooped on the wall ; 
Hurl the scabbard aside ; yield the blade to my clasp ; 
Do you see, with one hand how I poise it and grasp 
The rough iron-bound hilt ? With this long hissing sweep 
I have smitten full many a foeman with sleep — 
That forlorn, final sleep ! God ! what memories cling 
To those gallant old times when we fought 'gainst the King. 



Listen 1 the somber foliage of the Pine 
A swart Gitana of the woodland trees. 

In answering what we may but half divine 
To those soft whispers of the twilight breeze ! 

Passion and mystery murmur through the leaves, 
Passion and mystery, touched by deathless pain, 

Whose monotone of long, low anguish grieves 
For something lost that shall not live again I 


To have the will to soar, but not the wings, 
Eyes fixed forever on a starry height, 

Whence stately shapes of grand imaginings 
Flash down the splendors of imperial light ; 


And yet to lack the chaim that makes them ours, 
The obedient vassals of that conquering spell, 

Whose omnipresent and ethereal powers 
Encircle Heaven, nor fear to enter Hell ; 


Paul Hamilton Hayne's unpretentioua home after the wi 
about eighteen miles from Augusta, Georgia 

This is the doom of Tantalus — the thirst 
For beauty's balmy fount to quench the firea 

Of the wild passion that our souls have nurst 
In hopeless promptings — unfulfilled d 

Yet would I rather in the outward state 
Of Song's immortal temple lay me down, 

A beggar basking by that radiant gate, 

Than bend beneath the haughtiest emigre's c 


For sometimes, through the bars, my ravished eyes 
Have caught brief glimpses of a life divine, 

And seen afar, mysterious rapture rise 

Beyond the veil that guards the inmost shrine. 

-^ c i^- 


All day, on bole and limb the axes ring, ^ ^ -v^ "^ ; ^ 

And every stroke upon my startled brain ,. . * ^ '^ ;"[ > 1- 

Falls with the power of sympathetic pain ; b-^ 

I shrink to view each glorious forest king 

Descend to earth, a wan, discrowned thing. 

Ah, Heaven ! beside these foliaged giants slain. 

How small the human dwarfs, whose lust for gain 

Hath edged their brutal steel to smite and sting 1 

Hark ! to those long-drawn murmurings, strange and drear 1 

The wail of Dryads in their last distress ; 

O'er ruined haunts and ravished loveliness 

Still tower those brawny arms ; tones coarsely loud^ 

Rise still beyond the greenery's waning cloud. 

While falls the insatiate steel, sharp, cold, and sheer 1 


I love Queen August's stately sway. 

And all her fragrant south winds say. 

With vague, mysterious meanings fraught. 

Of unimaginable thought ; 

Those winds, 'mid change of gloom and gleam. 

Seem wandering thro' a golden dream — 

The rare midsummer dream that lies 

In humid depths of nature's eyes, 

Weighing her languid forehead down 


Beneath a fair but fiery crown : 

Its witchery broods o'er earth and skies, 

Fills with divine amenities 

The bland, blue spaces of the air, 

And smiles with looks of drowsy cheer 

'Mid hollows of the brown-hued hills ; 

And oft, in tongues of tinkling rills, 

A softer, homelier utterance finds 

Than that which haunts the lingering winds ! 

I love midsummer's azure deep, 

Whereon the huge white clouds, asleep. 

Scarce move through lengths of tranced hours ; 

Some, raised in forms of giant towers — 

Dumb Babels, with ethereal stairs 

Scaling the vast height — unawares 

What mocking spirit, ether-bom. 

Hath built those transient spires in scorn, 

And reared towards the topmost sky 

Their unsubstantial fantasy I 

Some stretched in tenuous arcs of light 

Athwart the airy infinite, 

Far glittering up yon fervid dome. 

And lapped by cloudland's misty foam, 

Whose wreaths of fine sun-smitten spray 

Melt in a burning haze away ; 

Some throned in heaven's serenest smiles, 

Pure-hued, and calm as fairy isles. 

Girt by the tides of soundless seas — 

The heavens' benign Hesperides. 

I love midsummer uplands, free 
To the bold raids of breeze and bee, 
Where, nested warm in yellowing grass, 


I hear the swift-winged partridge pass, 
With whir and boom of gusty flight, 
Across the broad heath's treeless height: 
Or, just where, elbow-poised, I lift 
Above the wild flower's careless drift 
My half-closed eyes, I see and hear 
The blithe field sparrow twittering clear 
Quick ditties to his tiny love ; 
While, from afar, the timid dove. 
With faint, voluptuous murmur, wakes 
The silence of the pastoral brakes. 

I love midsummer sunsets, rolled 
Down the rich west in waves of gold, 
With blazing crests of billowy fire. 
But when those crimson floods retire, 
In noiseless ebb, slow-surging, grand, 
By pensive twilight's flickering strand, 
In gentler mood I love to mark 
The slow gradations of the dark ; 
Till, lo ! from Orient's mists withdrawn, 
Hail ! to the moon's resplendent dawn ; 
On dusky vale and haunted plain 
Her effluence falls like balmy rain ; 
Gaunt gulfs of shadow own her might ; 
She bathes the rescued world in light, 
So that, albeit my summer's day 
Erewhile did breathe its life away, 
Methinks, whate'er its hours had won 
Of beauty, bom from shade and sun, 
Hath not perchance so wholly died, 
But o'er the moonlight's silvery tide 
Comes back, sublimed and purified I 



[Irwin Russell was bom in Port Gibson, Mississippi, in 1853. 

After graduating from the St. Louis Universi^ in 1869 he chose 
the profesMon of law, but the 
young lawyer never had a case 
in court because his interests 
were turning steadily to Utera- 
ture. His first contribution to 
Scribiier's Monthly appeared 
in 1876, During the yellow- 
fever epidemic of 1S78 he lost 
his father, and, thrown on his 
own resources, he started to 
New York, intending to make 
a livelihood through wiitiiig. 
Soon after arriving there he 
was stricken with a dangerous 
fever. When he recovered he 
shipped on a vessel for New 
Orleans and worked his pas- 
sage by coal heaving. In New 
Orleans he spent sevend months 
of pover^ and distress, attempt- 
a living by writing for newspapers. His life of promise 

was ended in 1879 under pitiable circumstances. Nine yearv later 

his poems were collected into a small volume.] 


You, Nebuchadnezzah, whoa, sah I 
Whar is you tryin' to go, sah ? 
I'd hab you fur to know, sah, 
I's a-holdin' ob de Hnes. 


You better stop dat prancin' ; 
You 's pow'ful fond ob dancin', 
But I ni bet my yeah 's advancin' 
Dat I '11 cure you ob yo' shines. 

Look heah, mule ! Better min' Out ; 
Fus' t'ing you know you '11 fin* out 
How quick I '11 wear dis line out 

On yo' ugly, stubborn back. 
You need n't try to steal up 
An' lif ' dat precious heel up ; 
You 's got to plow dis fiel' up ; 

You has, sah, fur a fac'. 

Dar, dafs de way to do it ! 
He 's comin' right down to it ; 
Jes watch him plowin' troo it 1 

Dis nigger ain't no fool. 
Some folks dey would 'a' beat him ; 
Now, dat would only heat him — 
I know jes how to treat him : 

You mus' reason wid a mule. 

He minds me like a nigger. 

If he wuz only bigger 

He 'd fotch a mighty figger, 

He would, I tell you 1 Yes, sah I 
See how he keeps a-clickin' 1 
He 's as gentle as a chickin, 
An' nebber thinks o'kickin' — 

Whoa dar! Nebuchadnezzah I 


Is dis heah me, or not me ? 
Or is de debbil got me ? 
Wuz dat a cannon shot me ? 

Hab I laid heah more 'n a week ? 
Dat mule do kick amazin' ! 
De beast wuz spoiled in raisin' — 
But now I 'spect he 's grazin' 

On de Oder side de creek. 


H'yar, Pot-liquor 1 What you at ? You heah me callin' you ? 
H'yar, sah 1 Come an^ tell dis little gemmen howdy-do ! 
Dar, sah, airi't dat puppy, jes as fat as he kin roll ? 
Maybe you won't b'liebe it, but he 's only six mon's oV 1 

'Coon dog ? Lord ! young marster, he 's jes at 'em all de while ; 

/ b'liebe dat he kin smell a 'coon fur half a mile. 

I don' like to sell him, fur he 's wuf his weight in gol' ; 

If you did n't want him, sah, he nebber should be sol*. 

If you takes him off wid you, I '11 feel like I wuz lost 

He 's de bes' young fightin' dog I ebber come acrost. 

Jes look at dem eyes, young marster ; what a sabbage face ! — 

He won't let no stranger nigger come about de place. 

You know Henry Wilson's Bob, dat whipped your fader's Dan 1 
Pot-liquor jes chucked dat dog so bad he could n't stan' 1 
Well, sah, if you wants him, now I '11 tell you what I *11 do, — 
You kin hab him fur a dollar, seein 's how it 's you. 


Now, Marster Will, you knows it — he ^s wuf mo 'n dat, a heap ; 
R'al'y, Fs a-doin' wrong to let him go so cheap. 
Don't you tell nobody, now, what wuz de price you paid — 
My ol' 'oman 's gwine to gib me fits, sah, I's afraid I 

T'anks you, sah ! Good-mornin', sah ! You tell yo' ma, fur me, 

I has got de fines' turkeys dat she ebber see ; 

Dey is jes as good as any pusson ebber eat. 

If she wants a gobbler^ let her sen' to Uncle Pete. 

Dar I I's done got rid ob dat ar wretched dog at las' 1 
Drownin' time wuz comin' fur him mighty precious fas' I 
Sol' him fur a dollar — Well ! An' goodness knows de pup 
Is n't wuf de powder it 'd take to blow him up 1 


I 'se been a-watchin' people an' deir doings all my life. 

An' sometimes I obsarves to Sophonisby — dat 's my wife — 

Dat nuffin' seldom happens what I does n't 'spect to see : 

But Peter, 

Dat Peter I 

He gits away wid me. 

You see he 's been to Oakland, an' his lamin' is profound ; 
I heered him say in' yes'day dat the yearth kep' tumin' round I 
Dat 'pears to me ridiculous — but I nebber wuz to school — 

And Peter, 

Dat Peter ! 

He 'lows dat I 'se a fool. 


Well, mebbe so ; I mout be, but I does n't think it *s true ; 
I aint so wise as Peter, but I knows a ting or two : 
Ef I kain't run as fast as some, I manages to crawl — 

But Peter, 

Dat Peter 1 

He thinks he knows it all. 

He wears a suit ob store-clo'es, an' a fine fibe dollar hat I 
Who eber heard de like afore ob sich gwine on as dat ? 
He iles his har, he do ; an' goes a-sparkin' eb'ry night ; 

Why Peter, 

Dat Peter ! 

I guess he thinks he 's white. 

I really think ef Peter would rent a leetle patch ob land, 
An' settle down to crappin', dat he 'd hold a better hand ; 
I)e debbil's gwine to set him back afore his game is done; 

But Peter, 

Dat Peter 1 

He say he 's twenty-one. 

Well, let de nigger slide — 1 could say suffin' ef I mout, 

But I has oder matters to be projeckin' about. 

I 'se jubious how he '11 come out — hab to wait a while an* see. 

But Peter, 

Dat Peter ! 

He 's most too much for me. 


[Sidney Lanier was bam in Macon, Georgia, in 1 842. His ancestors 
had been for generations musicians. At fourteen he entered the 
sophomore class of Oglethorpe College at Midway, Georgia, and 
graduated in i860. He was at once appointed a tutor in the col- 
lege, but the war broke out 
shortly and he joined the Con- 
federate army. He saw service 
in Virginia, and toward the 
close of the war was put in 
charge of a blockade-running 
vessel. His vessel was captured 
in 1864, and he was confined 
for five months in Point Look 
out prison. The exposure and 
hardships of this exptrience 
germinated the seeds of con 
sumption, against which heJiad 
to light the rest of his life and 
to wUch he' finally succumbed 
After the war Lanier lived m 
Georgia and Alabama, earning 
a living as teacher, hotel clerk, 

and lawyer. But finding that his health grew no better and feding 
that he was wasting his genius in uncongenial pursuits, he decided 
to devote himself to literature and music. In 1873 he went to Balti- 
more and found employment as first flutist in the Peabody Symphony 
Orchestra. In Baltimore he found musicians, literary people, and 
libraries, and his genius would undotibtedly have blossomed rapidly 
had it not been for ill health. Recuiring attacks of his malady com- 
pelled him to seek health in visits to the mountains of North Carolina 
and the mild climate of Florida, In 1879 he was appointed lecturer 
on English literature at Johns Hopkins University, a position which 
assured an income and which was entirely congenial. His health, how- 
ever, was rapidly failing, and finally the sufferer was obliged to quit 
work and go to the mountains of North Carolina. There in the little 
village of Lynn his brave fight closed in the early autumn of 1S81.] 



Joust First 

Bright shone the lists, blue bent the skies, 

And the knights still hurried amain 
To the tournament under the ladies* eyes, 

Where the j ousters were Heart and Brain. 

Flourished the trumpets : entered Heart, 

A youth in crimson and gold. 
Flourished again : Brain stood apart, 

Steel-armored, dark and cold. 

Heart's palfrey caracoled gayly round, 

Heart tra-li-ra'd merrily ; 
But Brain sat still, with never a sound. 

So cynical-calm was he. 

Heart's helmet-crest bore favors three 

From his lady's hand caught ; 
While Brain wore a plumeless casque ; not he 

Or favor gave or sought. 

The herald blew ; Heart shot a glance 

To find his lady's eye, 
But Brain gazed straight ahead his lance 

To aim more faithfully. 

They charged, they struck ; both fell, both bled. 

Brain rose again, ungloved, 
Heart, dying, smiled and faintly said, 

" My love to my beloved." 


Joust Second 

A-many sweet eyes wept and wept, 

A-many bosoms heaved again ; 
A-many dainty dead hopes slept 

With yonder Heart-knight prone o'er the plain. 

Yet stars will bum through any mists, 

And the ladies' eyes, through rains of fate. 

Still beamed upon the bloody lists 
And lit the joust of Love and Hate. 

O strange I or ere a trumpet blew. 

Or ere a challenge-word was given, 
A knight leapt down i' the lists ; none knew 

Whether he sprang from earth or heaven. 

His cheek was soft as a lily-bud, 

His gray eyes calmed his youth's alarm ; 
Nor helm nor hauberk nor even a hood 
, Had he to shield his life from harm. 

No falchion from his baldric swung. 

He wore a white rose in its place. 
No dagger at his girdle hung, 

But only an olive branch, for grace. 

And, " Come, thou poor mistaken knight," 
Cried Love, unarmed, yet dauntless there, 

" Come on, God pity thee ! — I fight 

Sans sword, sans shield ; yet. Hate, beware I " 


Spurred furious Hate ; he foamed at mouth, 

His breath was hot upon the air, 
His breath scorched souls, as a dry drought 

Withers green trees and bums them bare. 

Straight drives he at his enemy. 

His hairy hands grip lance in rest. 
His lance it gleams full bitterly, 

God ! — gleams, true-point, on Love's bare breast 1 

Love's gray eyes glow with a heaven-heat. 
Love lifts his hand in a saindy prayer ; 

Look ! Hate hath fallen at his feet ! 
Look I Hate hath vanished in the air I 

Then all the throng looked kind on all ; 

Eyes yearned, lips kissed, dumb souls were freed \ 
Two magic maids' hands lifted a pall 

And the dead knight. Heart, sprang on his steed 

Then Love cried, " Break me his lance, each knight I 
Ye shall fight for blood-athirst Fame no more." 

And the knights all doffed their mailed might 
And dealt out dole on dole to the poor. 

Then dove-lights sanctified the plain, 
And hawk and sparrow shared a nest. 

And the great sea opened and swallowed Pain, 
And out of this water-grave floated Rest 1 



Out of the hills of Habersham, 

Down the valleys of Hall, 
The hurrying rain," to reach the plain, 

Has run^ the rapid and leapt*^ the fall, 
Split at the rock and together again, 
Accepted his'' bed, or narrow or wide. 
And fled* from folly on every side. 
With a lover's pain to attain the plain, 

Far from the hills of Habersham, 

Far from the valleys of Hall. 

All down the hills of Habersham, 

All through the valleys of Hall, 
The rushes cried, Abide ^ abide ; 

The willful water weeds held me thrall. 
The laurel, slow-laving, turned my tide,-^ 
The ferns and the fondling grass said stay^ 
The dewberry dipped for to win^ delay, 
And the little reeds sighed. Abide, abide, 

Here in the hills of Habersham, 

Here in the valleys of HalL 

1 First published in ScoWs Magazine, from which it is here taken. Lanier's 
later revisions are given in footnotes, and the study of these will show the devel- 
opment of the poet's artistic sense. 

a. Changed to " I hurry amain." 

b. Changed to " I run." 

c. Changed to " leap." 

d. Changed to " accept my." 

e. Changed to " flee." 

/. Changed to " The laving laurel turned my tide." 
g. Changed to " work," 


High over the hills of Habersham, ■ 

Veiling the valleys of Hall, 
The hickory told me manifold 

Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall 
Wrought me her shadowy self to hold. 
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, 
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign, 
Said, Pass not so cold these fnanifold 

Deep shades of the hills of Habersham^ 

These glades in the valleys of Hall, 

And oft in the hills of Habersham, 

And oft in the valleys of Hall, 
The white quartz shone, and the smooth brookstone 

Barred* me of passage with friendly brawl, 
And many a metal lay sad, alone,*' 
And the diamond, the garnet, the amethyst, 
And the crystal that prisons a purple mist. 

Showed lights like my own from each cordial stone 

In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, 

In the beds of the valleys of HalL 

But oh, not the hills of Habersham, 

And oh, not the valleys of Hall, 
Shall hinder the rain from attaining the plain/ 

For downward the voices of duty call — 
Downward to toil and be mixed with the main. 

h. Changed to " did bar." 

i. This and the three following lines changed to 

And many a luminous jewel lone — 
Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist, 
Ruby, garnet, and amethyst — 

Made lures with the lightnings of streaming 

/. Changed to " Avail ! I am fain for to water the plain.'' 


The dry fields bum and the mills are to turn, 
And a thousand meadows'^ mortally yearn, 
And the finaF main from beyond the plain 
Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, 
And calls through the valleys of HalL 


At midnight, death's and truth's unlocking time. 

When far within the spirit's hearing rolls 

The great soft rumble of the course of things — 

A bulk of silence in a mask of sound — 

When darkness clears our vision that by day 

Is sun-blind, and the soul 's a ravening owl 

For truth, and flitteth here and -there about 

Low-lying woody tracts of time and oft 

Is minded for to sit upon a bough. 

Dry-dead and sharp, of some long-stricken tree 

And muse in that gaunt place, — 't was then my heart. 

Deep in the meditative dark, cried out : 

Ye companies of governor-spirits grave. 
Bards, and old bringers-down of flaming news 
From steep-walled heavens, holy malcontents, 
Sweet seers, and stellar visionaries, all 
That brood about the skies of poesy. 
Full bright ye shine, insuperable stars ; 
Yet, if a man look hard upon you, none 
With total luster blazeth, no, not one 

K Changed to " myriad of flowers." 
'. Changed to " lordly." 

This poem appeared in the Independent^ July 15, 1880, from which it is taken, 
e passage in which Lanier reviews the world's great names, — Shakespeare, 
►mer, Socrates, Buddha, Dante, Milton, i£schylus, Lucretius, etc., — only tq 
i some flaw in each, is here omitted. 


But hath some heinous freckle of the fiesh 
Upon his shining cheek, not one but winks 
His ray, opaqued with intermittent mist 
Of defect ; yea, you masters all must ask 
Some sweet forgiveness, which we leap to give, 
We lovers of you, heavenly-glad to meet 
Your largess so with love, and interplight 
Your geniuses with our mortalities. . . . 

But Thee, but Thee, O sovereign Seer of time, 

But Thee, O poet's Poet, Wisdom's Tongue, 

But Thee, O man's best Man, O love's best Love, 

O perfect life in perfect labor writ, 

O all men's Comrade, Servant, King, or Priest, — 

What if or yet^ what mole, what flaw, what lapse, 

What least defect or shadow of defect, 

What rumor, tattled by an enemy. 

Of inference loose, what lack of grace 

Even in torture's grasp, or sleep's, or death's, — 

Oh, what amiss may I forgive in Thee, 

Jesus, good Paragon, thou Crystal Christ? .->* 


In my sleep I was fain of their fellowship, fain 
Of the live-oak, the marsh, and the main. 
The little green leaves would not let me alone in my sleep ; 
Up breathed from the marshes, a message of range and of sweep, 
Interwoven with waftures of wild sea-liberties, drifting. 
Came through the lapped leaves sifting, sifting, 
Came to the gates of sleep. 

1 First published in the Independent^ December 14, 1882, from which it it 
here taken, 


Then my thoughts, in the dark of the dungeon-keep 
Of the Castle of Captives hid in the City of Sleep, 
Upstarted, by twos and by threes assembling : 
The gates of sleep fell a-trembling 
Like as the lips of a lady that forth falter yes, 

Shaken with happiness : 

The gates of sleep stood wide. 

I have waked, I have come, my beloved I I might not abid^ : 
I have come ere the dawn, O beloved, my live-oaks, to hide 

In your gospeling glooms, — to be 
As a lover in heaven, the marsh my marsh and the sea my sea. 

Tell me, sweet burly-barked, man-bodied Tree • 
That mine arms in the dark are embracing, dost know 
From what fount are these tears at thy feet which flow ? 
They rise not from reason, but deeper inconsequent deeps. 

Reason 's not one that weeps. 

What logic of greeting lies 
Betwixt dear over-beautiful trees and the rain of the eyes ? 

O cunning green leaves, little masters I like as ye gloss 

All the dull-tissued dark with your luminous darks that emboss 

The vague blackness of night into pattern and plan. 

(But would I could know, but would I could know,) 
With your question embroidering the dark of the question of 

man, — 
So, with your silences purfling this silence of man 
While his cry to the dead for some knowledge is under the ban, 
Under the ban, — 

So, ye have wrought me 


Designs on the night of our knowledge, — yea, ye have taught me, 

That haply we know somewhat more than we know. 

Ye lispers, whisperers, singers in storms, 
Ye consciences murmuring faiths under forms, 
Ye ministers meet for each passion that grieves. 
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 
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 tfie 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. 

My gossip, the owl, — is it thou 

That out of the leaves of the low-hanging bough, 

As I pass to the beach, art stirred ? 

Dumb woods, have ye uttered a bird ? 

Reverend Marsh, low-couched along the sea, 
Old chemist, rapt in alchemy, 

Distilling silence, — lo. 
That which our father-age had died to know — 
The menstruum that dissolves all matter — thou 
Hast found it : for this silence, filling now 
The globed clarit>' of receiving space. 
This solves us all : man, matter, doubt, disgrace. 


Death, love, sin, sanity, 

Must in yon silence' clear solution lie. 

Too clear I That crystal nothing who '11 peruse ? 

The blackest night could bring us brighter news. 

Yet precious qualities of silence haunt 

Round these vast margins, ministrant 

Oh, if thy soul 's at latter gasp for space. 

With trying to breathe no bigger than thy race 

Just to be fellowed, when that thou hast found 

No man with room, or grace enough of bound 

To entertain that New thou tell'st, thou art, — 

'T is here, 't is here, thou canst unhand thy heart 

And breathe it free, and breathe it free. 

By rangy marsh, in lone sea-liberty. 

The tide 's at full : the marsh with flooded streams 

Glimmers, a limpid labyrinth of dreams. 

Each winding creek in grave entrancement lies 

A rhapsody of morning-stars. The skies 

Shine scant with one forked galaxy, — 

The marsh brags ten : looped on his breast they lie. 

Oh, what if a sound should be made 1 

Oh, what if a bound should be laid 

To this bow-and-string tension of beauty and silence a-spring, — 

To the bend of beauty the bow, or the hold of silence the string I 

I fear me, I fear me yon dome of diaphanous gleam 

Will break as a bubble o'erblown in a dream, — 

Yon dome of too-tenuous tissues of space and of night, 

Overweighted with stars, overfreighted with light, 

Oversated with beauty and silence, will seem 

But a bubble that broke in a dream, 
If a bound of degree to this grace be laid. 

Or a sound or a motion made. 


But no : it is made : list ! somewhere, — mysteiy, where ? 

In the leaves ? in the air ? 
In my heart ? is a motion made : 

*T is a motion of dawn, like a flicker of shade on shade. 
In the leaves 't is palpable : low multitudinous stirring 
Upwinds through the woods ; the little ones, softly conferring, 
Have settled my lord's to be looked for ; so ; they are still ; 
But the air and my heart and the earth are a-thrill, — 
And look where the wild duck sails round the bend of the river,— 

And look where a passionate shiver 

Expectant is bending the blades 
Of the marsh-grass in serial shimmers and shades, — 
And invisible wings, fast fleeting, fast fleeting, 

Are beating 
The dark overhead as my heart beats, — and steady and free 
Is the ebb-tide flowing from marsh to sea — 

(Run home, little streams. 

With your lapfuls of stars and dreams), — 
And a sailor unseen is hoisting a-peak. 
For list, down the inshore curve of the creek 

How merrily flutters the sail, — 
And lo, in the East 1 Will the East unveil ? 

The East is unveiled, the East hath confessed 


A flush : 't is dead ; *t is alive ; 't is dead, ere the West 
Was aware of it : nay, 't is abiding, 't is withdrawn : 
Have a care, sweet Heaven 1 T is Dawn. 

Now a dream of a flame through that dream of a flush is up- 
rolled : 
To the zenith ascending, a dome of undazzling gold 
Is builded, in shape as a beehive, from out of the 
The hive is of gold undazzling, but oh, the Bee, 
The star-fed Bee, the build-fire Bee, 


Of dazzling gold is the great Sun-Bee 

That shall flash from the hive-hole over the sea. 

Yet now the dewdrop, now the morning gray, 

Shall live their little lucid sober day 

Ere with the sun their souls exhale away. 

Now in each pettiest personal sphere of dew 

The summed mom shines complete as in the blue 

Big dewdrop of all heaven : with these lit shrines 

O'er-silvered to the farthest sea-confines, 

The sacramental marsh one pious plain 

Of Avorship lies. Peace to the ante-reign 

Of Mary Morning, blissful mother mild, 

Minded of nought but peace, and of a child. 

Not slower than Majesty moves, for a mean and a measure 
Of motion, — not faster than dateless Olympian leisure 
Might pace with unblown ample garments from pleasure to 

pleasure, — 
The wave-serrate sea-rim sinks unjarring, unreeling. 
Forever revealing, revealing, revealing. 
Edgewise, blade wise, half wise, wholewise, — /tis done! 

Good-morrow, lord Sun ! 
With several voice, with ascription one. 
The woods and the marsh and the sea and my soul 
Unto thee, whence the glittering stream of all morrows doth roll, 
Cry good and past-good and most heavenly morrow, lord Sun. 

O Artisan born in the purple, — Workman Heat, — 

Parter of passionate atoms that travail to meet 

And be mixed in the death-cold oneness, — innermost Guest 

At the marriage of elements, — fellow of publicans, — blest 

King in the blouse of flame, that loiterest o'er 

The idle skies, yet laborest fast evermore, — 


Thou in the fine forge-thunder, thou, in the beat 
Of the heart of a man, thou Motive, — Laborer Heat : 
Yea, Artist, thou, of whose art yon sea 's all news, 
With his inshore greens and manifold mid-sea blues, 
Pearl-glint, shell-tint, ancientest perfectest hues, 
Ever shaming the maidens, — lily and rose 
Confess thee, and each mild flame that glows 
In the clarified virginal bosoms of stones that shine, 
It is thine, it is thine : 

Thou chemist of storms, whether driving the winds a-swirl 

Or a-flicker the subtiler essences polar that whirl 

In the magnet earth, — yea, thou with a storm for a heart. 

Rent with debate, many-spotted with question, part 

From part oft sundered, yet ever a globed light, 

Yet ever the artist, ever more large and bright 

Than the eye of a man may avail of : — manifold One, 

I must pass from thy face, I must pass from the face of the Sun: 

Old Want is awake and agog, every wrinkle a-frown ; 
The worker must pass to his work in the terrible town : 
But I fear not, nay, and I fear not the thing to be done ; 
I am strong with the strength of my lord the Sun ; 
How dark, how dark soever the race that must needs be run, 
I am lit with the Sun. 

Oh, never the mast-high run of the seas 

Of traffic shall hide thee, 
Never the hell-colored smoke of the factories 

Hide thee, 
Never the reek of the time's fen-politics 

Hide thee. 


And ever my heart through the night shall with knowledge 

abide thee, 
And ever by day shall my spirit, as one that hath tried thee, 
Labor, at leisure, in art, — till yonder beside thee 

My soul shall float, friend Sun, 

The day being done. 


[John Banister Tabb, more commonly called Father Tabb, was 
born in Virginia in 1845. During the Civil War he served on a 
blockade runner, and, being captured, he was imprisoned in Point 
Lookout prison, where he became the friend of Sidney Lanier. In 
1872 he began to teach and to write verses, and in 1884 he privately 
published his first volume of poems. In the meantime he had been 
ordained a priest in the Roman Catholic Church, and had become 
professor of English in St. Charles College, Maryland. There he 
died in 1909. He has published, at various times, some seven or 
eight volumes of verse.] 


Since the dewdrop holds the star 

The long night through. 
Perchance the satellite afar 

Reflects the dew. 

And while thine image in my heart 

Doth steadfast shine ; 
There, haply, in thy heaven apart 

Thou keepest mine. 

1 The selections from Tabb are here reprinted through the kind permission 
of the holder of the copyright, Small, Maynard & Company. 



Killdee I Killdee ! far o'er the lea 

At twilight comes the cry. 
Killdee I a marsh-mate answereth 

Across the shallow sky. 

Killdee I Killdee I thrills over me 

A rhapsody of light, 
As star to star gives utterance 

Between the day and night. 


KiUdee I Killdee 1 O Memory, 
The twin birds, Joy and Pain, 

Like shadows- parted by the sun, 
At twilight meet again ! 


Little masters, hat in hand 
Let me in your presence stand, 
Till your silence solve for me 
This your threefold mystery. 

Tell me — for I long to know — 
How, in darkness there below, 
Was your fairy fabric spun. 
Spread and fashioned, three in one. 

Did your gossips gold and blue, 
Sky and Sunshine, choose for you, 
Ere your triple forms were seen, 
Suited liveries of green ? 


Can ye, — if ye dwelt indeed 
Captives of a prison seed, — 
Like the Genie, once again 
Get you back into the grain ? 

Little masters, may I stand 
In your presence, hat in hand. 
Waiting till you solve for me 
This your threefold mystery ? 


Their noonday never knows 

What names immortal are : 
'T is night alone that shows 

How star surpasseth star. 


[John Henry Boner was born in Salem, North Carolina, in 1845, of 
Moravian lineage. He was at first connected as printer and as editor 
with newspapers in North Carolina. In 1871 he secured government 
employment in Washington. Subsequently he engaged in literary 
work in New York. On account of impaired health he was forced 
to give up his work in New York and to return to Washington, 
where for a while he acted as proofreader in the Government Print- 
ing Office. He died in Washington in 1903.] 


The sultry day is ending. 

The clouds are fading away, 
Orange with purple is blending, 

And purple is turning to gray ; 

1 The selections from Boner are here reprinted through the permission of 
the holder of the copyright, Mrs. Boner. 


The gray grows darker and denser 

Till it and the earth are one ; 
A star swings out like a censer, 

And the brief warm night is begun. 

The brown moth floats and poises 

Like a leaf in the windless air ; 
Aroused by insect noises 

The gray toad leaves his lair ; 
Sounding the dusk depth quickly 

The bull bats fall and rise, 
And out of the grasses thickly 

Swarm glistering fireflies. 

Now darkness heavy, oppressive. 

And silent completes the gloom. 
The breathless night is excessive 

With fragrance of perfume, 
P^or the land is enmeshed and ablaze 

With vines that blossom and trail. 
Embanking the traveled ways 

And festooning the fences of rail 

Afar in the southern sky 

Heat-lightning flares and glows, 
Vividly tinting the clouds that lie 

At rest with a shimmer of rose — 
Tremulous, flitting, uncertain. 

As a mystical light might shine 
From under an ebon curtain 

Before a terrible shrine. 


And the slumberous night grows late. 

The midnight hush is deep. 
Under the pines I wait 

For the moon ; and the pine trees weep 
Great drops of dew, that fall 

Like footsteps here and there, 
And they sadly whisper and call 

To each other high in the air. 

They rustle and whisper like ghosts. 

They sigh like souls in pain. 
Like the movement of stealthy hosts 

They surge, and are silent again. 
The midnight hush is deep, 

But the pines — the spirits distrest 
They move in somnambulant sleep — 

They whisper and are not at rest. 

Lo I a light in the East opalescent 

Softly suffuses the sky 
Where flocculent clouds are quiescent, 

Where like froth of the ocean they lie - 
Like foam on the beach they crimple 

Where the wave has spent its swirl, 
Like the curve of a shell they dimple 

Into iridescent pearl. 

And the light grows brighter and higher 
Till far through the trees I see 

The rim of a globe of fire 

That rolls through the darkness to me. 


And the aisles of the forest gleam 

With a splendor unearthly, that shines 

Like the light of a lurid dream 
Through the colonnaded pines. 


When wintry days are dark and drear 

And all the forest ways grow still, 
When gray snow-laden clouds appear 

Along the bleak horizon hill. 
When cattle all are snugly penned 

And sheep go huddling close tc^ether, 
When steady streams of smoke ascend 

From farmhouse chimneys — in such weather 
Give me old Carolina's own, 
A great log house, a great hearthstone, 
A cheering pipe of cob or brier 
And a red, leaping light'ood fire. 

When dreary day draws to a close 

And all the silent land is dark. 
When Boreas down the chimney blows 

And sparks fly from the crackling bark, 
When limbs are bent with snow or slieet 

And owls hoot from the hollow tree. 
With hounds asleep about your feet, 
Then is the time for reverie. 
Give me old Carolina's own, 
A hospitable wide hearthstone, 
A cheering pipe of cob or brier 
And a red, rousing light'ood fire. 



Here lived the soul enchanted 

By melody of song ; 
Here dwelt the spirit haunted 

By a demoniac throng ; 
Here sang the lips elated ; 
Here grief and death were sated ; 
Here loved and here unmated 

Was he, so frail, so strong. 

'^^ -,*-*<. 


Here wintry winds and cheerless 

The dying firelight blew. 
While he whose song was peerless 

Dreamed the drear midnight through, 


And from dull embers chilling 
Crept shadows darkly filling 
The silent place, and thrilling 
His fancy as they grew. 

Here, with brow bared to heaven, 

In starry night he stood. 
With the lost star of seven 

P'eeling sad brotherhood. 
Here in the sobbing showers 
Of dark autumnal hours 
He heard suspected powers 

Shriek through the stormy wood. 

From visions of Apollo 

And of Astarte's bliss, 
He gazed into the hollow 

And hopeless vale of Dis ; 
And though earth were surrounded 
By heaven, it still was mounded 
With graves. His soul had sounded 

The dolorous abyss. 

Proud, mad, but not defiant. 
He touched at heaven and helL 

Fate found a rare soul pliant 
And rung her changes well. 

Alternately his lyre. 

Stranded with strings of fire, 

Led earth's most happy choir 
Or flashed with Israfel. 


No singer of old story 

Luting accustomed lays, 
No harper for new glory, 

No mendicant for praise. 
He struck high chords and splendid, 
Wherein were fiercely blended 
Tones that unfinished ended 

With his unfinished days. 

Here through this lowly portal, 

Made sacred by his name. 
Unheralded immortal 

The mortal went and came. 
And fate that then denied him. 
And envy that decried him. 
And malice that belied him. 

Have cenotaphed his fame. 


[Will Henry Thompson was born in 1848 at Calhoun, Georgia. 
Like his brother, Maurice Thompson, who has been more widely 
known through his poems and his novels, Will Henry Thompson 
served in the Confederate army, and later engaged in the practice of 
law in Indiana. In 1889 he moved to Seattle, Washington, where he 
has achieved prominence as an attorney. He is noted as an orator, 
and he has written a small amount of poetry of high quality.] 


A cloud possessed the hollow field, 
The gathering battle's smoky shield. 
Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed, 
And through the cloud some horsemen dashed, 
And from the heights the thunder pealed. 


Then at the brief command of Lee 
Moved out that matchless infantry, 
With Pickett leading grandly down, 
To rush against the roaring crown 
Of those dread heights of destiny. 

Far heard above the angry guns 

A cry across the tumult runs, — 

The voice that rang through Shiloh's woods 

And Chickamauga's solitudes, 

The fierce South cheering on her sons I 

Ah, how the withering tempest blew 
Against the front of Pettigrew I 
A Khamsin wind that scorched and singed 
Like that infernal flame that fringed 
The British squares at Waterloo ! 

A thousand fell where Kemper led ; 
A thousand died where Gamett bled : 
In blinding flame and strangling smoke 
The remnant through the batteries broke 
And crossed the works with Armistead. 

" Once more in Glory's van with me ! " 
Virginia cried to Tennessee ; 
" We two together, come what may, 
Shall stand upon these works to-day 1 " 
(The reddest day in history.) 

Brave Tennessee ! In reckless way 
Virginia heard her comrade say : 
" Close round this rent and riddled rag I " 
What time she set her battle flag 
Amid the guns of Doubleday. 


But who shall break the guards that wait 
Before the awful face of Fate ? 
The tattered standards of the South 
Were shriveled at the cannon's mouth, 
And all- her hopes were desolate. 

In vain the Tennesseean set 
His breast against the bayonet I 
In vain Virginia charged and raged, 
A tigress in her wrath uncaged. 
Till all the hill was red and wet ! 

Above the bayonets, mixed and crossed. 
Men saw a gray, gigantic ghost 
Receding through the battle cloud, 
And heard across the tempest loud 
The death cry of a nation lost I 

The brave went down I Without disgrace 
They leaped to Ruin's red embrace. 
They only heard Fame's thunders wake. 
And saw the dazzling sunburst break 
In smiles on Glory's bloody face 1 

They fell, who lifted up a hand 
And bade the sun in heaven to stand I 
They smote and fell, who set the bars 
Against the progress of the stars. 
And stayed the march of Motherland I 

They stood, who saw the future come 
On through the fight's delirium I 
They smote and stood, who held the hope 
Of nations on that slippery slope 
Amid the cheers of Christendom. 


God lives ! He forged the iron will 
That clutched and held that trembling hill. 
God lives and reigns I He built and lent 
The heights for Freedom's battlement 
Where floats her flag in triumph still I 

Fold up the banners ! Smelt the guns I 
Love rules. Her gentler purpose runs. 
A mighty mother turns in tears 
The pages of her battle years, 
Lamenting all her fallen sons ! 


[Samuel Minturn Peck was born in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, in 1 854. 
After graduating from the University of Alabama he studied medicine 
in New York. He began writing about his twenty-fifth year, and has 
collected his poems into several volumes published at various inter- 
vals. He has also written stories collected under the title ** Alabama 


Her dimpled cheeks are pale ; 
She 's a lily of the vale, 

Not a rose. 
In a muslin or a lawn 
She is fairer than the dawn 

To her beaux. 

Her boots are slim and neat, — 
She is vain about her feet 
It is said. 

1 The selections from Samuel Minturn Peck are here reprinted through the 
ermission of the holder of the copyright, Frederick A. Stokes Compmy. 


She amputates her r's, 
But her eyes are like the stars 

On a balcony at night 
With a fleecy cloud of white 

Round her hair — 
Her grace, ah, who could paint ? 
She would fascinate a saint, 

I declare. 

'TiS a matter of regret, 
She 's a bit of a coquette, 

Whom I sing: 
On her cruel path she goes 
With a half a dozen beaux 

To her string. 

But let all that pass by. 
As her maiden moments fly 

Dew empearled ; 
When she marries, on my life, 
She will make the deare^^-" \.i c: 

In the world. 


When I was a boy on the old plantation, 

Down by the deep bayou. 
The fairest spot of all creation, 

Under the arching blue ; 


When the wind came over the cotton and com, 

To the long slim loop I'd spring 
With brown feet bare, and a hat brim torn, 

And swing in the grapevine swing. 

Swinging in the grapevine swing, 
Laughing where the wild birds sing, 

I dream and sigh 

For the days gone by 
Swinging in the grapevine swing. 

Out — o'er the water lilies bonnie and bright, 

Back — to the moss-grown trees ; 
I shouted and laughed with a heart as light 

As a wild rose tossed by the breeze. 
The mocking bird joined in my reckless glee, 

I longed for no angel's wing, 
I was just as near heaven as I wanted to be 

Swinging in the grapevine swing. 

Swinging in the grapevine swing. 
Laughing where the wild birds sing, — 

Oh, to be a boy 

With a heart full of joy. 
Swinging in the grapevine swing I 

I'm weary at noon, I'm weary at night, 

I 'm fretted and sore of heart. 
And care is sowing my locks with white 

As I wend through the fevered mart. 
I'm tired of the world with its pride and pomp, 

And fame seems a worthless thing. 
I'd barter it all for one day's romp, 

And a swing in the grapevine swing. 


Swinging in the grapevine swing, 
Laughing where the wild birds sing, 

I would I were away 

From the world to-dayj 
Swinging in the grapevine swing. 


A miracle of gleaming dyes 

Blue, scarlet, buff and green ; 
O ne'er before by mortal eyes 

Such gorgeous hues were seen 1 
So grandly was its plan designed, 

So cunningly 't was built, 
The whole proclaimed a master mind — 

My Aunt Jemima's quilt. 

Each friendly household far and wide 

Contributed its share ; 
It chronicled the countryside 

In colors quaint and rare. 
From belles and brides came rich brocade 

Enwrought with threads of gilt ; 
E'en buxom widows lent their aid 

To Aunt Jemima's quilt. 

No tapestry from days of yore, 

No web from Orient loom, 
But paled in beauteous tints before 

This strange expanse of bloom. 
Here glittering stars and comet shone 

O'er flowers that never wilt ; 
Here fluttered birds from worlds unknown 

On Aunt Jemima's quilt 


O, merry was the quilting bee, 

When this great quilt was done ; 
The rafters rang with maiden glee, 

And hearts were lost and won. 
Ne'er did a throng of braver men 

In war clash hilt to hilt, 
Than sought the smiles of beauty then 

Round Aunt Jemima's quilt. 

This work of art my aunt esteemed 

The glory of the age ; 
No poet's eyes have ever beamed ^ 

More proudly o'er his page. 
Were other quilt to this compared, 

Her nose would upward tilt ; 
Such impudence was seldom dared 

O'er Aunt Jemima's quilt. 

Her dear old hands have gone to dust. 

That once were lithe and light ; 
Her needles keen are thick with rust. 

That flashed so nimbly bright. 
And here it lies by her behest, 

Stained with the tears we spilt. 
Safe folded in this cedar chest — 

My Aunt Jemima's quilt. 



[William Hamilton Hayne, the son of Paul Hamilton Hayne, 
was born in Charleston, South Carolina, in 1856. He was educated 
mainly at his father's home, " Copse Hill," near Augusta, Georgia. 
Like his father he has devoted himself wholly to literature, begin- 
ning to publish verses in newspapers and magazines in 1879. His 
collected poems were published in 1892 under the title "Sylvan 
Lyrics and Other Verses." Mr. Hayne lives at Augusta, Georgia.] 



O come to the meadow, with me, 
For the lark is hovering high, 

To bathe in the light of the sun 

And the south winds wandering by ! 


A thrush by the rivulet's rim 

Grows gay from the breath of the grass, 

And sings to his sweetheart, the brook. 
That mirrors his love like a glass 1 

O come to the meadow with me — 

Bird-music is gleeful and good 
With Nature's full chorus of winds 

From the wonderful heart of the wood ! 
Forget-me-nots gleam in the grass. 

For the morning is mirthful with love — 
From robins that roam in the glen 

To the palpitant wings of the dove. 

O come to the meadow with me, 

To the rivulet's emerald edge, 
And hear the low lilt of the stream 

Where the dewdrops encircle the sedge ; 
The young leaves look up to the sky. 

And the redbirds come hither to roam — 
They love the brook's lyrical flow 

And its delicate fretwork of foam ! 

O come to the meadow with me 

While the music of morning is heard. 
And the rapture of fetterless song 

Is sent from the heart of a bird ! 
Come hither and wander with me, 

For Nature is breathing of love 
From violets veiled in the grass 

To the tremulous wings of the dove I 




When dogwood brightens the groves of spring 

And the gold of jasmine gleams, 
When mating birds in the forest sing, 

Ah ! that is the time for dreams, 
For thoughts of love that are always new — 

Though as old as the ancient world — 
Forever fresh as the Maytime dew 

In the breast of the rose impearled. 

When timid green on the thorn tree grows — 

Like love at the verge of hate — 
And air from the apple orchard flows 

Through the springtide's open gate. 
When drowsy winds o'er the lilies pass, 

And the wings of the thrush are shy ; 
When violets bloom in the new-bom grass, 

With the tints of a tropic sky ; 

When jonquils borrow the sun's warm ray, 

And the woodbine lures the bee ; 
When the heart that was once a waif and stray 

Returns like a ship from sea — 
Ah ! that is the time that no man grieves 

Who woos with the wooing dove, 
For the hearts of men and the hearts of leaves 

Are throbbing with hope and love I 



[Robert Burns Wilson was bom in Washington County, Pennsyl- 
vania, in 1850. Early in life he became a resident of Frankfort, 
Kentucky. In addition to writing poetry he has studied painting and 
exhibited his pictures with great success. During the later years of 
his life his home was chiefly in New York, where he died in 191 6.] 


Bold, amiable, ebon outlaw, grave and wise I 

For many a good green year hast thou withstood — 

By dangerous, planted field and haunted wood — 

All the devices of thine enemies, 

Gleaning thy grudged breath with watchful eyes 

And self-relying soul. Come ill or good. 

Blithe days thou see'st, thou feather Robin Hood ! 

Thou mak'st a jest of farm-land boundaries. 

Take all thou may'st, and never count it crime 

To rob the greatest robber of the earth, 

Weak-visioned, dull, self-lauding man, whose worth 

Is in his own esteem. Bide thou thy time ; 

Thou know'st far more of Nature's lore than he. 

And her wide lap shall still provide for thee. 


Broad bars of sunset-slanted gold 

Are laid along the field, and here 
The silence sings, as if some old 

Refrain, that once rang long and clear 
Came softly, stealing to the ear 

Without the aid of sound. The rill 
Is voiceless, and the grass is sere, 

But beauty's soul abideth still. 


Trancelike the mellow air doth hold 

The sorrow of the passing year ; 
The heart of Nature groweth cold, 

The time of falling snow is near ; 
On phantom feet, which none may hear. 

Creeps — with the shadow of the hill — 
The semblance of departed cheer. 

But beauty's soul abideth still. 

The dead, gray-clustered weeds enfold 

The well-known summer path, and drear 
The dusking hills, like billows rolled 

Against the distant sky, appear. 
From lonely haunts, where Night and Fear 

Keep ghostly tryst, when mists are chill, 
The dark pine lifts a jagged spear. 

But beauty's soul abideth still. 


Dear love, the days that once were dear 

May come no more : life may fulfill 
Her fleeting dreams with many a tear. 

But beauty's soul abideth still. 


i^rank Lebby Stanton was born in Charleston, South Carolina, in 
7. He has served various newspapers, but seems finally to have 
dated himself with the Atlanta Constitution, To this paper he 
for several years past contributed a column daily of verses and 
t sketches. In this way his poems have become familiar to 
spaper readers and are widely popular.] 



I )e gray owl sing f um de chimbly top : 

" Who — who — is — you-oo ? " 
En I say : " Good Lawd, hit 's des po* me, 
En I ain't quite ready fer de Jasper Sea ; 
Pm po' en sinful, en you lowed I'd be ; 

Oh, wait, good Lawd, 'twell ter-morror." 

De gray owl sing f um de cypress tree : 

" Who — who — is — you-oo ? " 
En I say : " Good Lawd, if you look you 11 see 

Hit ain't nobody but des po' me, 
En I like ter stay *twell my time is free ; 

Oh, wait, good Lawd, 'twell ter-morror." 


In the white moonlight, where the willow waves, 
He halfway gallops among the graves — 
A tiny ghost in the gloom and gleam. 
Content to dwell where dead men dream. 

But wary still I 
For they plot him ill ; 
For the graveyard rabbit hath a charm 
(May God defend us !) to shield from harm. 

Over the shimmering slab he goes — 
Every grave in the dark he knows ; 
But his nest is hidden from human eye 
Where headstones broken on old graves lie. 


Wary stiU 1 
For they plot him ill ; 
For the graveyard rabbit, though sceptics scoff, 
Charmeth the witch and the wizard off I 

The black man creeps, when the night is dim. 
Fearful, still, on the track of him ; 
Or fleetiy follows the way he runs. 
For he heals the hurts of conjured ones. 

Wary still I 
For they plot him ill ; 
The soul 's bewitched that would find release, — 
To the graveyard rabbit go for peace I 

He holds their secret — he brings a boon 
Where winds moan wild in the dark of the moon ; 
And gold shall glitter and love smile sweet 
To whoever shall sever his furry feet I 

Wary still I 
For they plot him ill ; 
For the graveyard rabbit hath a charm 
(May God defend us 1) to shield from harm. 


This one fought with Jackson, and faced the fight with Lee ; 
That one followed Sherman as he galloped to the sea ; 
But they are marchin* on together just as friendly as can be, 
And they 11 answer to the roll call in the momin*. 

They '11 rally to the fight 
In the stormy day and night, 
In bonds that no cruel fate shall sever; 


Wliile the stonnwinds waft on hi^ 
Their ringing battle-cry : 
"Our country, — our country forever I" 

The brave old flag above them is rippling down its red, — 
Each crimson stripe the emblem of the blood by heroes shed ; 
It shall wave for them victorious or droop above them, — dead, 
For they '11 answer to the roll call in the momin'. 

They 11 rally to the fight 

In the stormy day and n^t, 
In bonds that no cruel fate shall sever ; 

While the stormwinds waft on high 

Their ringing battlcK^ ; 
" Our country, — our country forever I " 

[Madison Julius Cawein was bom in Louisville, Kentucky, i 
1865. After graduating from the 
high school of that city, he engaged 
in buuness, but found time for the 
writing of poetry and the study of 
literature. His first volume of verse, 
" Blooms of the Berry," published 
in 1887, made but little impression 
until, in 1888, Mr. W. D. Howells 
praised it in the " Editor's Study " 
of Harper's Magazine. This drew 
attention to Cawein 's work, and 
gradually his circle of admirers was 
enlarged. In all, Cawein published 
some twenty columns of poems, the t*'' m 
best of which he collected toward 
the close of his life in a volume 
entitled " Selected Poems." He 
died in Louisville in 1914.] madison JULIUS C&wein 



Above long woodland ways that led 
To dells the stealthy twilights tread, 
The west was hot geranium-red ; 

And still, and still, 
Along old lanes, the locusts sow 
With clustered curls the Maytimes know, 
Out of the crimson afterglow. 
We heard the homeward cattle low. 
And then the far-off, far-off woe 

Of " whippoorwill ! " of " whippoorwill I " 

Beneath the idle beechen boughs 
We heard the cowbells of the cows 
Come slowly jangling toward the house, 

And still, and still. 
Beyond the light that would not die 
Out of the scarlet-haunted sky. 
Beyond the evening starts white eye 
Of glittering chalcedony, 
Drained out of dusk the plaintive cry 

Of " whippoorwill 1 " of '* whippoorwill I " 

What is there in the moon, that swims 
A naked bosom o'er the limbs. 
That all the wood with magic dims ? 

While still, while still. 
Among the trees whose shadows grope 
Mid ferns and flowers the dewdrops ope, — 
Lost in faint deeps of heliotrope 
Above the clover-scented slope, — 
Retreats, despairing past all hope, 

The whippoorwill, the whippoorwill 



From out the hills where twilight stands, 
Above the shadowy pasture^lands, 

With strained and strident cry, 
Beneath pale skies that sunset bands. 
The bull bats fly. 

A cloud hangs over, strange of shape, 
And, colored like the half-ripe grape. 

Seems some uneven stain 
On heaven's azure, thin as crape, 
And blue as rain. 

Byways, that sunset's sardonyx 
O'erflares, and gates the farm-boy dicks, 

Through which the cattle came. 
The mullein's stalks seem giant wicks 
Of downy flame. 

From woods no glimmer enters in. 
Above the streams that, wandering, win 

From out the violet hills. 
Those haunters of the dusk begin, 
The whippoorwills. 

Adown the dark the firefly marks 
Its flight in golden-emerald sparks ; 
And, loosened from its chain, 
The shaggy watchdog bounds and barks, 
And barks again. 


Each breeze brings scents of hill-heaped hay ; 
And now an owlet, far away, 

Cries twice or thrice, " T-o-o-w-h-0-0- " ; 
And cool dim moths of mottled gray 
Flit through the dew. 

The silence sounds its frog-bassoon. 
Where, on the woodland creek's lagoon, 

Pale as a ghostiy girl 
Lost 'mid the trees, looks down the moon, 
With face of pearL 

Within the shed where logs, late hewed. 
Smell forest-sweet, and chips of wood 
Make blurs of white and brown. 
The brood-hen huddles her warm brood 
Of teetering down. 

The clattering guineas in the tree 
Din for a time ; and quietly 

The henhouse, near the fence. 
Sleeps, save for some brief rivalry 
Of cocks and hens. 

A cowbell tinkles by the rails, 

Where, streaming white in foaming pails, 

Milk makes an uddery sound ; 
While overhead the black bat trails 
Around and round. 

The night is still. The slow cows chew 
A drowsy cud. The bird that flew 

And sang is in its nest. 
It is the time of falling dew, 

Of dreams and rest 


The brown bees sleep ; and round the walk, 
The garden path, from stalk to stalk 

The bungling beetle booms, 
Where two soft shadows stand and talk 
Among the blooms. 

The stars are thick ; the light is dead 
That dyed the west ; and Drowsyhead, 

Tuning his cricket-pipe. 
Nods, and some apple, round and red, 
Drops overripe. 

Now down the road, that shambles by, 
A window, shining like an eye 

Through climbing rose and gourd, 
Shows where Toil sups and these things lie — 
His heart and hoard. 


[John Charles McNeill was born in Scotland County, North 
Carolina, in 1874. After graduating from Wake Forest College, 
he practiced law in Lumberton, North Carolina, for some time. 
Later he accepted a position on the staff of the Charlotte, North 
Carolina, Observer^ and devoted his entire time to writing until his 
death, in 1907. Though he published only two small collections 
of verse, yet these were sufficient to show that he was lemarkaUy 
gifted as a poet.] 


'T will not be long before they hear 

The bull bat on the hill. 
And in the valley through the dusk 

The pastoral whippoorwilL 

1 The selections from McNeill are published here through the penniMioD of 
the holder of cop3rright, The Stonc-Barringer Publishing Co. 


A few more friendly suns will call 
The bluets through the loam 

And star the lanes with buttercups 
Away down home. 


" Knee-deep 1 " from reedy places 

Will sing the river frogs. 
The terrapins will sun themselves 

On all the jutting logs. 
The angler's cautious oar will leave 

A trail of drifting foam 
Along the shady current 

Away down home. 

The mocking bird will feel again 

The glory of his wings, 
And wanton through the balmy air 

And sunshine while he sings, 


With a new cadence in his call, 
The glint-winged crow will roam 

From field to newly furrowed field 
Away down home. 

When dogwood blossoms mingle 

With the maples* modest red, 
And sweet arbutus wakes at last 

From out her winter's bed, 
'T would not seem strange at all to meet 

A dryad or a gnome, 
Or Pan or Psyche in the woods 

Away down home. 

Then come with me, thou weary heart I 

Forget thy brooding ills. 
Since God has come to walk among 

His valleys and his hills. 
The mart will never miss thee, 

Nor the scholar's dusty tome. 
And the Mother waits to bless thee, 

Away down home. 


Upon a gnarly, knotty limb 
That fought the current's crest, 

Where shocks of reeds peeped o'er the brim, 
Wild wasps had glued their nest. 

And in a sprawling cypress' grot, 

Sheltered and safe from flood. 
Dirt-daubers each had chosen a spot 

To shape his house of mud. 


In a warm crevice of the bark 

A basking scorpion clung, 
With bright blue tail and red-rimmed eyes, 

And yellow, twinkling tongue. 

A lunging trout flashed in the sun, 

To do some petty slaughter, 
And set the spiders all a-run 

On little stilts of water. 

Toward noon upon the swamp there stole 

A deep, cathedral hush. 
Save where, from sun-splotched bough and bole, 

Sweet thrush replied to thrush. 

An angler came to cast his fly 

Beneath a baffling tree. 
I smiled, when I had caught his eye. 

And he smiled back at me. 

When stretched beside a shady elm 

I watched the dozy heat, 
Nature was moving in her realm. 

For I could hear her feet 


The girls all like to see the bluets in the lane 

And the saucy Johnny Jump-ups in the meadow, 
But we boys, we want to see the dogwood blooms again 

Throwin^ a sort of summer-lookin* shadow ; 
For the very first mild momin' when the woods are white 

(And we need n't even ask a soul about it) 
We leave our shoes right where we pulled them off at night, 

And, barefooted once again, we run and shout it : 


You may take the country over — 
When the bluebird turns a rover, 
And the wind is soft and hazy, 
And you feel a little lazy. 
And the hunters quit the possums — 
It 's the time for dogwood blossoms. 

We feel so light we wish there were more fences here ; 

We 'd like to jump and jump them, all together ! 
No seeds for us, no guns, or even *simmon beer, 
No nothin' but the blossoms and fair weather I 
The meadow is a little sticky right at first, 

But a few short days '11 wipe away that trouble. 
To feel so good and gay, I would n't mind the worst 
That could be done by any field o' stubble. 
O, all the trees are seemin' sappy I 
O, all the folks are smilin' happy I . 
And there 's joy in every little bit of room ; 
But the happiest of them all 
At the Shanghai rooster's call 
Are we barefoots when the dogwoods burst abloom I 


Hills, wrapped in gray, standing alone in the west ; 

Clouds, dimly lighted, gathering slowly ; 
The star of peace at watch above the crest — 

Oh, holy, holy, holy I 

We know, O Lord, so little what is best ; 

Wingless, we move so lowly ; 
But in thy calm all-knowledge let us rest — 

Oh, holy, holy, holy I 



[Walter Malone was born in De Soto County, Mississippi, in 1 866. 
After graduating from the University of Mississippi, he began the 
practice of law, in which he was very successful. In 1905 he was 
appointed judge. His home was in Memphis, Tennessee, with the 
exception of the years from 1897 to 1900, during which he was 
engaged in literary pursuits in New York City. He published several 
volumes of poetry, most of the earlier volumes being published in 
1904 in a collective edition entitled " Poems." He died in Memphis 
in 191 5.] 


Far, far away, beyond the hazy height, 

The turquois skies are hung in dreamy sleep ; 

Below, the fields of cotton, fleecy-white, 
Are spreading like a mighty flock of sheep. 

Now, like Aladdin of the days of old, 

October robes the weeds in purple gowns ; 

He sprinkles all the sterile fields with gold. 
And all the rustic trees wear royal crowns. 

The straggling fences all are interlaced 

With pink and azure morning-glory blooms, 

The starry asters glorify the waste, 

While grasses stand on guard with pikes and plumes. 

Yet still amid the splendor of decay 

The chill winds call for blossoms that are dead, 

The cricket chirps for sunshine passed away. 
And lovely summer songsters that have fled. 

And lonesome in a haunt of vdthered vines, 
Amid the flutter of her withered leaves, 

Pale Summer for her perished kingdom pines, 
And all the glories of her golden sheaves. 


In vain October wooes her to remain 
Within the palace of his scarlet bowers, 

Entreats her to forget her heartbreak pain, 
And weep no more about her faded flowers. 

At last November, like a conqueror, comes 
To storm the golden city of his foe ; 

We hear his rude winds, like the roll of drums. 
Bringing their desolation and their woe. 

The sunset, like a vast vermilion flood. 
Splashes its giant glowing waves on high. 

The forest flames with foliage red as blood, 
A conflagration sweeping to the sky. 

Then all the treasures of that brilliant state 
Are gathered in a mighty funeral pyre ; 

October, like a king resigned to fate. 
Dies in his forests, with their sunset fire. 



There was a young man who lived in our town, 

His given name was William ; 
He was taken sick, and very sick, 

And death was in his dwelling. 

It was the merry month of May, 
When the green buds were swelling. 

Sweet William on his deathbed lay 
For the love of Barbara Allen. 


He sent his servant down in town ; 

He went into her dwelling : 
" My master 's sick, and sent for you, 

If your name be Barbara Allen." 

And slowly, slowly did she rise, 

And slowly she went to him, 
And all she said when she got there, 

" Young man, I think you are dying." 

** Oh, yes, Vm sick, I'm very sick, 

And death is with me, darling, 
m die, I '11 die, I HI surely die. 

If I don't get Barbara Allen." 

" Oh, yes, you are sick, and very sick, 

And death is in your dwelling ; 
You '11 die, you '11 die, you '11 surely die. 

For you will never get Barbara Allen. 

" Remember on last Wednesday night 

When we were at a wedding, 
You passed your wine to the girls all around 

And slighted Barbara Allen." 

He turned his pale face to the wall. 

He turned his back upon her : 
'* Adieu, adieu to the friends all around. 

And adieu to Barbara Allen." 

She had not got ten miles from town, 
When she heard a swamp bird singing ; 

And every time the swamp bird sung 
Was woe to Barbara Allen. 


She had not got three miles from town, 
When she heard a death bell ringing, 

And in her ear it seemed to say, 
'' Hard-hearted Barbara Allen." 

She looked to the east, and she looked to the west, 
And she saw his corpse a-coming ; 

" I could have saved that young man's life 
By giving him Barbara Allen I " 

" O mother, O mother, go make my bed, 

Make it of tears and sorrow ; 
Sweet William died for me to-day, 

And I will die for him to-morrow. 

" O father, O father, go dig my grave, 

Dig it deep and narrow ; 
Sweet William died for true love's sake, 

And I shall die of sorrow." 

Sweet William died on Saturday night, 

And Barbara died on Sunday ; 
Her mother died for the love of both 

And was buried alone on Monday. 

Sweet William was buried in the new churchyard, 

And Barbara beside him : 
And out of his grave sprang a lily-white rose. 

And out of hers a briar. 


Lord Thomas, he was a bold forester, 

And a chaser of the king's deer. 
Fair Eleanor, she was a brave woman^ 

Lord Thomas, he loved her dear ! 


" Now, riddle my riddle, dear Mother," he cried, 

" And riddle it all into one : 
For whether to many the Fair Eleanor, 

Or to bring you the Brown Giri home ? " 

" The Brown Girl, she hath both houses and lands, 

Fair Eleanor, she hath none : 
Therefore I charge you, upon my blessing. 

To bring me the Brown Girl home I " 

He clothed himself in gallant attire. 

His merrymen all in green. 
And every borough that he rode through. 

They took him to be some king. 

And when he reached Fair Eleanor's bower. 

He knocked thereat, therein, 
And who so ready as Fair Eleanor 

To let Lord Thomas in ? 

" What news ? What news. Lord Thomas ? " she cried, 

" What news dost thou bring unto me ? " 
" I come to bid thee to my wedding. 

And that is sad news for thee I " 

" Now Heaven forbid. Lord Thomas," she cried, 

" That any such thing should be done I 
I thought to have been, myself, thy bride. 

And thou to have been the bridegroom 1 " 

" Now, riddle my riddle, dear Mother," she cried, 

" And riddle it all into one : 
For whether to go to Lord Thomas's wedding. 

Or whether I tarry at home ? " 


" There be many that be thy friend, Daughter, 

But a thousand be thy foe : 
Therefore I charge thee, upon my blessing, 

To Lord Thomas's wedding don't go ! " 

" There be many that be my friend. Mother, 

Though a thousand be my foe : 
So, betide my life, betide my death. 

To Lord Thomas's wedding I '11 go I " 

She decked herself in gallant attire. 

Her tiremen all in green, 
And every borough that she rode through, 

They took her to be some queen. 

And when she reached Lord Thomas's door, 

She knocked thereat, therein. 
And who so ready as Lord Thomas 

To let Fair Eleanor in ? 

^^ Be this your bride, Lord Thomas ? " she cried, 
" Methinks she looks wondrous brown I 

Thou mightest have had as fair a woman 
As ever the sun shone on I " 

" Despise her not, Fair Ellen ! " he cried. 

" Despise her not unto me I 
For better I love thy little finger 

Than all of her whole body I " 

The Brown Girl, she had a little penknife, 

Which was both long and sharp. 
And between the broad ribs and the short, 

She pierced Fair Eleanor's heart ! 


O art thou blind, Lord Thomas ? " she cried, 
Or canst thou not plainly see 
My own heart's blood run trickling down, 
Run trickling down to my knee ? " 

Lord Thomas, he had a sword at his side. 

And as he walked up the hall, 
He cut the bride's head from her shoulders. 

And flung it against the wall I 

He placed the hilt against the ground, 

The point against his heart I 
So never three lovers together did meet, 

And sooner again did part ! 

They buried Fair Ellen beneath an oak tree. 

Lord Thomas beneath the church spire. 
And out of her bosom there grew a red rose. 

And out of her lover's a briar ! 


They grew and grew, till they reached the church top, 
They grew till they reached the church spire. 

And there they entwined, in a true lover's knot, 
For true lovers all to admire ! 


" Hangman, hangman, howd yo hand, 

O howd it wide and far ! 
For theer I see my father cooming 

Riding through the air. 

" Father, father, ha yo brought me goold ? 

Ha yo paid my fee ? 
Or ha yo coom to see me hung 

Beneath the hangman's tree ? " 


" I ha naw brought yo goold, 

I ha naw paid yo fee, 
But I ha coom to see yo hung 

Beneath the hangman's tree." 

" Hangman, hangman, howd yo hand, 

howd it wide and far I 

For theer I see my mother cooming 
Riding through the air. 

'' Mother, mother, ha yo brought me goold ? 

Ha yo paid my fee ? 
Or ha yo coom to see me hung 

Beneath the hangman's tree ? " 

'* I ha naw brought yo goold, 

1 ha naw paid yo fee. 

But I ha coom to see yo hung 
Beneath the hangman's tree." 

" Hangman, hangman, howd yo hand, 

howd it wide and far I 

For theer I see my sister cooming 
Riding through the air. 

" Sister, sister, ha yo brought me goold ? 

Ha yo paid my fee ? 
Or ha yo coom to see me hung 

Beneath the hangman's tree ? " 

*^ I ha naw brought yo goold, 

1 ha naw paid yo fee, 

I^ut I ha coom to see yo hung 
Beneath the hangman's tree." 


" Hangman, hangman, howd yo hand, 

O howd it wide and far ! 
For theer I see my sweetheart cooming 

Riding through the air. 

'' Sweetheart, sweetheart, ha yo brought me goold ? 

Ha yo paid my fee ? 
Or ha yo coom to see me hung 

Beneath the hangman's tree?" 

*' Oh, I ha brought yo goold, 

And I ha paid yo fee, 
And I ha coom to take yo f room 

Beneath the hangman's tree." 


There was a lady fair and gay. 

And children she had three : 
She sent them away to some northern land, 

For to learn their grameree. 

They had n't been gone but a very short time, 

About three months to a day. 
When sickness came unto that land 

And swept those babies away. 

There is a King in the heavens above 

That wears a golden crown : 
She prayed that He would send her babies home 

To-night or in the morning soon. 

It was about one Christmas time. 

When the night was long and cool, 
She dreamed of her three little lonely babes 

Come running in their mother's room. 


The table was fixed and the cloth was spread, 

And on it put bread and wine : 
" Come sit you down, my three little babes. 

And eat and drink of mine." 

" We will neither eat your bread, dear mother. 
Nor we '11 neither drink your wine ; 

For to our Saviour we must return 
To-night or in the morning soon." 

The bed was fixed in the back room ; 

On it was some clean white sheet. 
And on the top was a golden cloth. 

To make those little babies sleep. 

** Wake up I wake up 1 " says the oldest one, 

" Wake up I its almost day. 
And to our Saviour we must return 

To-night or in the morning soon. 

" Green grass grows at our head, dear mother. 

Green moss grows at our feet ; 
The tears that you shed for us three babes. 

Won't wet our winding sheet" 


George Collins rode home one cold winter night, 

George Collins rode home so fine, 
George Collins rode home one cold winter night, 

He taken sick and died. 


A fair young lady in her father's house 

A-sewing her silk so fine 
And when she heard that George was dead 

She threw it down and cried. 

" O daughter, don't weep I O daughter, don't mourn ! 

There are more boys than one." 
" O mother dear ! he has my heart, 

And now he 's dead and gone. 


The happiest hours I ever spent 
Were when I was by his side ; 
The saddest news I ever heard 
Was when George Collins died." 

She followed him up, she followed him down ; 

She followed him to his grave, 
And there she fell on her bended knees ; 

She wept ; she mourned ; she prayed. 

" Unscrew the coffin ; lay back the lid ; 

Roll down the linen so fine ; 
And let me kiss his cold pale lips, 

For I know he will never kiss mine." 







Although the limits placed upon this volume preclude selections 
from the colonial writers of the South, yet some account of their work 
is a necessary introduction to the later literature. From the earliest 
days of the Virginia colony there was considerable activity in writing. 
The first book written in Virginia, though published away, was Captain 
John Smith's "A True Relation of Virginia," written in 1608. A later 
book, written during his stay in Virginia, was entitled ** A Map of Vir- 
ginia." Both of these books were descriptive of the country and the 
Indians, and as the writer was a keen observer and a graphic narrator, 
his accounts are interesting. In 1610 William Strachey, secretary of 
the Virginia colony, wrote at Jamestown and sent to London for publi- 
cation his " A True Repertory of the Wrack and Redemption of Sir 
Thomas Gates, Knight, upon and from the Islands of the Burmudas." 
This was an account of the disaster by a member of the expedition that 
accompanied Sir Thomas Gates, and is memorable for a vivid descrip- 
tion of a storm at sea. It is commctnly thought that this book may have 
been a source of suggestion to Shakespeare for the opening incident 
of his play " The Tempest," there being interesting parallels between 
the two accounts. The earliest poetry written in Virginia was a transla- 
tion of ten books of Ovid's " Metamorphoses," made by George Sandys 
during his stay in the colony as its treasurer. But these writers may 
hardly be claimed as American writers. As a matter of fact, they were 
Englishmen, who eventually went back to their English home, writing 
for Englishmen in order to describe what they had seen and felt in the 
new country. 

It seems, therefore, on the whole more fitting to place the beginning 
of literature in the South at the time when native-bom writers began to 



write for their countrymen and to take for their subject matter local 
history, politics, and conditions. One of the first evidences of a growth 
of national consciousness was the popular uprising of 1676 known as 
Bacon's Rebellion. This gave to the people a national hero and a 
realization of independence of England, not only geographically, but 
politically. From this event the colonists beg^n to talk of Virginia as 
their mother state. The literature that was produced in the hundred 
years following Bacon's Rebellion bears strong traces of this new spirit 
While much of it continued to be of a descriptive and historical char- 
acter, yet a good deal of it was of a political kind inspired by local or 
intercolonial disputes. Virginia produced more of this literature than 
any other colony, but in the course of time other colonies, such as 
Maryland, North Carolina, South Carolina, and Georgia, made their 

In the anonymous Burwell Papers an account is given of the first great 
thrill in colonial life — Bacon's Rebellion. In Colonel William Byrd 
one discovers the most sprightly and interesting writer in the colonies 
before Franklin. In Robert Beverley one perceives the country gentle- 
man interested not only in his plantation but interested also in its past 
history and its present economic and social conditions. These are but 
a few of the more readable of those who illustrate the awakened interest 
in local life. As might be expected these writers imitated in their style 
and literary methods the writers of England. In the eighteenth century 
the periodical essays of Addison and Steele had set the fashion for a 
type of light and delicately neat prose, and it is possible that Southern 
writers would have gone on to a literature of manners and customs that 
would have approached the observant, personal, and quaintly humorous 
manner of TTie Tatler, The Spectator^ and other essays of the same kind. 
But the great political questions connected with the Revolution even- 
tually absorbed the intellectual life of the Southern colonists. The stress 
of these events did not produce much that could, in the narrower sense 
of the term, be called literature, but in the writings of the time there is 
such a vivid reflection of what the people were thinking and feeling 
that the words of orators and political writers have the imaginative lift 
of literature. Men like Richard Henry Lee and Patrick Henry, among 
the orators, and Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, and George Wash- 
ington, among the political writers, were some of those who produced 
contributions that it is difficult to avoid calling literature. 

NOTES 475 


Following the Revolution came the great material development of 
the country, and in connection with this a great intellectual and literary 
development in the Northern states. But in the South the social and 
economic conditions continued to be those of a rural aristocracy based 
on slavery. While such a life was full of graciousness'and hospitality 
and all the high social virtues that come of a feudal aristocracy, it 
nevertheless tended towards conservatism and individualism. These 
qualities ^operated strongly in the interval between the Revolution and 
the Civil War to make the country gentleman of the South desire to 
have things remain as they were politically and economically. They also 
made him see intensely the claims of his own state and section to the 
exclusion of others, such a feeling culminating in the doctrine of state 
rights. ^Another marked condition in Southern life in this period was 
a stunting pr>-ty**rfy ^f popular e<;ivratinn. The children of rich families 
had private tutors and were able to attend college, but the great mass 
of the common people were without the most rudimentary education. 

Such conditions Jended to retard intellectual and literary develop- 
ment. When the North was producing the Knickerbocker school, 
represented by Irving, Bryant, and Cooper, and the New England 
group of writers among whom were Hawthorne and Emerson, the 
South was, comparatively speaking, producing a meager amount of 
literature. But the chief cause of lack of literary development in the 
old South was that the South expended its intellectual life in oratory 
at the county courthouse or the state capitol or the halls of Congress. 
Such notable names and interesting personalities as Pinckney, Walsh, 
Houston, Preston, Randolph, Clay, Calhoun, Benton, .and Hayne be- 
long to the group of antebellum orators and statesmen. 

The orators of the old South have not been excelled in our national history. 
They were clever debaters on the science and art of statecraft. They diligently 
studied public questions, they had read the classic orators, and they constructed 
their speeches on the best models of that ancient art. In these old Southern 
statesmen the finest tradition of the school of Burke and Pitt and Fox still lived. 
Thus the energy of the most gifted men was spent on political discussion ; the 
^ old-time Southerner was a politician by instinct and training, and his ambition 
was political. To him the spoken word was more than the written word. Con- 
sequently he sought preferment at the bar, on the bench, in the forum, and not 
in the world of letters.! 

1 Metcalf, " American Literature," page 257. 


Essayists and Descriptive Writers 

It is strange that the South, with its fondness for the literature of 
the eighteenth century, did not produce more essayists, especially after 
the manner of Addison and Steele's The Toiler and T^e Spectator, 
As it is, William Wirt is almost the only writer of this form. Others, 
however, have left, incidentally to other purposes, as the selections 
below from Crockett, Audubon, and Elliott show, vivid descriptions 
of certain phases of Southern life. 


This and the following selection have been taken from Wirt*s 
"Letters of the British Spy." This book of essays pretended to be 
copies of letters written by a young Englishman of rank, during a tour 
of the United States, to a member of the English Parliament The 
letters presented, in the leisurely eighteenth-century fashion of Addison, 
geographical descriptions, delineations of public men, moral and politi- 
cal discussions, and literary views. The value of the book to the pres- 
ent generation lies chiefly in the fact that it shows how the eighteenth 
century ruled in the mind of a Southerner at the beginning of the 
nineteenth century. 

The British Spy's Opinion of The Spectator (Page i) 

The spectator: the series of periodical essays written by Addison 
and Steele. — Bacon: Francis Bacon, the English philosopher and 
statesman of the Elizabethan age. — Boyle: Robert Boyle, a noted 
English scientific and philosophical writer of the seventeenth century. 

Q UESTiONs. I . What literary ideals does the writer approve ? 2. Were 
these ideals passing away in England and in other sections of the 
United States while surviving in the South ? 

An Old Virginia Preacher (Page 4) 

The preacher is said to have been Rev. James Waddell, a noted ^ 
Presbyterian preacher of Virginia who in his latter years was blind. 

Orange : a county in Virginia. 

Qtrstions. I. Describe the preacher and his preaching. 2. Has the 
South been noted for the production of preachers of exceptional power? 

NOTES 477 


This selection is from "The Life of David Crockett by Himself" — 
an autobiography written in order to correct false impressions about 
the writer. After Crockett's election to Congress his eccentricities of 
dress and manner made him a notable figure in Washington, and a 
publisher seized the occasion to issue, in 1834, an anonymous book 
entitled " Sketches and Eccentricities of Colonel David Crockett," 
without the latter's approval. To correct the impressions of this book, 
Crockett, now nearing fifty, set to work to write the story of his life 
and produced a book which, in spite of literary deficiencies, is one of 
the most racy and amusing books of its kind. His achievement is all 
the more remarkable because he did not learn to write until, when 
nearly thirty, an appointment as justice of the peace compelled him 
to do so in a degree sufficient to keep his records and to draw legal 
papers. Bear hunts, Indian fights, and other thrilling adventures make 
up the contents of the book, and in spite of inelegancies of expression 
it gives a good picture of pioneer life. 

The Bear Hunt (Page 8) 

harricane: canebrake. — cracks: caused by earthquakes. 
Question. What methods, according to this selection, were em- 
ployed in hunting bears ? 


This selection is from the journal in which Audubon recorded not 
merely details relating to his scientific interests, but many adventures 
and sketches of the country and its inhabitants in the secti6ns visited 
by him. 

Early Settlers along the Mississippi (Page 14) 

The scene of this sketch is the swamps of Louisiana, which in 
Audubon's time were very sparsely settled. 

Questions, i. What causes induced the squatters to leave their 
homes .^ 2. How did they travel."* 3. What obstacles did they over- 
come in their new homes ? 4. What qualities caused them to prosper ? 
5. Has the South retained or lost such qualities among its white 
working classes ? 



Elliott's "Carolina Sports by Land and Water," from which this 
selection is taken, belongs to the type of literature of which Izaak Wal- 
ton's "The Complete Angler" is the undisputed head. Elliott's book is 
in two parts : the first gives interesting narratives of the author's adven- 
tures in connection with fishing ; the second is devoted to experiences 
in hunting wildcats, deer, and other game. The setting for it was the 
coastal section of South Carolina southeast of Charleston. 

A Deer Hunt (Page 19) 

malice prepense : premeditated malice. 

Questions, i. What details regarding the hunting of deer does this 
selection give? 2. How is vividness secured in the account.^ 

Other Essayists and Descriptive Writers. Worthy of mention but impossible 
of representation in this volume are the following writers : Soitth Carolina . Hugh 
Swinton Legare (1797-1843), Henry J. Nott (1797-1837), Caroline Howard Gil- 
man (1794-1888), Louisa Susannah McCord (1810-1879) > Alabama: Octavia 
Walton LeVert (1810-1877). 

Romancers and Story Writers 

The writing of romantic fiction in the old South was centered mainly 
in the fifteen years between 1835 and 1850. This was the period of ex- 
pansion for the South in two directions. In the region of ideas many 
great questions were coming to the front for settlement, and in the field 
of material conquest the settlement of the rich Southwest was going 
on. Under the stimulus of these conditions men beg^an to realize the 
wealth of material in Southern history and traditions, and began to 
work it into fiction. 

The spirit in which this work was done was imitative of what was 
being done in fiction in England and in the New England States. In 
England, under the influence of the romantic movement, the novel had 
developed into the romance of historical imagination represented by 
Scott's Waverley series. In New England, fiction began toward the end 
of the eighteenth century and followed the tendencies of fiction in 
England, until its early development culminated in the romances of 
Cooper, who practically created the American frontier story and the 
American historical novel. The success of Cooper's work stiimiUted 

NOTES 479 

writers in the South to follow in his footsteps, and rapidly romances of 
the same general type, with Southern incidents as their basis, came into 
existence. The foremost antebellum writers of fiction in the South 
were Poe, Simms, Kennedy, and Cooke. Of these the last three are to 
be grouped together as representing the interest in writing historical 
romances. Poe stands apart from these in the methods and ideals 
followed in his tales. 


It has been so long popular to think of Poe as " a world artist, unre- 
lated to his local origin, unindebted to it," that it may seem almost 
absurd to look for any representation of Southern life in Poe's stories. 
Nevertheless, so distinguished a critic as Professor Woodberry holds 
that Poe is as much a product of the South as Whittier was of New 
England. As he puts it, " His breeding and education were Southern ; 
his manners, habits of thought, and moods of feeling were Southern ; 
his sentimentalism, his conception of womanhood and its qualities, of 
manhood and its behavior, his weaknesses of character, have the stamp 
of his origin ; his temperament, even his sensibilities, his gloom and 
dream, his response to color and music, were of his race and place." 

The Fall of the House of Usher (Page 28) 

This story, first published in 1839, is generally accepted as, from 
the point of view of craftsmanship, Poe's finest tale. 

ennuye : wearied, bored. — Von Weber : A German composer of the 
late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. — Fuseli : a Swiss artist 
who lived from 1742 to 1825, and who painted a series of imaginative 
pictures illustrating Shakespeare and Milton. — '*The Haunted Pal- 
ace" : the allegorical significance is plainly hinted at. The word Por- 
phywgene in line 22 of the poem on page 38 is formed from two Greek 
words, meaning " purple " and ** begotten " ; hence bom in the purple, 

Watson, etc. : these are the names of obscure scientists, more prom- 
inent in Poe's day than in the present. — Satyrs and JBgipans: in 
classical mythology the satyrs were creatures with the body of a man 
and the feet, hair, and horns of a goat ; agipans is an epithet of Pan, the 
satyr-like rural god. — Gothic : the black-letter type of the Middle Ages. 
— VigUiiB Mortuorum, etc.: ** Vigils for the Dead according to the 


Choir of the Church of Mayence." — '*Mad Tri«t" of Sir Launcelot 
Canning : no book with this title is known, and the title was undoubt- 
edly coined by Poe and the quotations invented by Lim to fit the 

Questions, i. What effect does Poe evidently seek to produce in 
this story? 2. Show whether the parts are skillfully related to one 
another and to the whole. 3. In what respects is the story character- 
istic of the South ? 4. Can the description of Usher be taken as self- 
portraiture on Poe's part ? 


These selections are taken from " Swallow Bam, or a Sojourn in the 
Old Dominion," published in 1832. The author's design was to present 
sketches descriptive of country life in Virginia, in a series of letters 
supposed to be written by Mark Littleton to a friend in New York, giv- 
ing his impressions of a Virginia home which he is visiting. So desul- 
tory is the book in its manner that it can hardly be called a novel. Its 
best description is in the words of the preface, ^* a series of detached 
sketches linked together by the hooks and eyes of a traveler's notes . . . 
and may be described as variously and interchangeably partaking of the 
complexion of a book of travel, a diary, a collection of letters, a drama, 
and a history." Nevertheless, the author has succeeded in presenting 
a full picture of life in the old homesteads on the James River. 

Selections from " Swallow Barn " 
Swallow Barn, an old Virginia Estate (Page 50) 

chevaitx-de-frise : a contrivance consisting of pieces of timber with 

spikes of iron used to defend a passage. 

The Mistress of Swallow Barn (Page 57) 
tertian : an intermittent fever which returns every three days. 

Traces of the Feudal System (Page 59) 

rod of Aaron: the wonder-working rod used by Moses and Aaron. 
See T>iblc, Book of Exodus. — Mr. Chub: a parson who has charge 
of the school on the Meriwether estate. — Mr. Burke: the celebrated 
English orator and statesman of the eighteenth century. — Sip: the 
thirteen-year-old son of the Meriwethers. 

NOTES 481 

The Quarter (Page 64) 

chapeau de bras : a type of military helmet. 

Questions, i. What is said of the house, Swallow Bam.^ 2. What of 
the surrounding buildings ? 3. How extensive was the estate ? 4. What 
were the products of the plantation ? 5. Describe the appearance and 
character of the owner, Frank Meriwether; of Mrs. Meriwether. 
6. Does the account of the negro quarters show that the slaves were 
happy and contented.-* 7. In what ways did the life on these old 
estates evidejice traces of the feudal system ? 8. Discuss whether such 
a condition was a help or a hindrance to the development of the South. 

Selections from *^ Horseshoe Robinson " 

Very different from the leisurely " Swallow Barn " is Kennedy's 
stirring romance of the Revolution, "Horseshoe Robinson." In the 
introduction Kennedy has told the circumstances under which he formed 
the acquaintance of the principal character and came into possession 
of the leading incidents of the novel. On a visit to the western section 
of South Carolina in 18 19, he spent the night at a house where he met 
Horseshoe Robinson, then an old man, who had been summoned to 
give relief to a boy who had dislocated his shoulder in a fall from 
a horse. "Horseshoe," says Kennedy, "yielded himself to my leading 
and I got out of him a rich stock of adventure, of which his life was 
full. It was long after midnight before our party broke up ; and when 
I got to my bed it was to dream of Horseshoe and his adventures. I 
made a record of what he told me, whilst the memory of it was still 
fresh, and often afterwards reverted to it, when accident or intentional 
research brought into my view events connected with the times and 
scenes to which this story had reference." 

Kennedy also adds that after the publication of the novel in 1835 ^® 
commissioned a friend to send the old man — who had by that time 
moved to Alabama — a copy of the book. "The report brought me 
was that the old man listened very attentively to the reading of it, and 
took a great interest in it. 

"*What do you say to all of this.-** was the question addressed to 
him after the reading was finished. His reply is a voucher which I 
desire to preserve: *Itis all true and right — in its right place — ex- 
cepting about them women, which I disremember. That mought be 
true, too ; but my memory is treacherous — I disremember.* " 


Horseshoe Robinson (Page 68) 

Gates : General Horatio Gates of the American army, who had forced 
the British under Burgoyne to surrender after the battle of Saratoga in 
1777. In 1780 he was put in command of the Southern forces of the 
Revolutionary army. Owing to his poor generalship his forces were 
defeated near Camden, South Carolina, on August 16, 1780, by Lord 
Cornwallis, and a few months later Gates was superseded by General 
Greene. Gates thereupon retired to his home in Virginia. 

Horseshoe captures Five Prisoners (Page 7^) 
cock-a-whoop : boastful. 

The Battle of King's Mountain (Page 90) 

King's Mountain : a ridge rising a few hundred feet above the sur- 
rounding country just within the limits of South Carolina and about 
thirty miles southwest of Charlotte, North Carolina. Here was fought 
on October 7, 1780, a battle between the English and Tory force of 
one thousand one hundred and twenty-five under Lieutenant-Colonel 
Ferguson and about one thousand Georgia, North Carolina, South 
Carolina, Tennessee, and Kentucky backwoodsmen under William 
Campbell, James Williams, Benjamin Cleveland, Isaac Shelby, and 
John Sevier. The engagement lasted about an hour, resulting in so de- 
cisive a defeat for the English that Cornwallis was compelled to post- 
pone for a time his invasion of North Carolina. — Frolssart: a French 
chronicler of the fourteenth century. 

Questions, i. In a review of this book Poe praised the character 
of Horseshoe Robinson by writing, " In short, he is the man of all 
others we would like to have riding by our side in any very hazardous 
adventure." What traits of character does Horseshoe exhibit that 
would justify this opinion ? 2. Are the other characters vividly enough 
drawn to enable you to analyze their characteristics J 3. What levels of 
Southern society are represented in the story .^ 4. Give some of the 
details regarding the life of each of these levels. 5. What impressions 
of the devotion of the people to the cause of liberty are g^ven ? 


Of Simms's numerous novels " The Vemassee," from which the 
selection below is taken, is perhaps his nearest approach to artistic 
success. While lacking many essential points of greatness, it is a bold. 

NOTES 483 

spirited romance, full of invention and narrative power. If considera- 
tions of space had permitted, some selections from his great Revolu- 
tionary romance, " The Partisan," would have been included in this 
volume. This book is scarcely less interesting and successful than 
" The Yemassee " and portrays the same period of history as Kennedy's 
" Horseshoe Robinson." The two stories are, however, by no means 
duplicates ; Simms's story has as its background the swamps of South 
Carolina in which Marion, the " Swamp Fox," and his followers found 

Selections from ** The Yemassee " 
The Attack on the Block House (Page 105) 

The blockhouse was a familiar means of defense from Indians in the 
early days of settlement in America. It was a structure built of stout 
logs, in which were loopholes through which rifles might be fired. 
This particular blockhouse is described in an earlier chapter of " The 
Yemassee " as consisting of two stories, the lower story being a single 
apartment, but the upper story, reached by a ladder, was divided into 
two rooms, one of which, more securely built than the other, was for 
the protection of the women and children. 

amour propre : vanity. — Ariel : the sprite in Shakespeare's " The 
Tempest " who performs the bidding of Prospero. 

Questions, i. What preparations for defense did the inmates of 
the blockhouse make ? 2. What methods of attack were used by the 
Indians? 3. What traits of character did Granger's wife display.' 
4. Was the life of pioneer days conducive to giving women such 
qualities of character as she shows? 


The selections here given are from " The Virginia Comedians." 
This book, published in 1854^ is generally considered the best of the 
dozen or so romances written by Cooke with scenes laid in colonial 
and Revolutionary times and in the Civil War. Cooke's aspirations in 
this story were, in his own words, " to paint the Virginia phase of 
American society, to do for the Old Dominion what Cooper has done 
for the Indians, Simms for the Revolutionary down in South Carolina, 
Irving for the Dutch Knickerbockers, and Hawthorne for the weird 

1 Pronounced Easten. 


I\iritan life of New England." The scene is laid around Williamsburg, 
the colonial capital of Virginia, in the years immediately preceding the 
Revolution. In Cooke's mind this was a striking period of social tran- 
sition. *Mt was the period of the culmination of the old regime," says 
Cooke in the preface to the 1883 edition. **A splendid society had 
burst into flower, and was enjoying itself in the sunshine and under 
the blue skies of the most beautiful of lands. On the surface the era 
is tranquil, but beneath is the volcano. Passion smolders under the 
laughter ; the homespun coat jostles the embroidered costume ; men 
are demanding social equality, as they will soon demand a republic; 
and the splendid old regime is about to vanish in the storm of Revolu- 
tion." The novel is, therefore, a picture of the " golden days," and in 
this way it is perhaps best to take the book. The reader who looks for 
story interest will find himself disappointed. There is plenty of action, 
— ardent love-making, duels, and the like, — and there is bright talk, 
but the plot is not well sustained throughout. Its weakness is evi- 
denced by the fact that the book is now published as two separate 
books, ** Beatrice Hallam " and its sequel, ** Captain Ralph/' either of 
which can be read without the other. 

Selections from " The Virginia Comedians " 

Mr. Champ Effingham of Effingham Hall (Page 124) 

Kidderminster : an English manufacturing town noted for its carpet 
industry. — tout ensemble: whole. — point de Venise: Venetian point 
lace. — Mr. Joseph Addison's serial: the Sjfiectai^ essayB. 

Governor Fauquier's Ball (Page i 28) 

House of Burgesses: the legislative body of colonial Virginia. — 
Governor Fauquier : a colonial governor of Virginia, whose term 
extended from 1758 to 1768. — the Raleigh: the noted tavern at 
Williamsburg. — Benedick : one of the characters in Shakespeare's 
" Much Ado About Nothing." — the Twopenny-Act : see Ue action 
brought by the Reverend Mr. Maury y etc., page 132. In the early days 
of Virginia the salaries of the clergy were paid in tobacco^ the clergy 
receiving the advantage of a rise in price and suffering from a low 
price. In 1758 the legislature of Virginia enacted a law to the effect 
that these salaries should be paid in paper currency at a less amount 
than the price of tobacco in that year. This provoked a protest, one 

NOTES 485 

of the test suits being filed by the Reverend James Maury. — uox 
argentea of Cicero : the silver voice of Cicero, the Roman orator. 

Mr. Patrick Henry: the orator and statesman bom in Hanover 
County, Virginia, in 1736. In 1763 he came into prominence by his 
brilliant plea for the defense in the suit brought by the Reverend James 
Maury. His later career as an orator of Revolutionary times is too well 
known to be repeated. — Anacreon : a Greek lyric poet who lived in 
the fifth century B.C. 

Mr. Wythe, Colonel Bland, etc. : prominent characters in the history 
of colonial Virginia. — tictac: a kind of backgammon. — spadille: a 
game of cards. — Corydons and Chloes : names common in pastoral 
poetry for shepherds and shepherdesses. Here they are used as equiv- 
alent to beaux and belles. — petit maitre: coxcomb. — Myrtilla: see 
note above. — Cordelia: a character in Shakespeare's "King Lear." — 
Circe : a character in classical mythology who by her powers of en- 
chantment transformed human beings into animals, such as wolves, 
lions, etc. 

As the early Southern novels were so largely of the historical type, it is inter- 
esting to note the episodes of Southern history that formed their backgrounds. 
A list arranged in the order of the historical situations contained in them will 
not only serve to suggest the more important of these novels but will outline an 
interesting course of reading. 

The list would begin with William Caruthers' "Cavaliers of Virginia" and 
St. George Tucker Jr.'s " Hansford," both of which record that dramatic episode 
of colonial history known as Bacon's Rebellion. Next would come William Car- 
uthers* " Knights of the Horseshoe," based on the romantic expedition made by 
Governor Spotswood of Virginia to the summit of the Blue Ridge, whence he and 
his companions looked over for the first time into the Shenandoah valley. These 
would be followed by John Pendleton Kennedy's " Rob of the Bowl," giving an 
account of the struggle between Episcopalianism and Roman Catholicism in 
Maryland under the second Lord Baltimore. Then would come William Gilmore 
Simms's "Yemassee," with its background of the uprising of the Yemassee 
Indians in 1715. In John Esten Cooke's "The Virginia Comedians" and its 
sequel " Henry St. John, Gentleman " we are carried on to the splendid flowering 
of Virginia life just before the Revolution. With William Gilmore Simms again 
in his several novels — " The Partisan," " Katherine Walton," " Mellichampe," 
"The Scout," " Eutaw," "The Forayers," and "Woodcraft" — we have various 
phases of the Revolution. To this same period belongs John Pendleton Kennedy's 
" Horseshoe Robinson." The great exodus into the Mississippi valley and the 
Southwest, which was the great thrill in Southern life .in the early nineteenth cen- 
tury, found expression in the series of Border Romances by William Gilmore 
Simms, which well reflect pioneer existence in the various new states — " Guy 
Rivers " for Georgia, " Richard Hurdis " for Alabama, " Border Beagles " fpt 


Mississippi, " Beauchampe " for Kentucky. Next would come that remaxkable 
novel prophetic of the startling events to come in the Civil War period, Nathaniel 
Beverly Tucker's " The Partisan Leader." Caroline Lee Hentz's " The Planter's 
Northern Bride," a reply to Mrs. Stowe's " Uncle Tom's Cabin," would bring 
the chain of events down almost to the opening of the Civil War. John Esten 
Cooke's " Surrey of Eagle's Nest," « Mohun," and « HUt to Hilt " would be found 
accounts by an eyewitness of the notable campaigns of the Civil War in Virginia. 

Other Romancers and Story Writers. Not represented in this book are the 
following writers : Virginia : John Beauchamp Jones (1810-1866) ; North Caro- 
lina: Calvin H. Wiley (1819-1887); Georgia: Francis Robert Goulding (1810- 
1881) ; Kentucky: CaUierine Anne Warfield (1816-1877); Lomsiana : Sarah Anne 
Dorsey (1829- 1879). 


Between 1835 and 1855 there sprang up in the South a group of 
humorists whose work is of interest on several accounts. In the first 
place, it was a distinctive contribution to American literature. The 
people of the antebellum South were a happy people who cared more 
for laughter than for tears. It was characteristic of the Southerner, and 
still is, even in the present day, that in whatever assemblage he might be 
there was the matching of jokes and anecdotes. In the second place, this 
humorous writing was an attempt to produce literature forte own sake. 
As has been shown, much of the earlier writing was writing done for a 
purpose, such as orations, political essays, journals, biographies, and the 
like. Almost the first effort in the South to produce literature for its 
own sake was in the field of humorous writing. A third reason why this 
humorous writing should command attention lies in the fact that it was 
popular with the Southern people before the war. Whatever opinion 
may be held about its intrinsic literary worth, there is no gainsaying the 
fact that it was the joy and delight of the Southern people, and in it 
they thought they found a faithful delineation of certain phases of their 
life. A final reason for giving attention to the work of these writers is 
that they are the forerunners of the realistic writers of the new South 
who have so successfully depicted in short stories and novels the scenes 
and characters of various sections of the South. 

The salient features of this Southern humorous literature were the 
natural outgrowth of the conditions amidst which it was produced. 
It was a humor of locality. Those who produced it perceived that in 
the South there were strongly marked types. This was true of the 
Southern gentleman, with his marked accent and mannerisms, and it 

NOTES 487 

was still more true of the middle and lower classes and their peculiari- 
ties. It was the humor of dialect. In that day bad spelling in rough 
imitation of dialect was considered as a necessary adjunct to humor. It 
was, moreover, humoi' of situation. It delighted in boisterous and rather 
crude situations of discomfiture. Even people of refinement would find 
diversion in the roughest pranks and would laugh unrestrainedly over a 
predicament that was both painful and unfortunate. It had two other 
characteristics which relate not to its materials but to its sources. In 
the first place, it originated through the newspaper sketch and has all 
the freshness of that type of literature; and, in the second place, it 
is, like all other Southern literature of this period, the work of the 


From the first Georgia was a much more democratic state than 
Virginia or South Carolina. Its population was a sturdy race which 
separation from the more aristocratic sections had rendered peculiarly 
individual. The country dances, the gander pullings, the militia drills, 
the debating societies, the fox hunts, the shooting matches, the horse 
races, and the like which formed so large a part of the everyday life 
of the rural sections of Georgia are vividly portrayed by Longstreet in 
" Georgia Scenes," from which are taken the two following selections. 

The Horse Swap (Page 151) 

In this sketch Longstreet has given a very lively picture of a char- 
acteristic feature of country life in the South. 

cracklins: a well-cooked, crisp rind of pork. — tout ensemble : whole 
appearance. — tacky : ugly horse. — make a pass at me : make me an 
offer. — banter : proposal. — boot : money given to make an exchange 
equal. — brought him to a hack : caused him to hesitate. — rues and 
after claps : bitternesses and regrets. 

Questions, i. Describe the methods of the horse swap. 2. What 
impressions of the character of the rural population of Georgia docs 
the sketch give.? 

The Turn Out (Page 161) 

fescues, abisselfas, and anpersants: the author explains these terms as 
follows : " Tke fescue was a sharpened wire or other instrument used 
by the preceptor to point out the letters to the children. Abisselfa is a 


contraction of the words * a by itself, a.* It was usual, when either of 
the vowels constituted a syllable of a word, to pronounce it, and denote 
its independent character by the words just mentioned, thus : * a by it- 
self ^, c-o-r-n, corn, acorn J* The character which stands for the word 
* and ' (&) was probably pronounced by the same accompaniment but 
in terms borrowed from the Latin language, thus : * & per se ' (by itself) 
&. Hence atipersants." 

Mrs. Trollope: an English writer who, after visiting the United 
States, wrote a very grossly exaggerated and unfavorable account of the 
American people. — school-butter : the author's note on this expres- 
sion is as follows : " I have never been able to satisfy myself clearly as 
to the literal meaning of these terms. They were considered an unpar- 
donable insult to a country school, and always justified an attack by the 
whole fraternity upon the person who used them in their hearing.** 

Questions, i. What characteristics of the schoolmaster are brought 
out.' of the boys? 2. Comment on the democratic relation of school- 
master and pupils shown by this incident. 


The selection here given is from *' Major Jones*s Courtship," which 
consists of a series of letters describing the courtship of Mary Stallings 
by Major Joseph Jones, who is a typical countryman and small planter 
of the middle class in Georgia — a vigorous and uneducated product of 
plantation life. Although both Mary and the Major are tenderly inclined 
towards each other and the old folks are willing to the match, yet it is 
only after various amusing situations that their love attains a happy cul- 
mination. The book is natural and faithful in its picture of country life 
in more primitive times, and is full of lively and wholesome humor. 

Major Jones's Courtship (Page 170) 

Miss Carline and Miss Kesiah : older sisters of the Major's sweet- 
heart, Mary Stallings, whose widowed mother owns the plantation ad- 
joining the Major's. — old Miss Stallins : Mary Stallings's mother. 
The designation " Mrs." is often pronounced Miss among country peo- 
ple in the South. — jice : joist. — ager : ague, chill. — Cato : a common 
name for negroes. 

Questions, i. (live in your own words an account of the incident. 
2. Comment on the character of the humor. 

NOTES 489 


Baldwin's " Flush Times in Alabama and Mississippi/' from which 
this selection is taken, is a volume of humorous sketches drawn from 
the writer's experiences in the " Shinplaster Era" — a time when in- 
the recently opened Southwest business flourished upon the fictitious 
basis of universal credit and indefinite extension. Of these " flush 
times " Baldwin was himself a part, and he gives a very vivid interpre- 
tation of it. 

Ovid Bolus, Esq. (Page 176) 

This extract from the sketch with the same title presents very 
meagerly a piece of humor held by some to equal Mark Twain at 
his best. 

Prince Hal . . . Falstaff : characters in Shakespeare's . " King 
Henry IV." — belles-lettres : polite or elegant literature. — nati consttmere 
fruges : bom to consume the fruits of the earth. — D'Orsay : a leader 
of society in Paris and London in the early nineteenth century. 
— manage: horsemanship. — Murat: a celebrated cavalry leader in 
Napoleon's army. 

How THE Flush Times served the Virginians (Page 180) 

This extract forms a portion of the sketch entitled " How the Times 
served the Virginians. Virginians in a New Country. The Rise, Decline, 
and Fall of the Rag Empire " — as brilliant a piece of social character- 
ization as can be found anywhere. 

verdant Moses : the reference is to an episode in Goldsmith's " The 
Vicar of Wakefield," chap. xii. — resolutions of '98 : a set of resolu- 
tions drafted by Madison which were passed by the Virginia legislature 
as a protest against the extension of the powers of the federal govern- 
ment at the expense of the states, as a result of the liberal interpreta- 
tion the Federalists were placing upon the Constitution, and in particular 
by the enactment of the Alien and Sedition Acts. — Martha : one of 
the characters in Scott's "The Fortunes of Nigel." She was the 
daughter of old Trapbois, a miser and usurer. — saws of Poor Richard: 
maxims of prudence and thrift contained in Benjamin Franklin's " Poor 
Richard's Almanac." — Webster : Daniel Webster, the American ora- 
tor. — University : the University of Virginia. — ■ Greene : a county 
in Alabama. 


Qi'ESTioNs. I. What characteristics of the VirginiaiiB are set forth? 
2. Hy what means did they attempt to repair their lost fortunes in the 
Flush Times ? 

Other Humoristf. Among the writers of humorous sketches aze several others 
of somewhat less importance than those represented in this book. The list would 
include the following. Alabama: Johnson Jones Hooper (1815-1863); Tennes- 
see : ( leorge Washington Harris (1814-1869) ; Georgia : John Basil Lamar (1812- 
1862), Charles Henry Smith (** Bill Arp ") (182^1903); Lotdskma emd Arkansas: 
Thomas Bangs Thorp (1815-1878). 


What was found to be true of Southern prose in antebellum times — 
that it was literature of effort rather than accomplishment — is likewise 
true of the poetry of this period. The quantity was surprisingly large. 
The statement has been made that a list of approximately two hundred 
and fifty writers of verse could be made out, from 1805 to i860, and 
that there was not a year in which numbers of volumes of poetry were 
published. Yet in all this company there were few who can be called 
writers of genuine power. It is strange that the South, the home of a 
great people, had no great poet before the war. Poe was, to be sure, 
great in many respects, but he was not great enough in interest in real 
lite to be called an interpreter of Southern life in his poetry. 

Poetry in the South before the war was largely written by amateurs. 
It was looked upon, as Paul Hamilton Hayne has declared, as ** the 
choice recreation of gentlemen, as something fair and good, to be 
courted in a dainty amateur fashion." In consequence, there is not the 
great thought and deep passion of masterpieces, but a general air of 
amateurishness. There is also upon it, as in all Southern literature of 
this time except the humor, the mark of imitation and, so, of artificiality. 
It never seemed simple, natural, unforced. Furthermore, the Southern 
poet was unfortunate in his models. Instead of going to the serious, 
elevated poems of Wordsworth or to the greater poetiy of Byron, he 
took as his models the light, graceful work of the Cavalier lyrists, — 
Suckling, Ilerrick, and Carew, — or the sentimentalism of Tom Moore, 
or the rhetoric of liyron, or perhaps the faultless but insipid early 
poems of Tennyson. As to the theme, it was generally love, fortunate 
or the reverse, although the whole gamut of the Muse's lyre was run in 
kind and. in subject matter. The Southern poets, moreover, had less 

NOTES 491 

individuality of expression than almost any other group of poets in the 
world. The poetry might all have been written by one man. Even Poe, 
except for his dominant mood of morbidness, simply carried to perfec- 
tion what every other poet of the South was trying to do. Southern 
poetry has, as conspicuous qualities, beauty, melody, and exquisite 
rhythm. In the poets of the lower South, especially, the local coloring 
is noteworthy, and the interpretation of nature's moods and outward 
aspects is done with delicate artistic sensibility. Here and there, how- 
ever, out of the general mass of those who attempted poetry some few 
did best what others did indifferently, and these are they whom both 
criticism and common consent have agreed to call the representa- 
tive poets. But even these have won their place, not by the bulk of 
their work, but rather by some single poem. This fact, however, is 
no disparagement of their work. It is a worthy achievement to have 
produced even a single poem which men will cherish. 


Resignation (Page 188) 

Questions, i. Trace the thought of the poem through its successive 
stagC)^. 2. .Assign reasons for this poem being widely popular. 

The Star-Spangled Banner (Page 190) 

When the British bombarded Baltimore in 1814, Key, who had gone 
under flag of truce to the British fleet in order to secure the release of 
a friend, a prisoner in the hands of the British, was compelled to remain 
on board one of the British vessels all night, and was therefore a wit- 
ness of the bombardment. When he saw the American flag still floating 
over Fort McHenry the next morning, he wrote his famous poem, jot- 
ting down portions of it on the back of a letten The version given 
here follows the original manuscript except in some instances of 

Questions, i. What reference does the poem have to the specific 
occasion ? 2. To what feelings does it give expression ? 3. Does the 
poem live by reason of its merit or its patriotic appeal ? 



My Life is like the Summer Rose (Page 192) 

This poem is expressive of the gentle melancholy that a perfectly 
happy, comfortable Southern youth of the earlier part of the nine- 
teenth century was fond of assuming simply because such a Byronic 
affectation was fashionable. 

Tampa's desert strand : Florida. 

Questions, i. Which of the three images used to suggest the transi- 
toriness of life is the best and why ? 2. What is the central thought of 
the poem ? 3. Is the poem distinctively Southern in its scenery ? 


Yorick : a jester at the Danish court whose skull, just dug up, leads 
Hamlet to moralizing (cf. "Hamlet," V, i). — Abbot of Misrule: in 
olden days the leader of the revels at Christmas, who, in mockery of 
the Church's absolution of sins, absolved his followers of all their 
wisdom. — Jacques: one of Shakespeare's characters who morbidly 
delights in dwelling on the moral discrepancies of the world. Shake- 
speare's spelling of the name is Jaques. 

Question. What aspects of the mocking bird's song are dwelt upon t 


Song (Page 194) 

QiESTioNs. I. What does the first stanza tell of the poet's experi- 
ence? 2. What does the second add to this? 

A Serenade (Page 194) 

This poem was written in honor of Miss Georgiana McCausland, 
whom the poet afterwards married. 

Question. What is the thought of the poem ? 

A Health (Page 195) 

This poem was written in honor of Mrs. Rebecca Somerville of Balti- 
more. Professor Lounsbury gives this poem high praise in saying, " It 

NOTES 493 

would be difficult to find anywhere in English literature a more exquisite 
tribute to womanhood." 

Questions, i. What qualities of woman are spoken of? 2. What 
has been the typical attitude of the Southern man toward the other sex ? 


The Daughter of Mendoza (Page 197) 

It is said that this poem was inspired by a beautiful woman whom 
Lamar had met in Central America. 

Mendoza : a river of the Argentine Republic. 

Questions, i. What details of the woman's beauty are g^ven? 
2. What has been the effect of this meeting upon the poet.^ 3. These 
stanzas have been spoken of as " lilting and sparkling." Illustrate. 


To THE Mocking Bird (Page 198) 

.Solian strain : music like that produced by the wind harp. 

Questions, i. What idea regarding the mocking bird does each 
stanza contain? 2. Read Keats's "Ode to the Nightingale** and give 
an opinion as to how far Pike may have been indebted to Keats*s poem. 


Florence Vane (Page 200) 

This widely known song of Cooke is said to be purely a romance 
of the writer's imagination. 

Thy heart was as a river, etc. : Cooke explained the meaning of 
these obscure lines as follows : " Florence did not want the capacity to 
love, but directed her love to no object. Her passions went flowing 
like a lost river." His next sentence in this explanation is an interesting 
example of the influence Byron exerted over these early Southern 
lyrists. " Byron has a kindred idea expressed by the same figure. Per- 
haps his verses were in my mind when I wrote my own : 

" She was the ocean to the river of his thoughts, 
Which terminated all.— 'The Dream' " 

Questions, i. What situation is given in the poem.^ 2. Does it 
seem artificial in its sentiment ? 3. What is responsible for its charm ^ 

Life in the Autumn Woods (Page 202) 

car : according to mythology the sun was a chariot driven through 
the heavens by the god Apollo. — Shakespeare's melancholy courtier : 
Jaques in "As Vou Like It." — Ardennes: some have thought that 
the forest of Arden, where is laid the scene of " As You Like it," must 
have been taken from the forest of Ardennes in French Flanders. — 
Amiens : in " As Vou Like It," a lord attending on the banished duke. 
— little recked: see "As Vou Like It," II, i, in which Jaques in an 
excess of sentimentality weeps over the killing of a deer. 

Questions, i. What descriptions of the delights of hunting does 
the poem give ? 2. How does the poet show himself to be appreciative 
of nature ? 


The Bivouac of the Dead (Page 205) 

This poem commemorates the Kentuckians who fell in the Mexican 
War at the battle of Buena Vista. It was read by the author when 
the remains of these soldiers were brought to Frankfort, Kentucky, in 
1847 for burial. 

Came down the serried foe : the Mexicans under Santa Anna. — 
Long had the doubtful conflict raged : the battle raged for ten hours 
with varying success. — stout Old chieftain: General Zachary Taylor. 
Angostura's plain: the plateau on which the battle was fought, so 
called from the mountain pass of Angostura leading to it from the 
south. — Dark and Bloody Ground : this is the meaning of the Indian 
word " Kentucky." — Spartan mother's : Kentucky is here likened to 
the Spartan mothers who wished to have their sons return with their 
shields or upon them. 

Questions, i. What pictures of the battle and details concerning 
it are given ? 2. What tribute is paid to the fallen soldiers ? 3. What 
qualities are to be expected in a martial poem? 4. Does this poem 
exhibit these ? 


A Song (Page 209) 

Questions, i. Who is the speaker? 2. What comparisons does the 
speaker use to indicate feeling ? 3. Which of these is the most poetic, 

and why ? 

NOTES 495 

Land of the South (Page 210) 

This is a selection from a longer poem, entitled " The Day of 

Helvyn : Switzerland. — Tempe : a valley in Thessaly famous for 
its attractiveness. 

Questions, i. What aspects of the South are presented? 2. What 
is the basis of the poet's devotion to the South ? 3. To what extent 
will he go to show his devotion ? 

The Mocking Bird (Page 211) 

Mime : mimic. — Petrarch : an Italian poet of the fourteenth cen- 
tury noted as a writer of sonnets. — Laura : the woman Petrarch loved 
and addressed in his sonnets. — Anacreon : a Greek lyric poet. — Trou- 
badour : one of a school of poets which flourished in the southern 
part of France in the Middle Ages. 

Questions, i. To whom is the poet speaking.' 2. What literary 
reminiscences are used in the description of the mocking bird } 
3. Which of these is the most pleasing, and why.? 4. Compare this 
tribute to the mocking bird with other poems on the same subject 
found in this volume. 


The Red Old Hills of Georgia (Page 213) 

Questions, i. What aspects of Georgia scenery are referred to? 
2. What characteristics of Southerners are mentioned ? 3. Is it typical 
of the Southern people that they are home lovers .'* 4. Does this poem 
well express such a feeling ? 

My Wife and Child (Page 215) 

By a curious confusion this poem came to be attributed to General 
T. J. (" Stonewall") Jackson and is supposed to have been written by 
him during the Civil War. It was, however, written in 1846 by Henry 
Rootes Jackson while in the Mexican campaign. 

Questions, i. Note the picture of the camp in the first stanza. 

2. What glimpses of home life are given in the subsequent stanzas? 

3. What prayer does the poet make for his wife and child? 



To A Lily (Page 217) 

Venus : reference is to the legend that Venus rose first from the 
foam of the sea. 

QiESTioNS. I. What comparisons does the poet make between the 
lily and his beloved ? 2. Does the poem seem sincere in its sentiment? 

Haw Blossoms (Page 217) 

Questions, i. What scene is described in the first five stanzas.-* 

2. What meditations on this scene are given in the next seven stanzas.^ 

3. What lesson is brought out in the last two stanzas ? . 


Oh, the Sweet South (Page 220) 

Questions, i. What is the thought of the first stanza? 2. What 
characteristics of the South are mentioned in the second stanza? 

The Swamp Fox (Page 222) 

This poem is found in Simms's historical romance *' The Partisan." 
The Swamp Fox was a common designation for General Francis 
Marion, a Revolutionary leader in South Carolina, whose shrewdness 
in attack and escape won this nickname. 

Tarleton : a distinguished leader of the British forces in the South 
during the Revolutionary War. — Santee : Marion's principal field 
of operations lay between the Santee and the Peedee rivers. — The 
Colonel : at this time Marion held the rank of colonel. Subsequently 
he was advanced to the rank of general. — COOter : a Southern col- 
loquialism for a fresh-water tortoise or turtle. 

QuESTKJNs. I. What details of the life of Marion and his men arc 

mentioned ? 2. Compare this poem with Bryant's '* Song of Marion's 


1 Pronounced Le^arcc, 

NOTES 497 


To Helen (Page 225) 

This poem is a tribute of devotion to his boyhood friend, Mrs. 
Stannard. This lady's name was Jane, but Poe has given her in the 
poem the name of " Helen " as more fitting his tribute to her as a classic 
embodiment of beauty. 

beauty : the beauty of Helen of Troy. — Nic^n barks : it is impos- 
sible to say exactly what this allusion means. It is altogether likely that 
Poe has here simply used some word of his own formed with a vag^e 
suggestion of antiquity. — wanderer : Odysseus, or Ulysses. — hyacinth : 
lovely as Hyacinthus, favorite of Apollo. — Naiad : a nymph who pre- 
sided over lakes, brooks, and fountains. The term is therefore sugges- 
tive of exquisite grace. — Psyche : the Greek word for " soul " and 
also the name of a beautiful maiden whom Cupid loved and wedded. 

Questions, i. Is this poem notable for its thought or for its g^ce 
of delicacy ? 2. Lines 9 and 10 are two of Poe*s best-known and most 
frequently quoted lines. Explain the fitness of the words ** glory " and 
** grandeur." 

IsRAFEL (Page 227) 

"Whose heart-strings are a lute " : Israfel, the angel of music, was 
supposed to have the sweetest voice of all God's creatures. — hymns : 
the reference is to " the music of the spheres " which the stars were 
supposed to make in their courses, levin: lightning. — Pleiads: Poe 
here refers to the legend of a lost Pleiad by his use of the past tense, 
" Which were seven." — Where Love 's a grown-up God : Poe seems to 
think of the god of love, usually represented as a boy, as grown to full 
manhood in heaven, for love becomes perfect there. 

Questions, i. What is the vision of power that the poet has, and 
what dismays him? 2. Compare the closing thought with that of 
Shelley's « To a Skylark," 

The Raven (Page 228) 

Poe has fully set forth his methods and his purpose in this poem in 
the essay entitled " Philosophy of Composition." 

lost Lenore : Poe is said to have told Mrs. A. B. Shelton, formerly 
Miss Royster (his first sweetheart, whose father brought the love 


affair to speedy termination), that she was the Lenore of " The Raven." 

— Raven : frequently in literature a bird of ill omen. ■ — Pallas : Min- 
erva, goddess of wisdom. — Plutonian: characteristic of Pluto, god of 
the underworld, where utter darkness reigned. 

"Wretch**: the lover addresses himself. — nepenthe: a drink 
thought by the ancients to banish sorrow ; later it came to mean any- 
thing that quieted physical or mental anguish, as, for instance, opium. 

— balm in Gilead : a Biblical phrase signifying remedy or consolation 
for sorrow. — Aidenn : a form for Eden coined by Poe for the rime. — 
the lamplight o*er him streaming : in answer to criticism of this line 
Poe explained, " My conception was that of the bracket candelabrum 
affixed against the wall, high up above the door and bust." 

Questions, i. Reconstruct the dramatic situation. 2. According to 
Poe the interpretation of the poem was to be found by taking the fact 
that the Raven stood for " Mournful and Never-ending remembrance" 
in connection with lines 10 1, 107, and 108. With this clue explain the 
significance of the poem. 

Ulalume (Page 233) 

This poem was published in December, 1847. As Poe's wife had died 
under distressing circumstances in the preceding January, the poem 
evidently is an expression of the poet's mood under his bereavement. 

Auber: coined by Poe. — Weir: coined by Poe for the sake of 
rime. — Psyche: the Greek word for soul. — scoriae rivers: rivers of 
lava. — Yaanek : another of Poo's specially coined words. — boreal pole: 
probably the Antarctic regions. — senescent: growing old. — Astarte: 
the moon goddess of the Phoenicians. — crescent: suggestive of hope. 

Dian : the moon goddess of the Romans, who was chaste and cold 
to the advances of lovers. — where the worm never dies : an expression 
from the Bible implying the gnawing of the unending grief. — stars of 
the Lion: the constellation Leo. — Lethean: with the power of the 
river Lethe in Hades, which, according to classical mythology, induced 
forgetfulness. — sibyllic : mysterious. The Sibyls in classical mythol- 
ogy were priestesses of Apollo who were inspired to utter mysterious 
prophecies. — legended: with an inscription. 

(^)i'Ksri()N. This poem has been commonly regarded as a mere ex- 
periment in verbal melody with very little meaning. Bearing in mind 
what was said above as to the circumstances of the composition of the 
poem, endeavor to interpret the poem as an expression of the poet*s 
feeling at that time. 

NOTES 499 

Annabel Lee (Page 237) 

This poem was published in the New York Tribune two days after 
Foe's death, and is one of his last poems. According to general 
acceptance Annabel Lee stands for the poet's wife, who had died about 
three years before. 

highborn kinsmen : the angels who took Foe's wife from him. 

Questions, i. This poem has more definiteness of incident than 
Foe's poems usually show. What are the details of the incident ? 
Should the sentiment be called morbid .•* 2. What qualities make this 
one of the most popular of Foe's poems ? 

Eldorado (Page 238) 

This poem is another one of the last of Foe's poems. 

Eldorado : a fabled city or country abounding in gold and precious 
stones. Figuratively the word is used to denote any place of great 
wealth. Foe evidently uses the word in the sense of the poet's kingdom. 

Questions, i. Explain the meaning of the poem. 2. Can it be said 
to apply to Foe's life ? 

Other Poets. To the various states named belong the following poets who 
have not been represented in this book but who have attained some reputation 
in and beyond their respective states. Maryland: Charles Henry Wharton 
(1748- ), John Shaw (1778-1809), Severn Teackle Wallis (1816-1894), George 
Henry Miles (1824-1871); Virgtn'm: William Munford (1775-1825), William 
Maxwell (1784-1857), Richard Dabney (1787-1825), Henry Throop Stanton 
(1834-1899); South Carolina: Caroline Howard Oilman (1794-1888), Mary 
E. Lee (1813-1849), Catherine Gendron Foyas (1813-1882); North Carolina: 
Mary Bayard Clarke (1827-1886), Theophilus Hunter Hill (1836-1901), Edwin 
Wiley Fuller (1847-1875); Kentucky: George Denison Prentice (1802-1870), 
Amelia Welby (1819-1852) ; West Virginia : Daniel Bedinger Lucas (1836- ) ; 
Alabama: Augustus J. Requier (1825-1887). Mississippi: Rosa Vertner Jef- 
frey (1826-1894) ; Georgia: Thomas Holley Chivers (1807-1858). 


My Maryland (Page 240) 

This poem was written while the author was teaching in Louisiana. In 
April, 1 86 1, he read in one of the New Orleans newspapers an account 
of how the Massachusetts troops had been fired upon in their pas 


through his native city, Baltimore. Unable to sleep in his excitement 
over the occurrence, he rose at midnight and hastily composed this poem. 

Carroll : Charles Carroll of Carrollton, one of the signers ol: the 
Declaration of Independence. — Howard: John Eager Howard, a dis- 
tinguished Revolutionary soldier. — Ringgold : Samuel Ringgold, who 
was killed in the Mexican War at the battle of Palo Alto. — Watson: 
William Henry Watson, a colonel in the Mexican War who was killed 
at Monterey. — Lowe: Enoch Lewis Lowe, a soldier in the Mexican 
War and later governor of Maryland. — May : Charles Augustus May, 
a distinguished leader at the battle of Monterey. — Sic semper: the 
full form of the Latin motto is Sic semper tyrannis^ " Thus always to 
tyrants." — Vandal : a term for the Northerners. 

QiESTioNs. I. What lines of the poem show the immediate motive 
for its writing ? 2. What is the basis of the poet's appeal to Maryland 
to join the Southern cause ? 3. Is it an appeal simply to feeling or is 
it an appeal to reason ? 

John Pelham (Page 243) 

The hero celebrated in this poem was a young Alabamian who, 
although barely twenty-two, had signally distinguished himself in the 
C'onfederate army. His death in the cavalry fight at Kelly's Ford, 
March 17, 1863, caused profound grief throughout the army. 

Marcellus : the nephew and son-in-law of the Emperor Augustus, 
and his intended successor, who met an untimely death. 

Qi'KSTioNs. I. What references are made to Pelham's career.' 
2. What tribute is paid to him ? 


Dixie (Page 244) 

This poem is perhaps the best of many written in: the South to the 
stirring tune '' Dixie." It of course bears no relation to the insig- 
nificant words that the tune originally had. 

Qi'ESTiox. By what means does the poet make his appeal.' 

HARRY McCarthy 

'i'nK IioxxiK I)LrK Flag (Page 246) 

Like " Dixie" tliis famous song originated in the theater and first 
l)ecann' popular in New Orleans in 1861. 

NOTES 501 


The Band in the Pines (Page 247) 

For note in regard to Pelham see page 498. 

Questions, i. What does the poet mean by the "band in the pine 
wood " ? 2. What is the central thought of the poem ? 


AsHBY (Page 249) 

dragoon : Turner Ashby was a dashing brigadier general of cavalry. 
He was killed in a skirmish near Harrisonburg, Virginia, in 1862. — 
Paynim : pagan. — Templestowe : the place where occurred the 
tournament described in the forty-third chapter of " Ivanhoe." 

Music in Camp (Page 250) 

The incident which was the basis of this poem occurred during the 
winter of 1862- 1863, when the Northern and Southern armies were 
encamped on opposite sides of the Rappahannock River in Virginia. 

Questions, i. What are the details of the incident.'* 2. What is its 
significance ? 

The Burial of Latane (Page 253) 

Captain Latane was killed in the Pamunkey expedition of General 
J. E. H. Stuart. His brother managed to carry the body to the near- 
by plantation of Mrs. Brockenbrough. The Federal soldiers, however, 
refused to allow a clergyman to come to conduct the funeral. Accord- 
ingly, accompanied by a few other ladies, a little girl with her apron 
filled with flowers, and a few faithful slaves who stood near, Mrs. Brock- 
enbrough herself read the burial service and committed the gallant 
soldier's body to the earth. 

Victrix et vidua: victorious and bereft. 


Dreaming in the Trenches (Page 255) 

This poem was written in 1864, while the author was in the trenches 
before Petersburg. 


Montrose : James Graham, Marquis of Montrose, of the seventeenth 
century, a supporter of Charles I. — the old Romance: Malory's 
" Morte d' Arthur." — Tristram: sl knight of King Arthur's Round 
Table who was the lover of Iseult, wife of his uncle, King Mark of 

Questions, i. What is the poet's dream? 2. What determination 
does he express in the last stanza? 

Christmas Night of '62 (Page 256) 

Questions, i. What details of the soldier's bivouac are suggested? 
2. What are the poet's thoughts on this Christmas night? 

John Pegram (Page 258) 

General Pegram was a distinguished Confederate cavalry leader 
who was killed at the head of his division near Hatcher's Run, 
Virginia, in February, 1865, aged thirty- three. 

Question. What tribute is paid to Pegram as a man and as a 
soldier ? 


Stonewall Jackson^s Way (Page 259) 

This poem was written at Oakland, Maryland, September 17, 1862, 
while the battle of Antietam was in progress. It is probably the most 
graphic and condensed pen portrait of Jackson ever made. 

^'Blue-light Elder" : Presbyterian elder. — Banks: a general in the 
Federal army. — Massa : a nickname among the soldiers for General 
Jackson. — pray: it was General Jackson's custom never to begin a 
battle without a prayer, and after a victory to give public thanks to 
God. — In forma pauperis: as a poor man. — Hill: A. P. Hill, a 
prominent Confederate general. — Pope : John Pope, a general in the 
Federal army. — Stuart : General J. E. B. Stuart, a Confederate 
cavalry commander. 

Questions, i. What characteristics of General Jackson arc pre- 
sented ? 2. Is the touch of humor in this poem an advantage or not? 

NOTES 503 


Stonewall Jackson (Page 261) 

In connection with the battle of Chancellorsville on May 2, 1863, 
General Jackson with a small escort advanced in front of his lines, 
between eight and nine o'clock in the evening, to reconnoiter. As he 
was returning his party was mistaken for Federal soldiers and was 
fired upon by the Confederates. Jackson was so severely wounded in 
the left arm and the right hand that on the following day his left arm 
was amputated. He seemed in a fair way to recover, but pneumonia 
set in, from which he died. May 10, 1863. 

Question. What is the underlying thought of the poem ? 


All Quiet along the Potomac To-night (Page 262) 

The authorship of this poem has been generally ascribed to Ethel 
Lynn Beers, a New England writer. But recent evidence for a different 
view seems conclusive. Professor C. Alphonso Smith presents the 
evidence for Thaddeus Oliver's authorship as follows : 

This poem was first published unsigned on October 21, 1861, "in a Northern 
newspaper." In Harper's Weekly^ of November 30th, 1861, it reappeared with 
Mrs. Beers' initials attached. Mr. Oliver, however, wrote the poem in August, 1861, 
and read it to several friends in camp with him in Virginia. In a letter dated " Camp 
2d Ga. Regt. near Centreville, Va., October 3rd, 186 1," Mr. John D. Ashton, of 
Georgia, writing to his wife says : " Upon my arrival at home, should I be so 
fortunate as to obtain the hoped-for furlough, I will read you the touching and 
beautiful poem mentioned in my letter of last week, *A11 Quiet along the 
Potomac To-night,' written by my girlishly modest friend, Thaddeus Oliver, of 
the Buena Vista Guards." 

For further evidence see Southern Historical Society Papers, Vol. VIII, 
pages 255-260. 

Questions, i. Show that the poem gives a vivid picture of a grim 
reality. 2. In what way does the incident make a human appeal? 


Somebody's Darling (Page 264) 

This poem was one of the best-loved Confederate poems and for many 
years was to be found in every scrapbook and heard on every school stage. 



Thk Jacket of Gray (Page 266) 

I -ike " Somebody's Darling" this poem was widely popular, because 
it expressed the feelings and experience of many a home. 


Gone Forward (Page 268) 

This poem is based upon the last words of General Lee. 
Red-Cross knights : the insignia of the Christian knights of the 
iVIiddlc Ages was often a red cross. 

(Ji KSTioN. What significance does the poet attribute to Lee's last 

words ? 

Thk Shade of the Trees (Page 269) 

This poem is founded upon the last words of General T. J. 

(" Stonewall") Jackson. 

(^)rESTK)N. What significance does the poet ascribe to the last 

words of Jackson? 


The Soldier Boy (Page 270) 

All that is known regarding the authorship of this poem is embodied 
in the initials ''II. M. L." prefixed to it and the date, "Lynchburg, 
May 18, 1 86 1." 

Damascus : sword blades made in Damascus have been noted for 
their temper. — falchion : sword. 

Question. What ideals of soldierly honor does this poem present? 


The Brk;ade must not Know, Sir" (Page 271) 

This poem was written in 1863, presumably shortly after the death 
of (ieneral " Stonewall" Jackson. 

OiF.sTio.Ns. I. Note the contrasts and the climax in the dialogue of 
the first three stanzas. 2. What account of the burial and what tribute 
to Jackson are made in the last three stanzas.'* 

NOTES 505 

The Confederate Flag (Page 272) 

This poem first appeared in the Metropolitan Record. Nothing further 
is known in regard to its author or its date. 

Questions, i . In what spirit is the outcome of the war accepted ? 
2. What may the South continue to take pride in ? 

Lines on a Confederate Note (Page 273) 

So much uncertainty exists regarding the author of this unique 
poem that it seems best not to attempt to ascribe it to an author. In 
the Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C., there is a Confederate 
note with a version of this poem inscribed upon the back of it and 
signed by Miss M. J. Turner of North Carolina. There is no proof, 
however, that this is the original copy. The poem is frequently as- 
cribed to Major A. S. Jonas of Mississippi, who was a member of. the 
staff of General Stephen D. Lee, and the following account is usually 
given of its composition. After being paroled Major Jonas went to 
Richmond to secure transportation home. At the Powhatan Hotel 
his company met a Miss Anna Rush, a young girl from the Nordi. 
She showed them a batch of Confederate notes printed upon one side 
which she was taking home as souvenirs. Handing one to each officer, 
she requested them to write something on the back. The officers 
complied and this poem is said to have been Major Jonas's contribution. 


The Conquered Banner (Page 275) * 

This poem was written a short time after the surrender of General 
Lee, but was not published until 1868, when it appeared in. Father 
Ryan's paper, The Banner of the South, 

Questions, i. What features of this poem would make it touch 
the Southern heart ? 2. Judged purely as poetry, should it be ranked 
high.^ 3. While the poet is intensely Southern in his feeling, is he 
evidencing unrelenting bitterness? 4. Is the poem despairing hi re^ 
gard to the future of the South? 5. Compare this poem with **The 
Confederate Flag." 

The Sword of Robert Lee (Page 277) 

This poem appeared in The Banner of the South in 1868, a few 
weeks after " The Conquered Banner." 

()i'FiSTioNs. I. What qualities of Lee as a man and a leader does 
Ryan suggest ? 2. Are there others that he might have brought forward ? 


Carolina (Page 279) 

This stirring lyric was written in the exciting days of 1861, when the 
states were debating the question of secession. 

Eutaw's battle-bed : the battle of Eutaw Springs during the Revo- 
lutionary War, in which the Americans under General Greene defeated 
the British. — Rutledge : John Rutledge, the president and commander 
in chief of South Carolina during the Revolution. 

Laurens : John Laurens, a young patriot and soldier who was killed 
in the skirmish at the close of the Revolution. — Marion: the famous 
partisan leader of the Revolution. — Huns: Northern troops. — Fiom 
Sachem's Head to Sumter's wall : from mountains to sea, Sachem's 
Head (more usually Caesar's Head) being a mountain in northeastern 
South Carolina, and Sumter being the fort in Charleston harbor. 
— armorial trees : palmetto trees on the coat-of-arms of South Carolina. 

Question. By what appeals does the poet seek to stir the patriotism 
of the citizens of his state ? 

A Cry to Arms (Page 282) 

byre : cow house. — cot : cottage ; here equivalent to home. 
Questions, i. Upon whom does the poet call, and what is each 
asked to leave? 2. What is demanded of them? 

Charleston (Page 284) 

This poem was evidently written late in 1861, or early in 1862, when 
Fort Sumter and Fort Moultrie were both in the hands of the Con- 
federates and the Union warships were blockading the coast 

second summer : Indian summer. — Sumter : Fort Sumter in Charles- 
ton harbor. — Calpe : a Greek name for Gibraltar. — Moultlie: Fort 

NOTES 507 

Moultrie in Charleston harbor. — Saxon lands : Charleston was the 
port through which the Confederacy obtained supplies from England 
on ships that ran the Federal blockade. 

Questions, i. What picture of the city is pven? 2. What is said 
of her future ? 

Spring (Page 286) 

germs : seeds. — South : the south wind. — Dryad : a tree nymph. 

Questions, i. What aspect of spring is presented in the first part 
of the poem ? 2. What references to stirring events of Timrod's time 
does the last part of the poem contain ? 

The Cotton Boll (Page 288) 

Small sphere : the boll or seed capsule of the cotton. — drqiM : a 
circular valley. — Uriel: one of the seven archangels. '^touched our 
very swamps : the reference is to William Gilmore Simms, a fellow 
Charlestonian and friend of Timrod, who had written poems and 
romances in which the swamps were the backgrounds. — PO0t of 
"The Woodlands": William Gilmore Simms» whose country place 
in Barnwell County, South Carolina, was called "Woodlands." 

flute's . . . trumpet's . . . west wind's : intended to symbolize different 
types of Simms's literary work. — Cornwall : the southernmost county 
of England, bounded on three sides by water. It is noted for its mines 
of copper and tin, which extend in some places far under the sea. — 
bruit : report. — Goth : the Northern soldiers. — The Port which mled 
the Western seas: New York. At that time it was considered by 
many Southerners, especially South Carolinians, as an unjust com- 
petitor for trade with Charleston. 

Questions, i. What incident starts the poet*s train of thought? 
2. What poetic description of the South as the land of cotton is ghren 
in lines 29-55? 3- What details of Southern scenery are given in 
lines 56-92 ? 4. The work of what other Southern writer is referred 
to in lines 93-101 f 5. What are Timrod's thoughts in lines los-iao 
about the usefulness of the South's cotton to the worid ? 6, What con- 
trast between this peaceful mission of the South and the present state 
of warfare in the South does the poet see in lines 123-145 ? 7. What 
hopes for the success of the Southern cause does the poet express in 
the remainder pf the poem ? 8. What qualities tend to make this a 
notable poem.** 9. Is it too discursive? 

The Lily Confidante (Page 293) 

(Questions, i. Whom does the lover select as the confidante of his 
secret? 2. What question does he ask the lily? 3. What answer does 
the lily make ? 

Macjnolia Cemetery Ode (Page 295) 

This lyric was sung on the occasion of decorating the graves of the 
Confederate dead in Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, South Carolina, 
in 1867. It has been greatly admired, one of the most notable expres- 
sions of admiration being that of Whittier when he said that it was 
" in its simple grandeur, the ngblest poem ever written by a Southern 
poet." More recently Professor Trent has said of it, " One need not 
fear for this once to compare a South Carolina poem with the best 
lyric of the kind in the literature of the world.** 

no marble column : a monument was later erected, consisting of a 
bronze color bearer on a granite pedestal. . 

Questions, i. What is the wish of the poet for the fallen heroes? 
2. In what way does the poem show Southern g^allantiy ? 3. With what 
picture does the poem close ? 


Little Giffen (Page 297) 

This poem relates an almost literally true story. The boy was Isaac 
Newton Giffen, the son of an East Tennessee blacksmith. After 
being severely wounded, probably in the battle of Chickamaug^ he was 
nursed back to life by Dr. and Mrs. Ticknor at their home, "Torch 
Hill." It is believed that he was afterwards killed in the battles around 

Johnston : General Joseph Johnston, a Confederate commander. The 
battles of Dallas and Kenesaw Mountain are perhaps referred to. — 
Golden Ring : the Round Table, King Arthur's group of knights. 

Questions, i. Note the conciseness of detail with which the inci- 
dent is told. 2. What does the poem show regarding the loyalty of 
the poorer classes in the South to the cause of the Confederacy? 

NOTES 509 

The Virginians of the Valley (Page 298) 

This poem was written early in the war, just after Virginia had 
become the scene of conflict. 

" Golden Horse-shoe " Knights : the followers of Governor Spots- 
wood of Virginia who made with him the famous expedition to the top 
of the Blue Ridge Mountains were each given a golden horseshoe in 
token of the achievement, thus establishing a sort of Virginia knighthood. 

Questions, i. What references to Virginia's past in the first two 
stanzas ? 2. What tribute to her in the last stanza ? 

Unknown (Page 299) 

The poet's dedication of this poem is " To the Women of the South 
decorating graves of Unknown Soldiers." 

Questions, i. What scene is described.? 2. Why the expression 
" doubly dead," line 8 ? 

Page Brook (Page 300) 

The title is the name of an old Southern homestead that had been 
desolated by the war. 

Question. What contrasts are made between the home as it now 
is and as it formerly was ? 

Loyal (Page 301) 

This poem was written to commemorate the courage of General Pat 
Cleburne. At the battle of Franklin, Tennessee, in November, 1864, 
which General John B. Gordon has called "the bloodiest battle of 
modern times," he was, against his judgment, ordered to take some 
well-manned breastworks. He replied to the order, ** General, I will 
take the works or fall in the effort." He was killed in the attempt. — 
The Douglas : Lord Douglas, the friend of Robert Bruce, who, when 
the latter's wish to go on a crusade was frustrated by death, fulfilled 
Bruce's request to take his heart to Jerusalem. — Who sheltered : such 
Southerners as Cleburne and his men. 

Question. The poem consists of eight stanzas of introduction with 
a final stanza of application. What is the thought of each of these 
parts .-* 



After the Civil War had swept away the old civilization of the South, 
and the Southern states had passed through the trying period of re- 
construction in adjusting themselves to the new racial, educational, 
industrial, and political problems, there came to the South great indus- 
trial prosperity. In the wake of this prosperity has come a new out- 
burst of literary energy, surpassing the older literature in fre shness and 
variety, and the South has come to take a more impj;^rtant place in 
the literature of the nation. This new literature has achieved more in 
prose than in poetry. '~^' 


The writing of humorous sketches of social life which we have seen 
formed a conspicuous part of the literature of the old South was con- 
tinued until the movement became merged with the writing of short 
stories portraying with " local color " the life of various sections. 


This selection is from " The Dukesborough Tales." The subtitle, "Old 
Times in Middle Georgia," suggests the scope of the book. It was 
essentially reminiscences of the " grim and rude but hearty old times in 
Georgia." Dukesborough was simply Powelton, Hancock County 
Georgia, near which the author had been bom, and the characters were 
representative of the democratic Georgia " cracker " class. 

The Goosepond Schoolmaster (Page 303) 

The selection here given is descriptive of a type of schoolmaster 
that was not infrequently found in the country school of the South. 
These schools were commonly known as " old field schools." 


JuD Brownin's Account of Rubinstein's Playing 

(Page 308) 

The speaker is supposed to be an ignorant countryman. 

Rubinstein: a noted Russian pianist who made a concert tour in 

the United States. 


Novelists and Story Writers 

About 1875 there began to appear in Northern magazines sketches 
and short stories by Southern writers which betokened the beginning 
of a new development in Southern fiction. With the passing of the old 
generation of fiction writers, the historical romance imitating Scott 
or Cooper and the crudely humorous character sketch disappeared. 
Their places were taken by the work of the new group of writers, who 
dealt in a realistic way with the various phases of Southern life. The 
difference between the old and the new fashion in fiction was expressed 
in the remark of John Esten Cooke, shortly before his death, about the 
new school : *^ They see, as I do, that fiction should faithfully reflect 
life, and they obey the law, while I was bom too soon, and am now too 
old to learn my trade anew." 

The new group of writers opened their eyes to the abundant material 
in the South calling for interpreters. One of their number funB said : 
"Never in the history of the country has there been a generation of 
writers who came into such an inheritance of materiaL" This was true; 
for the antebellum writers, with the exception of the humorists, had 
their sight obscured by the supposed uniformity of Southern life to 
such an extent that they failed to appreciate the wealth of picturesque 
material at hand. But the vanishing of the old feudal system with its 
attendant spirit of caste revealed more clearly than before the variety 
of type in Southern life, and writers began to realize the value of this 
material. Thus the Creole of Louisiana, the mountaineer of the Appa* 
lachians, the " cracker " of Georgia, the inhabitants of the blue-grass 
region of Kentucky, the neg^o — all these and others found their 
observant interpreters. 

This group of writers of fiction have been distinguished from their 
predecessors by regard lor careful, artistic workmanship. In their woric 
is to be found little of the carelessness that mars the work of the older 
school even in its best representatives, as, for instance, Simms and 
Longstreet. In ideals of craftsmanship the newer writers have been 
followers of Poe, the result being carefulness of structure and regard for 
distinction of style. Their success in the short story with local color has 
been marked enough to command the respect of the country at Jaige. 
But when these writers have turned from fiction of this shorter compass 
to that of the scope of the novel they have frequently shown aUreakness 
in structure that has marred somewhat their achievement in tiilt £ 


Though Southern fiction since the war has been provincial it has not 
been sectional. Without exception the writers have echoed the words 
of Joel Chandler Harris : " What does it matter whether I am a North- 
erner or a Southerner if I am true to truth, and true to the larger truth, 
my own self ? My idea is that truth is more important than sectionalism, 
and that literature that can be labeled Northern, Southern, Western, 
or Eastern, is not worth labeling at all"; and, as he put it at another 
time, " Whenever we have a Southern literature, it will be American 
and cosmopolitan as well. Only let it be the work of genius, and it will 
take all sections by storm." Essentially the same spirit is to be found 
in the claim of Thomas Nelson Page that in his writings he never 
wittingly wrote a line which he did not hope might bring about a better 
understanding between the North and the South, and finally lead to a 
more perfect Union. Thus Southern writers have endeavored to further 
that most important task of the present generation — the promotion 
of a real national spirit. 


The Dance in Place Congo (Page 314) 

Questions, i. What details are given about Congo Square.'' 

2. What musical instruments are used in connection with the dance? 

3. Describe the " bamboula." 


In the several volumes of Uncle Remus stories — "Uncle Remus, 
his Songs and his Sayings," " Nights with Uncle Remus," to mention 
only the two earliest and most important of these collections — Joel 
Chandler Harris has done his most distinctive work as a writer in pre- 
serving the folklore of the negro in his American environment. As he 
himself stated, he was simply the compiler and editor of the stories 
that he had picked up in his contact with negroes. But he is absolutely 
the creator of the setting of the stories, — Uncle Remus, the group of 
negroes associated with him, the little boy to whom the stories are told, 
and the rest, — which gives one of the best-sustained studies American 
literature has of the old plantation negro. Inasmuch as character is 
something more appreciated by readers generally than folklore, it may 
l)c surmised that the primary interest in the Uncle Remus books is 
more frequently than not this delineation of the gentle old darky. 

NOTES 513 

Brer Rabbit grossly deceives Brer Fox (Page 324) 

This tale was first published in the Atlanta Constitution^ Decem- 
ber 21, 1879, ^^ *^^ department entitled "Uncle Remus*s Folk Lore." 
It is here reprinted from that source. 

Tar-baby: see "The Wonderful Tar-baby Stoiy" in "Uncle Remus, 
his Songs and his Sayings.'* — pusly: parsley. 

The Cunning Fox is again Victimized (Page 328) 

This story appeared in the Atlanta Constitution^ December 25, 18791 
from which it is here taken. 

ingun : onion. — patter-rollers : patrols, that is, officers commissioned 
to look out for negroes who had slipped away without permission from * 
their plantations. 

Questions, i. How does the introduction of Uncle Remus, the little 
boy, etc. add to the interest of the stories ? 2. The au&or has sug- 
gested that the stories of the rabbit and the fox may be to some extent 
allegorical. Attempt an interpretation of this character. 3. What 
significance is to be attached to the fact that the rabbit is generally 
victorious.'^ 4. Is the rabbit intended to typify the negro race? 

MARY NOAILLES MURFREE ("Charles Egbert Craddock*^ 
The "Harnt" that walks Chilhowee (Page 332) 

This selection is from one of the stories in the writer's first volome, 
" In the Tennessee Mountains." 

cor'ner : coroner. — laurel : rhododendron, which in the vernacular 
of the mountains is called laurel. 

Questions, i. What is the story of Reuben Crabb? 2. What does 
Clarsie do for him ? 3. What characteristics of the mountaineen are 
exhibited in this story ? 


Marse Chan (Summary) (Page 342) 

The author has given the following account of how die atory came 

to be written : 

Just then a friend showed me a letter which had been written by a young gill 
to her sweetheart in a Georgia regiment, telling him that she had disomred that 


she loved him after all, and that if he would get a furlough and come home she 
would marry him. . . . Then, as if she feared such a temptation might be too 
strong for him, she added a postscript in these words : " Don't come without a 
furlough ; for if you don't come honorable, I won't marry you." This letter had 
been taken from the pocket of a private dead on the battlefield of one of the 
battles around Richmond, and, as the date was only a week or two before the 
battle occurred, its pathos struck me very much. I remember I said, " The poor 
fellow got his furlough through a bullet." The idea remained with me, and 1 
went to my office one morning and began to write " Marse Chan," which was 
fmished in about a week. 


Two Gentlemen of Kentucky (Page 348) 

Cheapside: the scene of the story is Lexington, Kentucky. Cheap- 
side is one of the business streets of that city, so named from the 
famous Cheapside of London. 

Questions, i. What characteristics are ascribed to Colonel Romulus 
Fields } 2. What to Peter ? 3. Do such traits of character among whites 
and blacks in the South give encouragement to believe that the two 
races can find a common basis whereon they can live in friendship ? 


The roving life of Porter gave him a wide range of acquaintance 
with human types in different sections of the country and in different 
levels of society. As Professor Stuart P. Sherman has said, " He has 
made a great harvest of the sounds and sights and smells of New York 
City in chop house, Mobster-palace,' flat, tenement, park, police court, 
Broadway, Coney Island. He knows, too, the roads and railways branch- 
ing into the South, and stretching across the West ; the various features 
and characters of towns and cities from Chicago down the Mississippi 
Valley to New Orleans and out to 'Frisco; the ranchers and miners 
and the picturesque riff-raff of adventurers floating through Arizona. 
Texas, Mexico, and South America, and the returned wanderer from 
the Philippines." Such a statement should not, however, be understood 
to mean that his stories are mere studies in localism. Against such a 
view Porter always protested, as in the following remark, " They say 
I know New York well. Just change Twenty-Third Street in one of 

NOTES 5 I 5 

my New York stories to Main Street, rub out the Flatiron Building, 
and insert Town Hall, and the story will fit any up-State town just as 
well. So long as a story is true to human nature all you need to do to 
fit any town is to change the local color. You can make all the char- 
acters of the * Arabian Nights ' parade up and down Broadway." The 
result is that Porter has exhibited in mass a great range of human 
nature, and if he has not created characters distinctive because of 
passions which raise them above the crowd, he has depicted wide areas 
and aspects of society hitherto untouched by the short story. It is 
this aspect of his work that justifies Professor C. Alphonso Smith's 
statement, ** O. Henry has socialized the short story." 

Two Renegades (Page 363) 

This story is typical of a number of Porter's stories in having its 
scene laid in South America. It is also characteristic in its portrayal 
of the picaresque type of character and in its original diction. It has 
not beeif deemed necessary by the present editor to explain its slang 
and its allusions to matters contemporary at the time when Porter 
wrote the story. 

Questions, i. What were the characteristics of Doc Millikin ? 
2. In what way does the story show the obliterating of sectional ani- 
mosities ? 3. Point out characteristic features of the writer's style. 

Other Novelists and Story-Writers. Some of the more important wiiteri of 
fiction in the South since the Civil War are named in the list that follows. 
Maryland: Francis Hopkinson Smith (1838-X915), Lucy Meacham Thniiton 
(1862- ) ; Virginia : Mary Virginia Terhune (** Marion Hariand") (1S31- ), 
Mrs. Burton Harrison (1846- ), Molly Elliot Seawell (i860- ), Am£lie 
Rives (1863- ), Mary Johnston (1870-^ ), Ellen Glasgow (1874- ), 
James Branch Cabell (1879- )» Henry Sydnor Harrison (1880- ) ; North 
Carolina : Frances Christian Tieman (*^ Christian Reid")'(x846- ), Thomas 
Dixon (1864- ); Georgia: Hany Stillwell Edwards (1854- ), Will N. 
Harben (1858- ) ; Kentucky: John Fox, Jr. (1863- )i Alice Hegan Rice 
(1870- ) ; Tennessee: Sarah Barnwell Elliott (x8 - ), Fiances Hodgstm 
Burnett (1849- ), Will AJlen Dromgoole (18 - ), John Trotwood 
Moore (1858- ), Virginia Frazer Boyle (1863- ) ; MUsiss^: Katherine 
Sherwood Bonner McDowell (** Sherwood Bonner'^ (184^1883), Harris 
Dickson (1868- ) ; Alabama: Augusta Evans WUson (1835-1909) ; JLmdH' 
ana : Albion Tourg6e (1838-1905), Grace King (185a- ), Kate Choi^ 
(1851-1904), Ruth McEneiy Stuart (1856- ), Muxy Evelyn Mooce DanHb 


Essayists and Descriptive Writers 

The literary development of the new South has not produced notable 
writers of essays, if the term be taken in the narrower sense. But this 
is no disparagement to Southern writers. The essay characterized by 
a personal, confidential attitude of the writers toward their subjects and 
their readers and by an informal, familiar style — what is commonly 
called the familiar essay — is a rare form that few in English or Ameri- 
can literature seem able to do well. If the term be extended in scope 
to include the short article discussing in a systematic way some topic 
of literary, historical, or social interest, the large number of such arti- 
cles by Southern writers in the various magazines and reviews give the 
South a respectable showing in this phase of literary activity. The 
saving of space has required that the representatives in this field 
selected for this volume be confined to a very small number. 


This selection is from Mrs. Smedes's "Memorials of a Southern 
Planter," a book which may be regarded as a series of essays. In this 
book she endeavored to give a faithful picture of her father, Thomas 
S. Dabney. He was born in Virginia in 1798, but in early manhood 
he moved to Mississippi and bought in Hinds County an extensive 
plantation which he called " Burleigh." At the close of the war he 
found himself impoverished. 

A Southern Planter's Ideals of Honor (Page 373) 

Question. In what ideals does Thomas Dabney seem typical of the 

Southern planter of the old South ? 


The Creed of the Old South (Page 377) 

Of the article from which the selection here given is taken, Mr. Wil- 
liam Archer, an English critic, has written in his "America To-day" as 
follows : " I met a scholar-soldier in the South who had g^ven expres- 
sion to the sentiment of his race and generation in an essay — one 
might almost say an elegy — so chivalrous in spirit and so fine in liter- 
ary form that it moved me well-nigh to tears. Reading it at a public 

NOTES 517 

library, I found myself so visibly affected by it that my neighbor at tht 
desk glanced at me in surprise, and I had to pull mytcU riiarply 

Kiihn ist, etc.: bold is the venture, splendid the pay. — Qare d« 
Lyon : the terminal station in Paris of the railway £rom Paris to Lyons. 
— in esse: in being. — in passe: in possibility. — ptadda §Kks: cahn 

Questions, i. What two incidents represent the writer's memory of 
the war? 2. What does he consider the real issue causiiig the war? 
3. What was the attitude of the Southern people on that issue? 


The Diversity among Southerners (Page 389) 

This selection is an extract from an article entitled *^ Dominant 
Forces in Southern Life," which originally appeared in the Atiantic 
Monthly for January, 1907. 

Squire Western : a pleasure-loving country gentleman, a creation of 
Fielding in '* Tom Jones." — Squire AUworthy : another character in 
Fielding*s ** Tom Jones." — Colonel Hutchinson : John Hutchinson, a 
Puritan soldier who, in the Great Rebellion, fought against the Royal- 
ists. — Zn/j^nsf : spirit of the age. — had a philoeoplier lor god- 
father : the allusion is to the fact that John Locke, the eminent English 
philosopher, drew up a scheme for the management of the colony of 
North Carolina. — ** dipping " : a colloquial expression for taking snuff. 

Questions, i. What are the characteristic differences between the 
Southern states as here set forth ? 2. Test the validity of the writer's 
statements by your own experience. Would you modify them in 
any way? 


Despite the fact that in the literature of the new Soudi prose has 
increased its lead on poetry, yet in this period poetry makes an im- 
pressive showing. By the year 1875 — ^^ beginning of llie Sooth's 
new development — most of the antebellum writers either were dead 
or had come to a standstill in their work, the most notable exception 
being Paul Hamilton Hayne. Although well past middle life at : 
close of the war, he maintained such a steady and persistent stre 


work up to the time of his death in 1886 that it seems proper to con- 
sider him among the poets of the new South. Further justification for 
so doing is found in the fact that he voiced some of the new tendencies 
in Southern life. One of the most marked of these tendencies was the 
spirit of nationalism. The later poets have given expression to the 
growing belief in the South that the results of the war must be accepted 
by all in good faith and that all should rejoice that the nation has 
survived undivided. Hayne was one of the first to give expression to 
such a thought in his poetry. 

In addition to the spirit of nationalism just spoken of, the poetry of 
the new South shows two other tendencies. The first of these is realism. 
The sentimentalism, the melancholy, and the indifference to Southern 
landscape and character shown in the older poetry has given place to an 
eagerness to use Southern local color. The second tendency is an in- 
creased effort in the direction of conscientious and skillful workmanship. 
While, perhaps, the poets of the South, in common with the poets of 
other sections of the country, have interested themselves in execution 
rather than in conception, yet the results of their efforts give grounds 
for the optimistic words of Professor Edwin Mims, " In such poetry — 
notable alike for its artistry and its poetic feeling — one sees the promise 
of the future of Southern poetry. When the present age of criticism, 
has passed, when the South has become adjusted to its new life, and 
when again the great poets shall be heard in England and America, we 
may confidently expect the coming of a great creative era." ^ 


A Dream of the South Winds.(Page 400) 

Questions, i. What aspects of the south winds does the poet 
touch upon ? 2. Note how the awakening from the dream is managed 
at the close. 

Aspects of the Pines (Page 401) 

Questions, i. What aspects of the appearance of the pines arc 
suggested in this poem? 2. What effect of the pines on the spirit of 

man is suggested ? 

1 "The South in the Building of the Nation," Vol. VII, page 54. 

NOTES 519 

Macdonald's Raid — 1780 (Page 402) 

Macdonald was one of General Marion's men, who led four compan- 
ions into the fortified post of Georgetown, South Carolina, held by three 
hundred of the British soldiers and brought out his men unharmed. 

Ben Lomond : a mountain of central Scotland. — Arab : Arabian 
horse. — dolce: idleness. — Brobdingnag: the land of giants visited by 

Questions, i. Who relates the incident.^ 2. What details of it are 
given ? 

The Pine's Mystery (Page 405) 

Hayne had a peculiar fondness for the pine. He made it the subject 
not only of the two poems herein given, but of several other poems, all 
of them in his happiest vein. 

Gitana : a gypsy dancer. 

Question. Has the poet given a good description of the pine's 
mournful tone .'* ^ 

The Will and the Wing (Page 405) 

Tantalus : in Grecian mythology a Phrygian king who was punished 
in the lower world by being placed in the midst of a lake whose waters 
reached to his chin but receded whenever he sought to allay his thirst, 
while over his head hung branches laden with fruit which likewise 
receded whenever he stretched out his hand to grasp them. 

Question. What conception of his art does the poet give ? 

The Axe and Pine (Page 407) 

Dryads : in classical mythology, spirits who inhabited trees. 
Questions, i. What is the poet lamenting? 2. Explain the last 
four lines. 

Midsummer in the South (Page 407) 

Hesperides : in mythology the sisters who guarded the golden 
apples of the sunset. 

Questions, i. What aspects of midsummer are brought out? 
2. Which of these is treated with the greatest poetic ability? 



Irwin Russeirs greatest distinction lies in his being the first to point 
out the literary possibilities of the negro. The negro had appeared in- 
cidentally in Southern literature, but Russell was the first to make him 
not only the leading but the sole character. Thomas Nelson Page has 
admitted that Russell was his teacher in this field, and Joel Chandler 
Harris gives Russell the same distinction, saying, " Russell described 
the old-time darky that was even in his time beginning to disappear." 

Nebuchadnezzar (Page 410) 

yeah 's advancin' : advances of supplies which the ndgro had secured 
from some merchant against the value of his crops. 

Questions, i. Relate the incident. 2. Is the habit of philosophizing 
with the animals a negro may be working with characteristic of the 
race ? 3. Is the humorous acceptance of discomfiture also one of their 
characteristics ? 

Selling a Dog (Page 412) 

Questions, i . Who is speaking .<* 2. To whom? 3. What character- 
istics of the negro as a trader are shown..^ 

Dat Peter (Page 413) 

Question. What characteristics of the younger generation of 
negroes is brought out in this poem ? 


The Tournament (Page 416) 

This was one of the earliest poems of Lanier. The first part was 
written in 1862, amid the horrors of war, while the poet was in camp 
near Wilmington, North Carolina. The second part was written three 
years later at his home in Macon, Georgia, whither he had returned after 
the war. The poem was first published in ** The Round Table," in 1867. 

Questions, i. Interpret the meaning of the first joust 2. Does the 
last stanza of this part of the poem seem to give the poet's attitude 
toward the war in which he was engaged ? If so, what does it seem to be ? 

NOTES 521 

3. Interpret the meaning of the second joust 4. What application 
does this part of the poem have to conditions after the war ? 5. Note 
the poet's emphasis on the need of the world of love as a vital element 

Song of the Chattahoochee (Page 419) 

This poem was first published in Scotfs Magatinet Atlanta, Geoigia, 
from which it is here taken. 

The Chattahoochee is a river in Georgia that rises in the mountains 
of that state, passes in its upper course through the counties of Hall and 
Habersham, and flows through the lowlands into the Gulf of Mexico. 

Questions, i. What reason does the river assign for resisting all 
temptations to stay in its onward course ? 2. Apply this to life. 3. Is 
the rippling and animated movement of the poem appropriate to tlie 
song of a mountain stream ? 

The Crystal (Page 421) 

Questions, i. Under what conditions did the poet begin his mus- 
ings } 2. What conclusion did he reach in regard to great mankind ? 
3. In what way is Christ different from these so far as stainlessn^ss of 
character is concerned 1 

Sunrise (Page 422) 

This is Lanier's last completed poem. It was first publisl^ in The 
Independent, December 14, 1882, from which it is here taken. In the 
words of Mrs. Lanier, it was written ** while the sun of life seemed 
fairly at the setting, and the hand which first penciled its lines had not 
strength to carry nourishment to the lips." The poet is supposed to be 
standing where he can look out over the salt marshes of Glynn County, 

gospeling glooms: glooms that teach high truths. — porfling: em- 
broidering. — menstruum: a solvent — OlympiaA lelsitn: the leisure 
of the deities of Olympus. Explain the force of ** dateless " in this con- 
nection. — born in the purple : of imperial rank, pufple being die official 
color of the Roman emperors. — innermiMt Guest At tlie marrii^ of 
elements : an allusion to the chemical action of the sun in the world of 
matter. — fellow of publicans: one who associates with everybody. 
The publicans, or tax collectors, of the Roman Empire were a despised 
class among the Jew? and Other Koman dependents. 


Questions, i. IIow have the marshes called to the poet in his 
sluml)crs? IIow is his awakening described ? 2. In what spirit does he 
i^o out to the live-oaks and the marshes? 3. By what terms does he 
address the trees and the leaves? What question does the poet ask? 
4. What is the poet's petition? 5. What bird emerges from the trees? 
6. What is the thought of the stanza addressed to the " reverend 
marsh"? 7. Give the details of the full tide. 8. Explain the line 
" The bow-and-string tension of beauty and silence." 9. How is the 
motion of the dawn described ? 10. In what terms does Lanier describe 
the first flush of the eastern sky ? 11. Trace his description of the slow 
rising of the sun above the horizon. 12. Give the substance of the apos- 
trophe to heat. 13. What is the thought about the worker and his toil? 
14. In what spirit does the poet return to the haunts of men after this 
contact with nature ? 


Father Tabb's poems are all short, a favorite form being the quatrain. 
Critics have aptly called them cameos — the most delicate art in the 
smallest compass. Poetry of this sort demands the most refined tech- 
nique, and that of Father Tabb is almost perfect. 

My Star (Page 429) 

Questions, i. What is the thought of the first stanza? 2. What 
application is made of it in the second stanza? 

KiLLDEE (Page 430) 

Killdee : the killdee, or killdeer, is a bird of the plover family that is 
named from its cry " Kill-dee, Kill-dee." 

Qi'ESTiONS. I. What description is found in the first two stanzas? 
2. What reflection does the poet put in the last stanzas? 


Edmund Clarence Stedman wrote of Boner as " that gentlest of 
minstrels who caught his music from the whispering pines." 

Moonrise in the Pines (Page 431) 

bull bats : a colloquial name for the nighthawk. — Heat-Uglltlliog : 
more or less extensive and vivid flashes of lightning without thunder, 
seen at the close of a warm day. 

NOTES 523 

Questions, i. What details of the evening scene are presented in 
lines 1-32 ? 2. What aspects of the pines are presented in lines 33-48? 
3. What elements has the poet emphasized in his description of the 
moonrise, lines 49-64 ? 

The Light'ood Fire (Page 434) 

light' ood : a dialectal term applied to very dry pitchy and pine 
wood used' for making a fire quickly. — BoiMs: the north wind. 

Poe's Cottage at Fordham (Page 435) 

here unmated : the reference is to the death of Foe's wife. — ApoUo : 
the Greek god of wisdom and prophecy. — Attaite: the Phoenician 
goddess of love. — Dis : the lower regions. — stxmiided: stringed — 
a bold use of the term. — Israfel : see Foe's poem with the title, page 
227, and the notes thereon. — cenotaphed: erected a monument, or 
cenotapli, to his fame. 

Question. What thoughts arise in the poet's mind at the recol- 
lection of Poe's cottage ? 


The High Tide at Gettysburg (Page 437) 

It seems to be one of the laws of literature that the' best |K>etfy 
is not produced under the immediate stimulus of die event, but, as 
Wordsworth expressed it, originates **from emotion, recollected in 
tranquillity." At any rate, this particular poem, written in 188S, haa been 
regarded by many as the most notable achievement in the venei 
inspired by that great struggle. 

The battle of Gettysburg was a development of General Lee'a push- 
ing forward into Pennsylvania in 1863. At Gettysbuzg he met the 
Fed^al forces under General Meade, and after three days of fierce 
fighting (July i, 2, 3) he was forced to retreat southward. This batde 
has been regarded as the turning-point in the Civil War, the fortunes 
of the Confederacy steadily waning thereafter. 

Pickett: General George £. Pickett, who led the final charge of the 
Confederates in the battle. — Shlloh's WOOds : an important batde of 
the war, fought near Shiloh Church near Pittsburg landing, Tennessee, 
April 6 and 7, 1862. — Chickamauga's solitiiAee: one of the most hotly 
contested battles of the war, fought September 19 and 30| **' 


Chickamauga Creek, about twelve miles east of Chattanooga, Tennes- 
see. — Pettigrcw : General J. J. Pettigrew, a Confederate officer who 
was killed during the retreat from Gettysburg. — A Elhamsin wind: a 
hot, dry wind of the African deserts. — Kemper: General J. L. Kemper 
of the Confederate forces. — Garnett: General R. B. Gamett, who was 
killed while leading Pickett's charge. — Armistead : General L. A. 
Armistead, who was killed in Pickett's charge. — Doiibleday: General 
Abner Doubleday of the Federal army. 

Questions : i. What details of the battle are given? 2. Show that 
a spirit of broadest patriotism breathes through the poem. 


A Southern Girl (Page 440) 

QuESTK^N. What characteristics of the Southern girl are brought 

The Grapevine Swing (Page 441) 

bayou : a sluggish stream which forms an inlet into a river or other 
body of water. 

Questions, i. Under what circumstances does the poet long for a 
return to the joys of the grapevine swing .^ 2. What details of Southern 
scenery are depicted ? 

Aunt Jemima's Quilt (Page 443) 

Question. What details of an old-fashioned quilting party can be 
gathered from this poem ? 

A Meadow Song (Page 445) 
Question. What constitutes the appeal to come to the meadow.^ 

When Dogwood bri(}htens the Groves of Spring 

(Page 447) 

Questions, i. What aspects of spring arc described? 2. What cor- 
responding feelings are ascribed to men .-* 

NOTES 525 


To A Crow (Page 448) 

Robin Hood : an outlaw hero of English legend. 
Questions, i. What characteristics of the crow are mentioned? 
2. What contrast does the poet draw between the bird and man ? 

Ballad of the Faded Field (Page 448) 

Questions, i. Note details presented to picture the field. 3. What 
is the thought the poet wishes to emphasize ? 


Answering to Roll Call (Page 451) 

Question. How is this poem expressive of the spirit of nadoBaEim? 


Evening on the Farm (Page 454) 

bull bats : nighthawks. — teetering : seesawing. 
Questions, i. Carefully point out all the details of the picture 
presented. 2. Does it seem lifelike? 


Away Down Home (Page 456) 

Questions, i. What details of the coming of spring are ghreni? 
2. With what thought does the poem close? 

An Idyl (Page 457) 

Questions, i. What details of the poem are given? 2. Ezpfadn tiie 

last two lines. 

Barefooted (Page 459) 
Question. What boyish feelings has the poet tried to^dei 



October in Tennessee (Page 461) 

Aladdin : a character in the " Arabian Nights " who becomes pos- 
sessed of a magic lamp and ring, by rubbing which genii appear to do 
his bidding. 

Other Poets. A list of some of the more important poets of the later period in 
Southern literature not represented in this book is given below. Maryland: 
\'irginia Woodward Cloud (186 - ), Lizette Woodworth Reese (1856- ) ; 
Mri^^ima : James Barron Hope (1827-1887), Armistead Churchill Gordon (1855- 
), James Lindsay Gordon ( 1 860-1 904) ; North Carolina: Henry Jerome 
Stockard (1858-1914), Benjamin Sledd (1864- )> South Carolina: George 
Herbert Sass (184 5-1908), Yates Snowden (1858- ), Carlyle McKinley 
(i847-i()04) ; Georgia: Robert Loveman (1864- ); Florida: Will Wallace 
Harney (1X31- ); West Virginia: Danske Dandridge (1858- ), Waitman 
Barbe (1864- ); Kentucky: John Patterson (1861- - ), Lucien V. Rule 
(187 1- ), Cale Young Rice (1872- ) ; Tennessee: Will T. Hale (1857- ), 
John Trotwood Moore (1858- ), Will Allen Dromgoole (18 - ), Vu-- 
ginia Frazcr Boyle (1863- ) ; Mississippi: Lafayette Rupert Hamlin (1861- 
1902); Stark Young (1881- ); Alabama: Clifford Lanier (1844-1908), 
Howard Weeden (1847-1905), Martha Young ( - ) ; Louisiafia : Mary 
Ashley Townsend (1832-1901), Eliza Jane Poitevant Nicholson ("Pearl Rivers") 
(1S49-1896) ; Texas: William Lawrence Chittenden (1862- ), Clarence 
Ousley (1863- ). 

Survivals of Old British Ballads 

An account of Southern literature would be incomplete without some 
reference to the ballads and songs of popular composition, sometimes 
called folk-songs, in which the South is very rich. Though these songs 
have endured from the earliest periods of Southern civilization, yet 
they have only recently begun to be collected into print Such poetry 
has important historical value because it renders a picture of the life, 
the tastes, and the feelings of those elements of the population of the 
South which are largely untouched by books and education. With 
the wider diffusion of education in recent years among the masses of 
the people, this folk-poetrj' has begun to pass rapidly away, and it there- 
fore behooves the Southern people to find and preserve this valuable 
material before it is too late to do so. The folklore and ballad societies 
existing in almost every state as centers for carrying on this work of 
collection should have the interest and active support of everyone. 

NOTES 527 

The distinctive features of these ballads and songs arise largely from 
the circumstances of their origin. They were originally extemporized 
in the presence of an audience ; on subsequent occasions reproduced 
partly from memory, partly under the inspiration of new listeners and 
new conditions ; then transmitted from singer to singer, and reshaped 
by each. Thus there was evolved a composite product defying ascrip- 
tion to a single author which, though crude and homely as poetry, was 
admirably fitted for immediate effect upon hearers who were neither 
subtle nor critical. 

One of the most widely discussed phases of this folk-poetry has been 
the survivals of old British ballads. Many of these old ballads were 
brought by the early settlers to the American colonies and have con- 
tinued alive by oral transmission in their transplanted home, even after 
they had ceased to exist in this way in England. Of the three hun- 
dred and five English and Scotch ballads known to scholars, forty-two 
have been found existing down to recent times in the Southern states. 
Many of them are remarkably close to original versions collected in 
England and Scotland ; others have so degenerated as to be hardly 
recognizable. According to information available in 1916, the five most 
commonly found survivals of old British ballads in the South are the 
following : " Bonnie Barbara Allen," " Lady Isabel and the Elf Knight," 
" Lord Thomas and Fair Annet," " Lord Lovel," and "The Maid Freed 
from the Gallows." The version of " Barbara Allen " (Child, 84 ^) here 
reproduced was found among the country whites of Mississippi in 1909 
by Professor E. C. Perrow. That of " Lord Thomas and Fair Eleanor" 
(Child, 73) was reported from South Carolina in 1914. Those of "The 
Hangman's Tree" (Child, 95) and of "The Wife of Usher's Well" 
(Child, 79) were discovered by Miss Backus in the mountains of North 
Carolina. The version of " George Collins " (Child, 85) comes also 
from the mountains of North Carolina. 

Other Traditional Songs. Of much interest are the traditional songs native 
to the South which have developed where under suitable conditions the ballad- 
making impulse has asserted itself and created a song around an unfortunate 
love affair, the capture of an outlaw, a battle of the Civil War, or other suitable 
material. Of much interest also are the negro songs. In the life of this race 
music plays a large part, especially in religious exercises and in collective labor. 
Many of the negro's songs are taken from the whites, but more are of his own 
devising and show all the characteristic features of popular composition. 

1 This and the following references are to the authoritative collection — 
Professor F. J. Child's "English and Scottish Popular Ballads." 


This list aims at giving the more important books useful in the fur- 
ther study of Southern Uterature. References to histories of American 
literature and to collections of selections from American writers have 
been omitted, though nearly all the standard works in these fields treat 
to some extent Southern writers. Neither have editions and biographies 
of individual authors been included except for some very special reason. 
Fuller bibliographies may be found in Moses' " The Literature of the 
South " and in Alderman and Kent's " Library of Southern Literature." 


Brown, W. G. The Lower South in American History. 

Chandler, J. A. C, and others. The South in the Building of the 
Nation, i 2 vols. 

CuRRV, J. L. M. The Southern States — their Relation to the Con- 
stitution and to the Union. 

DoDD, W. E. Statesmen of the Old South. 

1 1 ART, A. B. The Southern South. 

MuRPiiv, E. G. The Present South. 

MuRPHV, E. G. The Basis for Ascendency. 

Page, T. N. The Old South. 

Pa(;e, T. N. Social Life in Virginia. 

Page, T. N. The Old Dominion: her Making and her Manners. 

Pac;e, W. II. The Rebuilding of Old Commonwealths. 

Rhodes, J. F. History of the United States (i 850-1877), 8 vols. 

Trent, W. P. Southern Statesmen of the Old Regime. 

Wilson, W. History of the American People. 

Wilson, W. Division and Reunion (i 829-1 889). 



Selections from Southern Writers 

Abernathy, J. W. The Southern Poets (selected poems of Lanier, 
Timrod, and Hayne). 

Alderman, E. A. (General Editor), and Kent, C. W. (Literaiy 
Editor). Library of Southern Literature, 1 6 vols. (The fullest and 
most important collection of the work of Southern writers. The 
selections are well chosen, but the critical sketches are by many 
different persons and are of varying degrees of value.) 

Brevard, Caroline M. Literature of the South. 

Brock, Sallie A. The Southern Amaranth. 

Clarke, Jennie T. Songs of the South : Choice Selections from 
Southern Poets. 

Davidson, J. W. The Living Writers of the South. (A vahuble 
book for writers living at the date of its publication, 1869; con- 
tains many uncollected poems.) 

Fag AN, W. L. Southern War Songs. 

Forrest, Mary. Women of the South Distinguished in Literature 
(1 861). 

HoLLiDAY, C. Three Centuries of Southern Poetry (i 607-1 907). 

HuBNER, C. Representative Southern Poets. 

HuBNER, C. War poets of the South and Confederate Campfire 

Kent, C. W. Southern Poems. 

Manly, Louise. Southern Literature from 1579 to 1895. 

Mason, Emily V. The Southern Poems of the War. 

MiMS, Edwin (Editor). The South in the Building of die Nation, 
Vol. VIII. (Contains a history of Southern fiction, witii iUustra> 
tive extracts.) 

MiMS, E., and Payne, B. R. Southern Prose and Poetry. 

Moore, F. Songs and Ballads of the Southern People, 1861-1865. 

Orgain, Kate. Southern Authors in Poetry and Prose. 

Painter, F. V. Poets of the South. 

Painter, F. V. Poets of Virginia. 

SIMMS, W. G. War Poetry of the South. 

Stockard, J. E. a Study in Southern Poetry. 


Tardy, Mary. Living Female Writers of the South (contains 
selections from those living in 1872). 

'I'kknt, W. p. Southern Writers. 

WArTKRSoN, H. W. Oddities in Southern Life and Character 
(valuable for its selections from the humorists). 

Wauciiope, (}. A. The Writers of South Carolina. 

Wkher, W. L. Selections from Southern Poets. 

Wharton, H. M. War Songs and Poems of the Southern Con- 

, War Lyrics and Songs of the South. (This book, edited by a 

group of Southern women and published in England in 1 866, is one 
of the best as well as one of the earliest collections of its kind.) 

Biography and Criticism 

Baskervill, W. M. Southern Writers, 2 vols. (Valuable for bio- 
graphical and critical studies of writers since 1870. Volume I is 
altogether by the late Professor Baskervill; Volume II contains 
contributions by his friends and former pupils who desired to 
complete his projected work.) 

Hexxemax, J. B. (Editor). The South in the Building of the 
Nation, Vol. VIII. (Contains valuable articles on the literary 
and intellectual life of the South.) 

HoLLiDAY, C. A. History of Southern Literature. 

LiXK, S. A. Pioneers of Southern Literature, 2 vols. 

Ml MS, E., Life of Lanier. 

Pickett, Mrs. J. C. Literary Hearthstones of Dixie. 

Raymoxd, Ida. Southland Writers, 2 vols. 

Rutherford, Mildred L. The South in History and Literature. 

Shepherd, H. E. Authors of Maryland. 

Trext, W. p. Life of William Gilmore Simms. 

Several of the books listed on the preceding page under the heading 
" Selections from Southern Writers " are useful for biographies and 
criticisms. In this connection Trent's " Southern Writers " and Alder- 
man and Kent's " Library of Southern Literature " are to be especially 
mentioned. Much important biographical and critical matter will be 
found in magazines, particularly the Snvanee Review and the South 
Atlantic Quayicrly. 

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