WORKS.

Memoir of John Yates Bell. Maid of Northumberland. Ballads and Madrigals. Wreath of Eglantine, and other Poems.

THE LAND WHERE WE WERE DREAMING.

(From The Land We Love.[37])

Fair were our nation's visions, and as grand As ever floated out of fancy-land; Children were we in simple faith, But god like children, whom nor death Nor threat of danger drove from honor's path— In the land where we were dreaming.

Proud were our men as pride of birth could render, As violets our women pure and tender; And when they spoke, their voices' thrill At evening hushed the whip poor-will, At morn the mocking bird was mute and still, In the land where we were dreaming.

And we had graves that covered more of glory Than ever taxed the lips of ancient story; And in our dream we wove the thread Of principles for which had bled And suffered long our own immortal dead, In the land where we were dreaming.

. . . . . . .

Our sleep grew troubled, and our dreams grew wild; Red meteors flashed across our heaven's field, Crimson the moon, between the Twins Barbed arrows flew in circling lanes Of light, red comets tossed their fiery manes O'er the land where we were dreaming.

. . . . . . .

A figure came among us as we slept— At first he knelt, then slowly rose and wept; Then gathering up a thousand spears, He swept across the field of Mars, Then bowed farewell, and walked among the start, From the land where we were dreaming.

]

We looked again—another figure still Gave hope, and nerved each individual will; Erect he stood, as clothed with power, Self-poised, he seemed to rule the hour With firm, majestic sway—of strength a tower— In the land where we were dreaming.

As, while great Jove, in bronze, a warder god, Gazed eastward from the Forum where he stood, Rome felt herself secure and free— So, Richmond! we on guard for thee, Beheld a bronzed hero, god-like Lee, In the land where we were dreaming.

. . . . . . .

Woe! woe is us! the startled mothers cried; While we have slept, our noble sons have died. Woe! woe is us! how strange and sad, That all our glorious visions fled Have left us nothing real but our dead In the land where we were dreaming.

"And are they really dead, our martyred slain?" No, dreamers! Morn shall bid them rise again From every plain, from every height On which they seemed to die for right; Their gallant spirits shall renew the fight In the land where we were dreaming.

. . . . . . .

FOOTNOTE:

[37] By permission of the author.



JAMES RYDER RANDALL.

1839=——.

JAMES RYDER RANDALL was born in Baltimore, and his fame rests upon his stirring war-song, "Maryland, my Maryland," which has been called the "Marseillaise of the Confederacy." It was written in 1861 and set by Mrs. Burton Harrison to the tune of the old college song "Lauriger Horatius," on the wings of which it quickly flew all over the South.

His profession is that of an editor, and his delicate health has compelled his residence in a warmer latitude than his native city, in Louisiana and Georgia.

WORKS.

Fugitive Poems: Maryland, My Maryland, Sole Sentry, Arlington, Cameo Bracelet, and others.

MY MARYLAND.

The despot's heel is on thy shore, Maryland! His torch is at thy temple door, Maryland! 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 chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland, my Maryland!

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, Maryland! Thy beaming sword shall never rust, Maryland! Remember Carroll's sacred trust, Remember Howard's warlike thrust, And all thy slumberers with the just, Maryland, my Maryland!

Come! 'tis the red dawn of the day, Maryland! 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's chain, Maryland! Virginia should not call in vain, Maryland! She meets her sisters on the plain,— "Sic semper!" 'tis the proud refrain, That baffles minions back amain, Maryland! Arise in majesty again, Maryland, my Maryland!

Come! for thy shield is bright and strong, Maryland! Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, Maryland! Come to thine own heroic throng Walking with Liberty along, And chant thy dauntless slogan-song, Maryland, my Maryland!

I see the blush upon thy cheek, Maryland! 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!

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, Maryland! Thou wilt not crook to his control, Maryland! Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland, my Maryland!

I hear the distant thunder hum, Maryland! The Old Line's bugle, fife, and drum, Maryland! She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb; Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum,— She breathes! She burns! She'll come! She'll Come! Maryland, my Maryland!

Written 1861.



ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN.

1839=1886.

FATHER RYAN, "the poet-priest," was born in Norfolk, Virginia, but passed most of his life farther south. He lived in New Orleans, Knoxville, Augusta, and Mobile. His death occurred in Louisville, Kentucky. His patriotic poems are among the best known and most admired that the South has produced; his religious poems evince a sad view of human life together with an exalted adoration of the Divine Will.

WORKS.

Poems. Life of Christ, [unfinished]. Some Aspects of Modern Civilization, [a lecture].

To our great regret, we have not been permitted by the publishers to copy any of Father Ryan's poems. Every one is familiar with his "Conquered Banner," and "Sword of Lee"; the "Song of the Mystic" is one of his most beautiful productions.



WILLIAM GORDON McCABE.

1841=——.

WILLIAM GORDON MCCABE was born near Richmond, and educated at the University of Virginia. He was a captain in the Confederate service; and since the war he has had at Petersburg one of the best schools preparatory to the University. He is a poet, and has also edited several Latin authors for school use.

WORKS.

Ballads of Battle and Bravery. Defence of Petersburg.

DREAMING IN THE TRENCHES.[38]

I picture her there in the quaint old room, Where the fading fire-light 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 thousand-fold, Leaning dreamily back in her low arm-chair.

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 haughty race.

Her 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! me, how foolish and vain! 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'll be true to the end all the same.

Petersburg Trenches, 1864.

FOOTNOTE:

[38] By permission of the author.



SIDNEY LANIER.

1842=1881.

SIDNEY LANIER was born in Macon, Georgia, descended from a line of artist ancestors, through whom he inherited great musical ability. He was educated at Oglethorpe College, being graduated in 1860. He and his brother Clifford entered the Confederate Army together in 1861 and served through the war; but the exposure and hardships and imprisonment developed consumption which finally caused his death.

After the war he lived for two years in Alabama as a clerk and a teacher; but his health failed and he was forced to return home where he practised law with his father till 1873. Then deciding to devote himself to music and poetry, he went to Baltimore where he was engaged as first flute in the Peabody Symphony Concerts and in 1879 as lecturer on English Literature in Johns Hopkins University. His dread disease never relaxed and he was often obliged to quit work and go to Florida, North Carolina, Georgia, and Pennsylvania in search of strength. His death occurred at Lynn, Polk County, North Carolina, on his last quest for strength and life with which to continue the work he so much loved.

His "Science of English Verse" is said to be a new and valuable addition to the study of poetry. His poems belong to the new order of thought and life. His "Tiger-Lilies" is a prose-poem, written in three weeks just after the war and laid in the mountains of Tennessee and on the eastern shore of Virginia where he was stationed. "Beauty is holiness, and holiness is beauty," was his favorite remark on the subject of Art. His work and influence are growing in importance in the regard of students.

In 1876 he was invited to write the poem for the Centennial Exposition; and the "Meditation of Columbia," composed with the musical expression always in mind,—and so too it should be read,—was the grand Ode that graced the opening day at Philadelphia. See under Waitman Barbe.

WORKS.

POEMS:

Edited by his wife, Mary Day Lanier, with a Memorial by William Hayes Ward.

Tiger Lilies, [novel]. Florida: its Scenery, Climate, and History. English Novel and Principles of Its Development. Science of English Verse. Boy's Froissart. Boy's King Arthur. Boy's Mabinogion. Boy's Percy.

SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE.

(From Poems.[39])

Out of the hills of Habersham, Down the valleys of Hall, I hurry amain to reach the plain, Run the rapid and leap the fall, Split at the rock and together again, Accept my bed, or narrow or wide, And flee 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 though the valleys of Hall, The rushes cried, Abide, abide, The willful waterweeds held me thrall, The laving laurel turned my tide, The ferns and the fondling grass said Stay, The dewberry dipped for to work delay, And the little reeds sighed Abide, abide, Here in the hills of Habersham, Here in the valleys of Hall.

High o'er 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 manifold 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 brook-stone Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, And many a luminous jewel lone, —Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist, Ruby, garnet, and amethyst— Made lures with the lights of streaming 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 Avail: I am fain for to water the plain, Downward the voices of Duty call— Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main, The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn, And a myriad flowers mortally yearn, And the lordly main from beyond the plain Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, Calls through the valleys of Hall.

1877.

WHAT IS MUSIC?

Music is Love in search of a word.

THE TIDE RISING IN THE MARSHES.

(From The Marshes of Glynn.[40])

Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea! Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun, Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain.

As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod, Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God; I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and the skies: By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God: Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn.

And the sea lends large, as the marsh: and lo, out of his plenty, the sea Pours fast: full soon the time of the flood-tide must be: Look how the grace of the sea doth go About and about through the intricate channels that flow Here and there, Everywhere, Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low-lying lanes, And the marsh is meshed with a million veins, That like as with rosy and silvery essences flow In the rose-and-silver evening glow. Farewell, my lord Sun! The creeks overflow: a thousand rivulets run 'Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of the marsh-grass stir; Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr; Passeth, and all is still; and the currents cease to run; And the sea and the marsh are one.

How still the plains of the waters be! The tide is in his ecstasy. The tide is at his highest height: And it is night.

And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters of sleep Roll in on the souls of men, But who will reveal to our waking ken The forms that swim and the shapes that creep Under the waters of sleep? And I would I could know what swimmeth below when the tide comes in On the length and the breadth of the marvellous marshes of Glynn.

1878.

FOOTNOTES:

[39] By permission of Mrs. Lanier, and Charles Scribner's Sons, N. Y.

[40] By permission of Mrs. Lanier, and Charles Scribner's Sons, N. Y.



JAMES LANE ALLEN.

JAMES LANE ALLEN is one of the best and most successful of the living writers of the South. He is a Kentuckian, and his sketches and stories have so far all dealt with life in his native State.

WORKS.

Life in the Blue Grass. White Cowl. Flute and Violin, and other stories. John Gray. Sister Dolorosa. A Kentucky Cardinal (1895).

SPORTS OF A KENTUCKY SCHOOL IN 1795.

(From John Gray, a Kentucky Tale of the Olden Time.[41])

A strange mixture of human life there was in Gray's school. There were the native little Kentuckians, born in the wilderness—the first wild, hardy generation of new people; and there were the little folk from Virginia, from Tennessee, from North Carolina, and from Pennsylvania and other sources, huddled together, some rude, some gentle, and starting out now to be formed into the men and women of the Kentucky that was to be.

They had their strange, sad, heroic games and pastimes, those primitive children under his guidance. Two little girls would be driving the cows home about dusk; three little boys would play Indian and capture them and carry them off; the husbands of the little girls would form a party to the rescue; the prisoners would drop pieces of their dresses along the way; and then at a certain point of the woods—it being the dead of night now, and the little girls being bound to a tree, and the Indians having fallen asleep beside their smouldering camp-fires—the rescuers would rush in, and there would be whoops and shrieks, and the taking of scalps, and a happy return.

Or, some settlement would be shut up in a fort besieged. Days would pass. The only water was a spring outside the walls, and around this the enemy skulked in the corn and grass. But the warriors must not perish of thirst. So, with a prayer, a tear, a final embrace, the little women marched out through the gates to the spring, in the very teeth of death, and brought back water in their wooden dinner-buckets.

Or, when the boys would become men with contests of running, and pitching quoits, and wrestling, the girls would play wives and have a quilting in a house of green alder-bushes, or be capped and wrinkled grandmothers sitting beside imaginary spinning-wheels and smoking imaginary pipes.

Sometimes it was not Indian warfare, but civil strife. For one morning as many as three Daniel Boones appeared on the playground at the same moment; and at once there was a fierce battle to ascertain which was the genuine Daniel. This being decided, the spurious Daniels submitted to be the one Simon Kenton, the other General George Rogers Clarke.

This was to be a great day for what he called his class in history. Thirteen years before, and forty miles away, had occurred the most dreadful of all the battles—the disaster of the Blue Licks; and in town were many mothers who yet wept for sons, widows who yet dreamed of young husbands, fallen that beautiful August day beneath the oaks and cedars, or floating down the red-dyed river.

It was this that he had promised to tell them at noon; and a little after twelve o'clock he was standing with them on the bank of the Town Fork, in order to give vividness to his description. This stream flows unseen beneath the streets of the city [Lexington] now, and with scarce current enough to wash out its grimy channels; but then it flashed broad and clear through the long valley which formed the town common—a valley of scattered houses with orchards and corn-fields and patches of cane.

A fine poetic picture he formed as he stood there amid their eager upturned faces, bare-headed under the cool brilliant sky of May, and reciting to them, as a prose-minstrel of the wilderness, the deeds of their fathers.

This Town Fork of the Elkhorn, he said, must represent the Licking River. On that side were the Indians; on this, the pioneers, a crowd of foot and horse. There stretched the ridge of rocks, made bare by the stamping of the buffalo; here was the clay they licked for salt. In that direction headed the two ravines in which Boone had feared an ambuscade. And thus variously having made ready for battle, and looking down for a moment into the eyes of a freckly impetuous little soul who was the Hotspur of the playground, he repeated the cry of McGary, which had been the signal for attack:

"Let all who are not cowards follow me!"

[Hereupon the soldiers plunged through the river, not seeing the Indians nor even knowing where they were; and in a few minutes they were attacked and completely routed by the Indians who were concealed in the woods and ravines of the other bank, as Boone had feared. Boone's son was killed, and he himself narrowly escaped by dashing through one of the ravines and swimming the river lower down. The slaughter in the river was great, and the pursuit was continued for twenty miles. Never had Kentucky experienced so fatal a blow as that at the Blue Licks.—L. M.]

FOOTNOTE:

[41] By permission of J. B. Lippincott Co., Philadelphia.



JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.

1848=——.

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS was born in Eatonton, Georgia, and is a lawyer: but he has devoted much time of late years to literature, and is now one of the editors of the "Atlanta Constitution."



His dialect stories of "Uncle Remus" are a faithful reproduction of the popular tales of the old negroes of South Carolina, Georgia, and Alabama; for the negro dialect varies in the different States. Mr. Harris' books have made these tales known in England.

"On the Plantation" is said to be autobiographical; it is a story of a boy's life during the war, well and simply told.

WORKS.

Uncle Remus: His Songs and His Sayings. Nights with Uncle Remus. On the Plantation. Little Mr. Thimblefinger. Mingo, and other Sketches. Free Joe, and other Georgian Sketches. Daddy Jake, the Runaway, and Short Stories Told after Dark.

THE TAR-BABY.

(From Uncle Remus, His Songs and His Sayings.[42])

"Didn't the fox never catch the rabbit, Uncle Remus?" asked the little boy the next evening.

"He come mighty nigh it, honey, sho's you bawn—Brer Fox did. One day atter Brer Rabbit fool 'im wid dat calamus root, Brer Fox went ter wuk en got 'im some tar, en mix it wid some turkentine, en fix up a contrapshun w'at he call a Tar-Baby, en he tuk dish yer Tar-Baby en he sot 'er in de big road, en den he lay off in de bushes fer to see w'at de news wuz gwineter be. En he didn't hatter wait long, nudder, kaze bimeby here come Brer Rabbit pacin' down de road—lippity-clippity, clippity-lippity—dez ez sassy ez a jay-bird. Brer Fox, he lay low. Brer Rabbit come prancin' 'long twel he spy de Tar-Baby, en den he fotch up on his behine legs like he wuz 'stonished. De Tar-Baby, she sot dar, she did, en Brer Fox, he lay low.

"'Mawnin'!' says Brer Rabbit, sezee—'nice wedder dis mawnin',' sezee.

"Tar-Baby ain't sayin' nuthin', en Brer Fox, he lay low.

"'How duz yo' sym'tums seem ter segashuate?' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.

"Brer Fox, he wink his eye slow, en lay low, en de Tar-Baby, she ain't sayin' nuthin'.

"'How you come on, den? Is you deaf?' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. 'Kaze if you is, I kin holler louder,' sezee.

"Tar-Baby stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low.

"'Youer stuck up, dat's w'at you is,' says Brer Rabbit, sezee, 'en I'm gwineter kyore you, dat's w'at I'm a gwineter do,' sezee.

"Brer Fox, he sorter chuckle in his stummuck, he did, but Tar-Baby ain't sayin' nuthin'.

"'I'm gwineter larn you howter talk ter 'specttubble fokes ef hit's de las' ack,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. 'Ef you don't take off dat hat en tell me howdy, I'm gwineter bus' you wide open,' sezee.

"Tar-Baby stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low.

"Brer Rabbit keep on axin' 'im, en de Tar-Baby, she keep on sayin' nuthin', twel present'y Brer Rabbit draw back wid his fis', he did, en blip he tuck 'er side er de head. Right dar's where he broke his merlasses jug. His fis' stuck, en he can't pull loose. De tar hilt 'im. But Tar-Baby, she stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low.

"'Ef you don't lemme loose, I'll knock you agin,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, en wid dat he fotch 'er a wipe wid de udder han', en dat stuck. Tar-Baby, she ain't sayin' nuthin', en Brer Fox, he lay low.

"'Tu'n me loose, fo' I kick de nat'al stuffin' outen you,' sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, but de Tar-Baby, she ain't sayin' nuthin'. She des hilt on, en den Brer Rabbit lose de use er his feet in de same way. Brer Fox, he lay low. Den Brer Rabbit squall out dat ef de Tar-Baby don't tu'n 'im loose he butt 'er cranksided. En den he butted, en his head got stuck. Den Brer Fox, he sa'ntered fort', lookin' dez ez innercent ez wunner yo' mammy's mockin'-birds.

"'Howdy, Brer Rabbit,' sez Brer Fox, sezee. 'You look sorter stuck up dis mawnin',' sezee, en den he rolled on de groun', en laft en laft twel he couldn't laff no mo'. 'I speck you'll take dinner wid me dis time, Brer Rabbit. I done laid in some calamus root, en I ain't gwineter take no skuse,' sez Brer Fox, sezee."

Here Uncle Remus paused, and drew a two-pound yam out of the ashes.

"Did the fox eat the rabbit?" asked the little boy to whom the story had been told.

"Dat's all de fur de tale goes," replied the old man. "He mout, en den agin he moutent. Some say Jedge B'ar come 'long en loosed 'im,—some say he didn't. I hear Miss Sally callin'. You better run 'long."

FOOTNOTE:

[42] By permission of D. Appleton & Co, N. Y.



ROBERT BURNS WILSON.

1850=——.

ROBERT BURNS WILSON was born in Washington County, Pennsylvania, but removed early to Frankfort, Kentucky, where he devoted himself to landscape painting. Some of his pictures attracted attention at the New Orleans Exposition, 1884. His poems have appeared in magazines and have been much admired for their musical flow of deep feeling and fancy.

WORKS.

Life And Love: Poems.

FAIR DAUGHTER OF THE SUN.

(From Life and Love.[43])

Hail! daughter of the sun! White-robed and fair to see, where goest thou now In haste from thy spiced garden? Hath thy brow, Crowned with white blooms, begun To grow a-weary of its flagrant wreath, And do thy temples long to ache beneath A gilded, iron crown? Tak'st thou the glint of Mammon's glittering car To be the gleam of some new-risen star— Yond clamor, for renown?

Stay, lovely one, oh stay! Within thy gates, love-garlanded, remain: For love this Mammon seeks not, but for gain— He is the same alway. This god in burnished tinsel, as of old, Cares for no music save of clinking gold— All else to him is vain: His heart is flint, his ears are dull as lead; A crown of care he bringeth for thy head, And for thy wrists a chain.

Bide thou, oh goddess, stay! Even in the gateway turn! The orange tree Keeps still her snowy wreath of love for thee; The jasmine's starry spray Still waves thee back: O South! thy glory lies In thine own sacred fields. There shall arise Thy day, which fadeth not: There—patient hands shall fill thy cup with wine, There—hearts devoted, make thy name divine, Their own hard fate forgot.

DEDICATION.—SONNET.

TO ELIZABETH, MY MOTHER.

The green Virginian hills were blithe in May, And we were plucking violets—thou and I. A transient gladness flooded earth and sky; Thy fading strength seemed to return that day, And I was mad with hope that God would stay Death's pale approach—Oh! all hath long passed by! Long years! long years! and now, I well know why Thine eyes, quick-filled with tears, were turned away. First loved; first lost; my mother: time must still Leave my soul's debt uncancelled. All that's best In me and in my art is thine:—Me-seems Even now, we walk afield. Through good and ill, My sorrowing heart forgets not, and in dreams, I see thee, in the sun-lands of the blest.

FOOTNOTE:

[43] By permission of the author, and publishers, the Cassell Publishing Co., N. Y.



"CHRISTIAN REID."

FRANCES C. TIERNAN.

MRS. TIERNAN has written many novels of Southern life. She is a daughter of Colonel Charles F. Fisher of Salisbury, North Carolina, who was killed in the battle of Manassas. Her best known book, "The Land of the Sky," describes a summer tour through the grand mountains of her native State, taken before the railroads had penetrated them.

WORKS.

Valerie Aylmer. Mabel Lee. Nina's Atonement. Carmen's Inheritance. Hearts and Hands. Land of the Sky. Heart of Steel. Summer Idyl. Roslyn's Fortune. Morton House. Ebb Tide. Daughter of Bohemia. A Gentle Belle. A Question of Honor. After Many Days. Bonny Kate. Armine. Miss Churchill. Land of the Sun (1895).



ASCENT OF MOUNT MITCHELL, BLACK MOUNTAIN, NORTH CAROLINA.

(From The Land of the Sky.[44])

The sun is shining brightly, and his golden lances light up the depths of the forest into which we enter—an enchanted world of far-reaching greenness, the stillness of which is only broken by the voice of the streams which come down the gorges of the mountain in leaping cascades. Few things are more picturesque than the appearance of a cavalcade like ours following in single file the winding path (not road) that leads into the marvelous, mysterious wilderness. When the ascent fairly begins, the path is often like the letter S, and one commands a view of the entire line—of horsemen in slouched hats and gray coats, of ladies in a variety of attire, with water-proof cloaks serving as riding-skirts, and hats garlanded with forest wreaths and grasses. The guide tramps steadily ahead, leading the pack-horse, and we catch a glimpse of his face now and then as he turns to answer some question addressed to him. . . . . . . .

"We wind up the side of the mountain like this for several miles," says Eric, "then we travel along a ridge for some distance, and finally we ascend the peak formerly called the Black Dome, now Mount Mitchell. The whole distance is about twelve miles, and the most of it is steady climbing." . . . . . .

"And it was in this wilderness that Professor Mitchell lost his life sixteen or seventeen years ago, was it not?" I ask.

"Yes, Burnett [the guide] was one of the men engaged in the search for him. He will tell you all about it. . ."

The forest around us becomes wilder, greener, more luxuriant at every step. . . . Presently, however, the aspect of our surroundings changes. We leave this varied forest behind, and enter the region of the balsam, from the dark color of which the mountain takes its name. Above a certain line of elevation no trees are found save these beautiful yet sombre firs. They grow to an immense height and stand so thickly together that one marvels how any animal larger than a cat can thread its way among their stems. Overhead the boughs interlock in a canopy, making perpetual shade beneath. No shrubs of any kind are to be found here—only beds of thick elastic moss, richer than the richest velvet, and ferns in plumy profusion. . . . Dan Burnett leads on, and presently we emerge on the largest and most beautiful of the little prairies through which we have passed. This stretch of open ground lies at the foot of the highest peak, the abrupt sides of which rise in conical shape before us. It is here, Mr. Burnett tells us, that the mountaineers who were searching for Professor Mitchell found the first trace of the way he had taken.

"We had been searchin' from Friday to Tuesday," he says, "and on Tuesday we was pretty nigh disheartened, when Wilson—an old hunter from over in Yancey—said he hadn't no doubt the professor had tried to go down to Caney Valley by a trail they two had followed thirteen years afore, and which leads that way"—he points down into the dark wilds below us. "Well, we looked along the edge of this here prairie till we found a track. Wilson was right—he had tried to go down to Caney Valley. We follered his trail fur about four mile, and I was one of them what found him at last."

"He had lost his way," says Eric. "I have seen the spot—they call it Mitchell's Falls now—where he died. A stream of considerable size plunges over a precipice of about forty feet into a basin fourteen feet deep by as many wide. Into this he fell, probably at night."

"But how was it possible to bring a dead body up these steeps?" Sylvia says, addressing Mr. Burnett.

"We brought it in a sheet slung to the top of stout poles," he answers. "Then it were carried down to Asheville, and then brought up again, and buried there"—he nods to the peak above us.

"In the warmth of their great friendship and admiration, people thought that he ought to rest in the midst of the scenes he had explored so fearlessly and loved so well," says Eric. . . . Before long we gain the top, and the first object on which our eyes rest is—the grave. . . . . . . .

Besides the grave, the summit is entirely bare.

The view is so immense that one is forced to regard it in sections. Far to the north east lies Virginia, from which the long waving line of the Blue Ridge comes, and passes directly under the Black, making a point of junction, near which it towers into the steep Pinnacle and stately Graybeard—so called from the white beard which it wears when a frozen cloud has iced its rhododendrons. From our greater eminence we overlook the Blue Ridge entirely, and see the country below spreading into azure distance, with white spots which resolve themselves through the glasses into villages, and mountains clearly defined. The Linville range—through which the Linville River forces its way in a gorge of wonderful grandeur—is in full view, with a misty cloud lying on the surface of Table Rock, while the peculiar form of the Hawk's Bill stands forth in marked relief. Beyond, blue and limitless as the ocean, the undulating plain of the more level country extends until it melts into the sky.

As the glance leaves this view, and, sweeping back over the Blue Ridge, follows the main ledge of the Black, one begins to appreciate the magnitude of this great mountain. For miles along its dark crest appear a succession of cone-like peaks, and, as it sweeps around westwardly, it divides into two great branches—one of which terminates in the height on which we stand, while numerous spurs lead off from its base; the other stretches southward, forming the splendid chain of Craggy. At our feet lie the elevated counties of Yancey and Mitchell, with their surfaces so unevenly mountainous that one wonders how men could have been daring enough to think of making their homes amid such wild scenes. . . . Beyond these counties stretches the chain of the Unaka, running along the line of Tennessee, with the Roan Mountain—famous for its extensive view over seven states—immediately in our front. Through the passes and rugged chasms of this range, we look across the entire valley of East Tennessee to where the blue outlines of the Cumberland Mountains trend toward Kentucky, and we see distinctly a marked depression which Eric says is Cumberland Gap. Turning our gaze due westward, the view is, if possible, still more grand. There the colossal masses of the Great Smoky stand, draped in a mantle of clouds, while through Haywood and Transylvania, to the borders of South Carolina, rise the peaks of the Balsam Mountains, behind which are the Cullowhee and the Nantahala, with the Blue Ridge making a majestic curve toward the point where Georgia touches the Carolinas. . . . .

It is enough to sit and watch the inexpressible beauty of the vast prospect us afternoon slowly wanes into evening. There is a sense of isolation, of solemnity and majesty, in the scene which none of us are likely to forget. So high are we elevated above the world that the pure vault of ether over our heads seems nearer to us than the blue rolling earth, with its wooded hills and smiling valleys below. No sound comes up to us, no voice of water or note of bird breaks the stillness. We are in the region of that eternal silence which wraps the summits of the "everlasting hills." A repose that is full of awe broods over this lofty peak, which still retains the last rays of the sinking sun, while over the lower world twilight has fallen.

FOOTNOTE:

[44] By permission of the author, and publishers, D. Appleton & Co., N. Y.



HENRY WOODFEN GRADY.

1851=1889.

HENRY WOODFEN GRADY was born at Athens, Georgia, and educated at the State University. He became an editor, and in 1880 purchased an interest in the Atlanta "Constitution" on whose staff he remained till his death. His articles, addresses, and editorials made his name well known throughout the country, and contributed no little to the development of Southern industries after the war. A monument has been erected to him in Atlanta.

WORKS.

The New South, [a series of articles]. Editorials, addresses, &c.

THE SOUTH BEFORE THE WAR.

(From The New South, 1889.[45])



Master and Slave.—Perhaps no period of human history has been more misjudged and less understood than the slaveholding era in the South. Slavery as an institution cannot be defended; but its administration was so nearly perfect among our forefathers as to challenge and hold our loving respect. It is doubtful if the world has seen a peasantry so happy and so well-to-do as the negro slaves in America. The world was amazed at the fidelity with which these slaves guarded, from 1861 to 1865, the homes and families of the masters who were fighting with the army that barred their way to freedom. If "Uncle Tom's Cabin" had portrayed the rule of slavery rather than the rarest exception, not all the armies that went to the field could have stayed the flood of rapine and arson and pillage that would have started with the first gun of the civil war. Instead of that, witness the miracle of the slave in loyalty to his master, closing the fetters upon his own limbs—maintaining and defending the families of those who fought against his freedom—and at night on the far-off battle-field searching among the carnage for his young master, that he might lift the dying head to his breast and bend to catch the last words to the old folks at home, so wrestling the meantime in agony and love that he would lay down his life in his master's stead.

History has no parallel to the faith kept by the negro in the South during the war. Often five hundred negroes to a single white man, and yet through these dusky throngs the women and children walked in safety, and the unprotected homes rested in peace. Unmarshalled, the black battalions moved patiently to the fields in the morning to feed the armies their idleness would have starved, and at night gathered anxiously at the "big house to hear the news from marster," though conscious that his victory made their chains enduring. Everywhere humble and kindly. The body-guard of the helpless. The rough companion of the little ones. The observant friend. The silent sentry in his lowly cabin. The shrewd counsellor. And when the dead came home, a mourner at the open grave. A thousand torches would have disbanded every Southern army, but not one was lighted. When the master, going to a war in which slavery was involved, said to his slave, "I leave my home and loved ones in your charge," the tenderness between man and master stood disclosed.

The Northern man, dealing with casual servants, querulous, sensitive, and lodged for a day in a sphere they resent, can hardly comprehend the friendliness and sympathy that existed between the master and the slave. He cannot understand how the negro stood in slavery days, open-hearted and sympathetic, full of gossip and comradeship, the companion of the hunt, frolic, furrow, and home, contented in the kindly dependence that had been a habit of his blood, and never lifting his eyes beyond the narrow horizon that shut him in with his neighbors and friends. But this relation did exist in the days of slavery. It was the rule of that regime. It has survived war, and strife, and political campaigns in which the drum-beat inspired and Federal bayonets fortified. It will never die until the last slaveholder and slave has been gathered to rest. It is the glory of our past in the South. It is the answer to abuse and slander. It is the hope of our future.

Ante-bellum Civilization.—The relations of the races in slavery must be clearly understood to understand what has followed, and to judge of what is yet to come. Not less important is it to have some clear idea of the civilization of that period.

That was a peculiar society. Almost feudal in its splendor, it was almost patriarchal in its simplicity. Leisure and wealth gave it exquisite culture. Its wives and mothers, exempt from drudgery, and almost from care, gave to their sons, through patient and constant training, something of their own grace and gentleness and to their homes beauty and light. Its people, homogeneous by necessity, held straight and simple faith, and were religious to a marked degree along the old lines of Christian belief. This same homogeneity bred a hospitality that was as kinsmen to kinsmen, and that wasted at the threshold of every home what the more frugal people of the North conserved and invested in public charities.

The code duello furnished the highest appeal in dispute. An affront to a lad was answered at the pistol's mouth. The sense of quick responsibility tempered the tongues of even the most violent, and the newspapers of South Carolina for eight years, it is said, did not contain one abusive word. The ownership of slaves, even more than of realty, held families steadfast on their estates, and everywhere prevailed the sociability of established neighborhoods. Money counted least in making the social status, and constantly ambitious and brilliant youngsters from no estate married into the families of the planter princes. Meanwhile the one character utterly condemned and ostracized was the man who was mean to his slaves. Even the coward was pitied and might have been liked. For the cruel master there was no toleration.

The ante-bellum society had immense force. Working under the slavery which brought the suspicion or hostility of the world, and which practically beleaguered it within walls, it yet accomplished good things. For the first sixty-four years of the republic it furnished the president for fifty-two years. Its statesmen demanded the war of 1812, opened it with but five Northern senators supporting it, and its general, Jackson, won the decisive battle of New Orleans. It was a Southern statesman who added the Louisiana territory of more than 1,000,000 square miles to our domain. Under a Southern statesman Florida was acquired from Spain. Against the opposition of the free States, the Southern influence forced the war with Mexico, and annexed the superb empire of Texas, brought in New Mexico, and opened the gates of the republic to the Pacific. Scott and Taylor, the heroes of the Mexican war, were Southern men. In material, as in political affairs, the old South was masterful. The first important railroad operated in America traversed Carolina. The first steamer that crossed the ocean cleared from Savannah.

The first college established for girls was opened in Georgia. No naturalist has surpassed Audubon; no geographer equalled Maury; and Sims and McDonald led the world of surgery in their respective lines. It was Crawford Long, of Georgia, who gave to the world the priceless blessing of anaesthesia.

The wealth accumulated by the people was marvellous. And, though it is held that slavery enriched the few at the general expense, Georgia and Carolina were the richest States, per capita, in the Union in 1800, saving Rhode Island. Some idea of the desolation of the war may be had from the fact that, in spite of their late remarkable recuperation, they are now, excepting Idaho, the poorest States, per capita, in the Union. So rich was the South in 1860, that Mr. Lincoln spoke but common sentiment when he said: "If we let the South go, where shall we get our revenues?"

In its engaging grace—in the chivalry that tempered even Quixotism with dignity—in the piety that saved master and slave alike—in the charity that boasted not—in the honor held above estate—in the hospitality that neither condescended nor cringed—in frankness and heartiness and wholesome comradeship—in the reverence paid to womanhood and the inviolable respect in which woman's name was held—the civilization of the old slave regime in the South has not been surpassed, and perhaps will not be equalled, among men.

And as the fidelity of the slave during the war bespoke the kindness of the master before the war, so the unquestioning reverence with which the young men of the South accepted, in 1865, their heritage of poverty and defeat, proved the strength and excellence of the civilization from which that heritage had come. In cheerfulness they bestirred themselves amid the ashes and the wrecks, and, holding the inspiration of their past to be better than their rich acres and garnered wealth, went out to rebuild their fallen fortunes, with never a word of complaint, nor the thought of criticism!

FOOTNOTE:

[45] By permission of "New York Ledger," Robert Bonner's Sons, N. Y.



THOMAS NELSON PAGE.

1853=——.

THOMAS NELSON PAGE was born at "Oakland," Hanover County, Virginia, of distinguished ancestry. He was educated at Washington and Lee University, studied law, and settled in Richmond. His first writings were poems and stories in the Virginia negro dialect, some of them in connection with Armistead Churchill Gordon. He is now (1894) editor of "The Drawer" in Harper's Monthly, and stands high as one of the younger writers of our country.

WORKS.

In Ole Virginia, [stories in negro dialect]. Two Little Confederates. Elsket, and other Stories. Essays on the South, its literature, the Negro question, &c., in magazines. Befo' de Wa', (with A. C. Gordon). On New Found River. Pastime Stories, [written for "The Drawer"]. Among the Camps, [stories].



Mr. Page delineates finely the old Virginia darkey and his dialect, as Mr. Harris does the darkey of the Carolinas and Georgia. There is a marked difference between them.

"The naturalness of his style, the skill with which he uses seemingly indifferent incidents and sayings to trick out and light up his pictures, the apparently unintentional and therefore most effective touches of pathos, are uncommon."

MARSE CHAN'S LAST BATTLE.

(From Marse Chan: In Ole Virginia.[46])

"Well, jes' den dey blowed boots an' saddles, an' we mounted: an' de orders come to ride 'roun' de slope, an' Marse Chan's comp'ny wuz de secon', an' when we got 'roun' dyah, we wuz right in it. Hit wuz de wust place ever dis nigger got in. An' dey said, 'Charge 'em!' an' my king! ef ever you see bullets fly, dey did dat day. Hit wuz jes' like hail; an' we wen' down de slope (I 'long wid de res') an' up de hill right to'ds de cannons, an' de fire wuz so strong dyar (dey had a whole rigiment of infintrys layin' down dyar onder de cannons) our lines sort o' broke an' stop; de cun'l was kilt, an' I b'lieve dey wuz jes' 'bout to bre'k all to pieces, when Marse Chan rid up an' cotch hol' de fleg, an' hollers, 'Foller me!' and rid strainin' up de hill 'mong de cannons.

"I seen 'im when he went, de sorrel four good lengths ahead o' ev'ry urr hoss, jes' like he use' to be in a fox-hunt, an' de whole rigiment right arfter 'im. Yo' ain' nuvver hear thunder! Fust thing I knowed, de roan roll' head over heels an' flung me up 'g'inst de bank, like yo' chuck a nubbin over 'g'inst de foot o' de corn pile. An' dat's what kep' me from bein' kilt, I 'spects. Judy she say she think 'twuz Providence, but I think 'twuz de bank. O' c'ose, Providence put de bank dyah, but how come Providence nuver saved Marse Chan?

"When I look 'roun' de roan wuz lyin' dyah by me, stone dead, wid a cannon-ball gone 'mos' th'oo him, an' our men had done swep' dem on t'urr side from de top o' de hill. 'Twan' mo'n a minit, de sorrel come gallupin' back wid his mane flyin', an' de rein hangin' down on one side to his knee. 'Dyar!' says I, 'fo' God! I 'spects dey done kill Marse Chan, an' I promised to tek care on him.'

"I jumped up an' run over de bank, an' dyar, wid a whole lot o' dead men, an' some not dead yit, onder one o' de guns, wid de fleg still in he han', an' a bullet right th'oo he body, lay Marse Chan. I tu'n him over an' call him, 'Marse Chan!' but 'twan' no use, he wuz done gone home, sho' 'nuff. I pick 'im up in my arms wid de fleg still in he han's, an' toted' im back jes' like I did dat day when he wus 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.

"I kyar'd 'im 'way off de battle-fiel' out de way o' de balls, an' I laid 'im down onder a big tree till I could git somebody to ketch the sorrel for me. He wuz cotched arfter a while, an' I hed some money, so I got some pine plank an' made a coffin dat evenin', an' wrapt Marse Chan's body up in de fleg, and put 'im in de coffin; but I didn' nail de top on strong, 'cause I knowed ole missis wan' see 'im; an' I got a' ambulance, an' set out for home dat night. We reached dyar de nex' evenin', arfter travellin' all dat night an' all nex' day."

FOOTNOTE:

[46] By permission of author, and publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons, N. Y.



MARY NOAILLES MURFREE.

"CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK."

MISS MURFREE was born at "Grantlands," near Murfreesboro, Tennessee, the family home inherited from her great-grandfather, Colonel Hardy Murfree, for whom the town was named. Her youth was spent here and in Nashville, the summers being passed in the Tennessee Mountains: shortly after the Civil War, her father removed to St. Louis, and it was there that she began to write.

Her stories are laid mainly in the mountains of Tennessee and describe vividly and truly the people, life, and exquisite scenery of that region.

WORKS.

In the Tennessee Mountains, [short stories]. Down the Ravine. In the Clouds. Despot of Broomsedge Cove. Phantoms of the Foot-Bridge. Where the Battle Was Fought. Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains. Story of Keedon Bluffs. In the "Stranger People's" Country.

THE "HARNT" THAT WALKS CHILHOWEE.

(From In the Tennessee Mountains.[47])



June had crossed the borders of Tennessee. Even on the summit of Chilhowee Mountain the apples in Peter Giles' orchard were beginning to redden, and his Indian corn, planted on so steep a declivity that the stalks seemed to have much ado to keep their footing, was crested with tassels and plumed with silk. Among the dense forests, seen by no man's eye, the elder was flying its creamy banners in honor of June's coming, and, heard by no man's ear, the pink and white bells of the azalea rang out melodies of welcome. . . . . . . .

Then the two men tilted their chairs against the little porch in front of Peter Giles' log cabin, and puffed their pipes in silence. The panorama spread out before them showed misty and dreamy among the delicate spiral wreaths of smoke. But was that gossamer-like illusion, lying upon the far horizon, the magic of nicotian, or the vague presence of distant heights? As ridge after ridge came down from the sky in ever-graduating shades of intenser blue, Peter Giles might have told you that this parallel system of enchantment was only "the mountings"; that here was Foxy, and there was Big Injun, and still beyond was another, which he had "hearn tell ran spang up into Virginny." The sky that bent to clasp this kindred blue was of varying moods. Floods of sunshine submerged Chilhowee in liquid gold, and revealed that dainty outline limned upon the northern horizon; but over the Great Smoky mountains, clouds had gathered and a gigantic rainbow bridged the valley. . . . . . . . . Simon Burney did not speak for a moment. . . . "That's a likely gal o' yourn," he drawled, with an odd constraint in his voice,—"a likely gal, that Clarsie." . . .

"Yes," Peter Giles at length replied, "Clarsie air a likely enough gal. But she air mightily sot ter havin' her own way. An' ef 't ain't give to her peaceable-like, she jes' takes it, whether or no."

This statement, made by one presumably informed on the subject, might have damped the ardor of many a suitor,—for the monstrous truth was dawning on Peter Giles's mind that suitor was the position to which this slow elderly widower aspired. But Simon Burney, with that odd, all-pervading constraint still prominently apparent, mildly observed, "Waal, ez much ez I hev seen of her goin's-on, it 'pears ter me az her way air a mighty good way. An' it ain't comical that she likes it." . . . . . . . The song grew momentarily more distinct: among the leaves there were fugitive glimpses of blue and white, and at last Clarsie appeared, walking lightly along the log, clad in her checked homespun dress, and with a pail upon her head.

She was a tall lithe girl, with that delicately transparent complexion often seen among the women of these mountains. Her lustreless black hair lay along her forehead without a ripple or a wave; there was something in the expression of her large eyes that suggested those of a deer,—something free, untamable, and yet gentle. "'Tain't no wonder ter me ez Clarsie is all tuk up with the wild things, an' critters ginerally," her mother was wont to say; "she sorter looks like 'em, I'm a-thinkin'."

As she came in sight there was a renewal of that odd constraint in Simon Burney's face and manner, and he rose abruptly. "Waal," he said, hastily, going to his horse, a raw-boned sorrel, hitched to the fence, "it's about time I war a-startin' home, I reckons."

He nodded to his host, who silently nodded in return, and the old horse jogged off with him down the road, as Clarsie entered the house and placed the pail upon a shelf.

. . . . . . . . .

The breeze freshened, after the sun went down, . . . 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 Clarsie'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."

. . . . . . . .

The young man took leave presently, in great depression of spirits. . . . Clarsie ascended the ladder to a nook in the roof which she called her room.

For the first time in her life her slumber was fitful and restless, long intervals of wakefulness alternating with snatches of fantastic dreams. . . . And then her mind reverted to Tom Pratt, to old Simon Burney, and to her mother's emphatic and oracular declaration that widowers are in league with Satan, and that the girls upon whom they cast the eye of supernatural fascination have no choice in the matter. "I wish I knowed ef that thar sayin' war true," she murmured, her face still turned to the western spurs, and the moon sinking slowly toward them.

With a sudden resolution she rose to her feet. She knew a way of telling fortunes which was, according to tradition, infallible, and she determined to try it, and ease her mind as to her future. Now was the propitious moment. "I hev always hearn that it won't come true 'thout ye try it jes' before daybreak, an' kneelin' down at the forks of the road." She hesitated a moment and listened intently. "They'd never git done a-laffin' at me, ef they fund it out," she thought. . . . [She went out into the road.] She fixed her eyes upon the mystic sphere dropping down the sky, knelt among the azaleas at the forks of the road, and repeated the time-honored invocation: "Ef I'm a-goin' ter marry a young man, whistle, Bird, whistle. Ef I'm a-goin' ter marry an old man, low, Cow, low. Ef I ain't a-goin' ter marry nobody, knock, Death, knock."

There was a prolonged silence in the matutinal freshness and perfume of the woods. She raised her head, and listened attentively. No chirp of half-awakened bird, no tapping of wood-pecker or the mysterious death-watch; but from far along the dewy aisles of the forest, the ungrateful Spot that Clarsie had fed more faithfully than herself, lifted up her voice, and set the echoes vibrating. Clarsie, however, had hardly time for a pang of disappointment.

While she still knelt among the azaleas, her large deer-like eyes were suddenly dilated with terror. From around the curve of the road came the quick beat of hastening footsteps, the sobbing sound of panting breath, and between her and the sinking moon there passed an attenuated one-armed figure, with a pallid sharpened face, outlined for a moment on its brilliant disk, and dreadful starting eyes, and quivering open mouth. It disappeared in an instant among the shadows of the laurel, and Clarsie, with a horrible fear clutching at her heart, sprang to her feet. . . . the ghost stood before her. She could not nerve herself to run past him, and he was directly in her way homeward.

. . . . . . . . .

"Ye do ez ye air bid, or it'll be the worse for ye," said the "harnt" in a quivering shrill tone. "Thar's hunger in the nex' worl' 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'll be the worse for ye." . . .

The next morning, before the moon sank, Clarsie, with a tin pail in her hand, went to meet the ghost at the appointed place. . . . . . Morning was close at hand. . . . . . 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. . . . 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 Burney, face to face. His rod was on his shoulder, and a string of fish was in his hand.

"Ye air a-doin' wrongful, Clarsie," he said sternly. "It air agin the law fur folks ter feed an' shelter them ez is a-runnin' from jestice. An' ye'll git yerself inter trouble. Other folks will find ye out, besides me, an' then the sheriff 'll be up hyar arter ye."

The tears rose to Clarsie's 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. "I can't gin my consent ter starvin' of folks, even if they air a-hidin' an' a-runnin' from jestice." . . . .

FOOTNOTE:

[47] By permission of Houghton, Mifflin, and Company, Boston.



DANSKE DANDRIDGE.

1859=——.

MRS. DANDRIDGE was born in Copenhagen, when her father, Honorable Henry Bedinger, was minister to Denmark. In 1877 she was married to Mr. Stephen Dandridge of Shepherdstown, West Virginia. Her first name, Danske, is the pretty Danish word for Dane, and is pronounced in two syllables.

WORKS.

Joy, and other Poems.

Mrs. Dandridge's poems are as dainty and airy as if the elves themselves had led her to their bowers and discovered to her their secrets; and this is truly what her poetic sense has done, for the poet is a seer and singer of the secrets of nature.

THE SPIRIT AND THE WOOD SPARROW.

(From Joy, and other Poems.[48])

'Twas long ago: The place was very fair; And from a cloud of snow A spirit of the air Dropped to the earth below. It was a spot by man untrod, Just where I think is only known to God. The spirit, for a while, Because of beauty freshly made Could only smile; Then grew the smiling to a song, And as he sang he played Upon a moonbeam-wired cithole Shaped like a soul.

There was no ear Or far or near, Save one small sparrow of the wood, That song to hear. This, in a bosky tree, Heard all, and understood As much as a small sparrow could By sympathy. 'Twas a fair sight That morn of Spring, When on the lonely height, The spirit paused to sing, Then through the air took flight Still lilting on the wing. And the shy bird, Who all had heard, Straightway began To practice o'er the lovely strain; Again, again; Though indistinct and blurred, He tried each word, Until he caught the last far sounds that fell Like the faint tinkles of a fairy bell.

Now when I hear that song, Which has no earthly tone, My soul is carried with the strain along To the everlasting Throne; To bow in thankfulness and prayer, And gain fresh faith, and love, and patience, there.

FOOTNOTE:

[48] By permission of the author, and publishers. G. P. Putnam's Sons, N. Y.



AMELIE RIVES CHANLER.

1863=——.

MRS. CHANLER, or AMELIE RIVES as she still styles herself in writing, was born in Richmond, Virginia, but passed her early life at the family place in Albemarle County, called "Castle Hill." She is a granddaughter of William Cabell Rives, once minister to France and author of "Life of Madison"; and her grandmother, Mrs. Judith Walker Rives, was a woman of much ability, and left some writings entitled "Home and the World," and "Residence in Europe."

She was married in 1888 to Mr. John Armstrong Chanler of New York and has since spent much time in Paris, studying painting for which she has as great fondness as for writing.

Her first stories were written in the style of the time of Shakspere; the best of them is "Farrier Lass o' Piping Pebworth." They created a sensation as they came out and were said to be the work of a girl under twenty. She has also written stories of Virginia life and of modern times; besides poems, and dramas, in which last her talents seem to reach a higher plane than in any other kind of writing.

WORKS.

A Brother to Dragons. Farrier Lass o' Piping Pebworth. Virginia of Virginia. The Quick or the Dead? According to St. John. Athelwold, [drama]. Barbara Dering, [sequel to The Quick or the Dead?] Nurse Crumpet Tells the Story. Story of Arnon. Inja. Witness of the Sun. Herod and Mariamne, [drama]. Poems, [scattered in magazines]. Tanis, the Sang-Digger.

TANIS.

(From Tanis, the Sang-Digger.[49])

Gilman was driving along one of the well-kept turnpikes that wind about the Warm Springs Valley. He recognized the austere and solemn beauty that hemmed him in from the far-off outer world; but at the same time he was contrasting it with the sea-coast of his native State, Massachusetts, and a certain creeping homesickness began to rise about his heart.



In addition to this, he had left his delicate wife suffering with an acute neuralgic headache, and also saddened by a yearning for the picturesque old farm-house in which he had been born, and where they had lived during the first year of marriage. The trap which Gilman drove was filled with surveying instruments, and, as he turned into the rough mountain road, which led towards the site of the new railway for which he was now prospecting, the smaller ones began to rattle together and slide from the seat beside him. Finally, as the cart slipped against a stone, the level bounced into a puddle. He was about to jump out when a bold, ringing voice called to him:

"Set still—A'll pick hit up."

Then a figure slid down the rocky bank at his right, her one garment wrinkling from her bare, sturdy legs during the performance.

Gilman had never seen anything like her in his thirty years of varied experience.

She was very tall. A curtain of rough, glittering curls hung to her knees. Her face, clear with that clearness which only a mountain wind can bring, was white as a seagull's breast, except where a dark, yet vivid pink melted into the blue veins on her temples and throat. Her round, fresh lips, smooth as a peony-leaf, were parted in a wide laugh, over teeth large and yellow-white, like the grains on an ear of corn. She wore a loose tunic of blue-gray stuff, which reached to the middle of her legs, covered with grass stains and patches of mould. Her bare feet, somewhat broadened by walking, were well-shaped, the great toe standing apart from the others, the strong, round ankles, although scratched and bruised, perfectly symmetrical. Her arms, bare almost to the shoulder, were like those with which in imagination we complete the Milo. Eyes, round and colored like the edges of broken glass, looked out boldly from under her long black eyebrows. Her nose was straight and well cut, but set impertinently.

As she picked up the muddy level she laughed boisterously and wiped it on her frock.

"Thank you," said Gilman, and then, after a second's hesitation, added: "Where are you going? Perhaps I can give you a lift on your way? Will you get in?"

"Well, a done keer ef a do," she said, still staring at him.

She got in and took the level on her knee, then burst out laughing again—

"A reckon yuh wonders what a'm a haw-hawin' at?" she asked, suddenly. "Well, a'll tell yuh! 'Tiz case a feels jess like this hyuh contrapshun o' yourn. A haint hed a bite sence five this mawnin', and a've got a bubble in th' middle o' me, a ken tell yuh!"

She opened her flexible mouth almost to her ears, showing both rows of speckless teeth, and roaring mirthfully again.

"I've got some sandwiches, here—won't you have one?" said Gilman.

"Dunno—what be they?" she asked, rather suspiciously, eyeing him sidewise.

He explained to her, and she accepted one, tearing from it a huge semi-circle, which she held in her cheek while exclaiming:

"Murder! hain't that good, though? D'yuh eat them things ev'y day? Yuh looks hit! You're a real fine-lookin' feller—mos' ez good-lookin' ez Bill."

"Who is Bill?" asked Gilman, much interested in this, his first conversation with a genuine savage.

"Bill? he's muh pard, an' muh brother, too. I come down hyuh tuh git him a drink o' water, but a hain't foun' a spring yit."

"No, there isn't one in several miles," said Gilman.

"Hyuh!" she cried. "Lemme git out." . . . And she was out, with the bound of a deer. "You g'long," she said; "a'm sorry a rode this far wi' you. You'll larf 'bout muh bar foots, an' this hyuh rag o' mine, wi' them po' white trash an' niggers. Whar you fum, anyhow? You hain't a Fuginia feller. A kin tell by yo' talk. You called roots 'ruts' jess now, an' yuh said we'd 'sun' be whar them other fellers be. Whar you fum?"

"From Massachusetts," said Gilman.

"S'that another langidge fuh some name a knows?"

"No—it's the real name of another State."

"Well, hit's 'nuff tuh twis' a body's tongue, fuh life, so a done blame yuh s'much fuh yo' funny talk. Mawnin'." And she began to swing herself upon a great lichen-crested boulder by the roadside. . . . . .

Gilman was naturally curious as to the type of the young barbarian whom he had met on his drive to Black Creek, and, during a pause in his work, he told a young fellow named Watkins of his adventure, and asked him to what class the girl belonged.

"I reckon, sir, she was a sang-digger," said Watkins, laughing. "They're a awful wild lot, mostly bad as they make 'em, with no more idea of right an' wrong than a lot o' ground-horgs."

"But what is a 'sang-digger'?" asked Gilman, more and more curious.

"Well, sir, sang, or ginseng, ez the real name is, is a sorter root that grows thick in the mountains about here. They make some sorter medicine outer it. I've chawed it myself for heartburn. It's right paying, too—sang-digging is, sir; you ken git at least a dollar a pound for it, an' sometimes you ken dig ten pounds in a day, but that's right seldom. Two or three pounds a day is doin' well. They're a awful low set, sir, sang-diggers is. We call 'em 'snakes' hereabouts, 'cause they don't have no place to live cep'in' in winter, and then they go off somewhere or ruther, to their huts. But in the summer and early autumn they stop where night ketches 'em, an' light a fire an' sleep 'round it. They cert'n'y are a bad lot, sir. They'll steal a sheep or a horse ez quick ez winkin'. Why, t'want a year ago that they stole a mighty pretty mare o' mine, that I set a heap by, an' rid off her tail an' mane a-tearin' through the brush with her. She got loose somehow an' come back to me. But they stole two horses for ole Mr. Hawkins, down near Fallin' Springs, an' he a'in't been able to git 'em back. There's awful murders an' villainies done by 'em. But some o' them sang-digger gals is awful pretty. . . . Yes, sir, I reckon she was a sang-digger, sure enough."

[This wild creature of the woods was treated kindly by Gilman and his wife, and she finally sacrificed herself to save Mrs. Gilman.]

FOOTNOTE:

[49] By permission of the author, and publishers, the Town Topics Publishing Co., N. Y.



GRACE KING.

GRACE KING was born in New Orleans, the daughter of William W. King, and has made a reputation as a writer of short stories depicting Creole life. Her "Balcony Stories" are like pictures in their vivid intensity.

WORKS.

Monsieur Motte. Earthlings. Balcony Stories. Bonne Maman. Bayou L'Ombre. History of Louisiana.

LA GRANDE DEMOISELLE.

A BALCONY STORY.

(From the Century Magazine,[50] Jan., 1893.)

That was what she was called by everybody as soon as she was seen or described. Her name, besides baptismal titles, was Idalie Sainte Foy Mortemart des Islets. When she came into society, in the brilliant little world of New Orleans, it was the event of the season, and after she came in, whatever she did became also events. Whether she went, or did not go; what she said, or did not say; what she wore, and did not wear—all these became important matters of discussion, quoted as much or more than what the President said, or the governor thought. And in those days, the days of '59, New Orleans was not, as it is now, a one-heiress place, but it may be said that one could find heiresses then as one finds type-writing girls now.

Mademoiselle Idalie received her birth and what education she had on her parent's plantation, the famed old Reine Sainte Foy place, and it is no secret that, like the ancient kings of France, her birth exceeded her education.

It was a plantation, the Reine Sainte Foy, the richness and luxury of which are really well described in those perfervid pictures of tropical life, at one time the passion of philanthropic imaginations, excited and exciting over the horrors of slavery. Although these pictures were then often accused of being purposely exaggerated, they seem now to fall short of, instead of surpassing, the truth. Stately walls, acres of roses, miles of oranges, unmeasured fields of cane, colossal sugar-house—they were all there, and all the rest of it, with the slaves, slaves, slaves everywhere, whole villages of negro cabins. And there were also, most noticeable to the natural, as well as visionary eye—there were the ease, idleness, extravagance, self-indulgence, pomp, pride, arrogance, in short the whole enumeration, the moral sine qua non, as some people considered it, of the wealthy slaveholder of aristocratic descent and tastes.

What Mademoiselle Idalie cared to learn she studied, what she did not she ignored; and she followed the same simple rule untrammeled in her eating, drinking, dressing, and comportment generally; and whatever discipline may have been exercised on the place, either in fact or fiction, most assuredly none of it, even so much as in a threat, ever attainted her sacred person. When she was just turned sixteen, Mademoiselle Idalie made up her mind to go into society. Whether she was beautiful or not, it is hard to say. It is almost impossible to appreciate properly the beauty of the rich, the very rich. The unfettered development, the limitless choice of accessories, the confidence, the self-esteem, the sureness of expression, the simplicity of purpose, the ease of execution,—all these produce a certain effect of beauty behind which one really cannot get to measure length of nose, or brilliancy of the eye. This much can be said; there was nothing in her that positively contradicted any assumption of beauty on her part, or credit of it on the part of others. She was very tall and very thin with small head, long neck, black eyes, and abundant straight black hair,—for which her hair-dresser deserved more praise than she,—good teeth of course, and a mouth that, even in prayer, talked nothing but commands; that is about all she had en fait d'ornements, as the modistes say. It may be added that she walked as if the Reine Sainte Foy plantation extended over the whole earth, and the soil of it were too vile for her tread.

Of course she did not buy her toilets in New Orleans. Everything was ordered from Paris, and came as regularly through the custom-house as the modes and robes to the milliners. She was furnished by a certain house there, just as one of a royal family would be at the present day. As this had lasted from her layette up to her sixteenth year, it may be imagined what took place when she determined to make her debut. Then it was literally, not metaphorically, carte blanche, at least so it got to the ears of society. She took a sheet of note-paper, wrote the date at the top, added "I make my debut in November," signed her name at the extreme end of the sheet, addressed it to her dressmaker in Paris, and sent it. . . . . .

That she was admired, raved about, loved even, goes without saying. After the first month she held the refusal of half the beaux of New Orleans. Men did absurd, undignified, preposterous things for her: and she? Love? Marry? The idea never occurred to her. She treated the most exquisite of her pretenders no better than she treated her Paris gowns, for the matter of that. She could not even bring herself to listen to a proposal patiently; whistling to her dogs, in the middle of the most ardent protestations, or jumping up and walking away with a shrug of the shoulders, and a "Bah!"

Well! every one knows what happened after '59. There is no need to repeat. The history of one is the history of all. . . . . . . . .

It might have been ten years according to some calculations, or ten eternities,—the heart and the almanac never agree about time,—but one morning old Champigny (they used to call him Champignon) was walking along his levee front . . . when he saw a figure approaching. He had to stop to look at it, for it was worth while. The head was hidden by a green barege veil, which the showers had plentifully besprinkled with dew; a tall thin figure. . . . She was the teacher of the colored school some three or four miles away. "Ah," thought Champigny, "some Northern lady on a mission." . . . Old Champigny could not get over it that he had never seen her before. But he must have seen her, and, with his abstraction and old age, not have noticed her, for he found out from the negroes that she had been teaching four or five years there. And he found out also—how, it is not important—that she was Idalie Sainte Foy Mortemart des Islets. La grande demoiselle! He had never known her in the old days, owing to his uncomplimentary attitude toward women, but he knew of her, of course, and of her family. . . . .

Only the good God himself knows what passed in Champigny's mind on the subject. We know only the results. He went and married la grande demoiselle. How? Only the good God knows that too.

FOOTNOTE:

[50] By permission of the author, and publishers, The Century Co., N. Y.



WAITMAN BARBE.

1864=——.

WAITMAN BARBE was born at Morgantown, West Virginia, and educated at the State University in that town. Since the year 1884 he has been engaged in editorial and literary pursuits, being now editor of the Daily State Journal. He has already made a reputation as a speaker on literary and educational topics: and his poems, first appearing in periodicals, have now been collected into a volume called "Ashes and Incense," the first edition of which was exhausted in six months. It "has put him among the foremost of the young American poets." Edmund Clarence Stedman says of it: "There is real poetry in the book—a voice worth owning and exercising. I am struck with the beauty and feeling of the lyrics which I have read—such, for example, as the stanzas on Lanier and 'The Comrade Hills.'"

WORKS.

Ashes and Incense.

SIDNEY LANIER.

(From Ashes and Incense.[51])

O Spirit to a kingly holding born! As beautiful as any southern morn That wakes to woo the willing hills, Thy life was hedged about by ills As pitiless as any northern night; Yet thou didst make it as thy "Sunrise" bright.

The seas were not too deep for thee; thine eye Was comrade with the farthest star on high. The marsh burst into bloom for thee,— And still abloom shall ever be! Its sluggish tide shall henceforth bear alway A charm it did not hold until thy day.

And Life walks out upon the slipping sands With more of flowers in her trembling hands Since thou didst suffer and didst sing! And so to thy dear grave I bring One little rose, in poor exchange for all The flowers that from thy rich hand did fall.

FOOTNOTE:

[51] By permission of the author, and publishers, J. B. Lippincott Co., Phila.



MADISON CAWEIN.

1865=——.

MADISON CAWEIN, born at Louisville, Kentucky, of Huguenot descent, is one of our younger poets who seems overflowing with life and fancy. His writings show a wonderful insight into nature and power of expressing her beauties and meanings. The amount of his poetical work is astonishing, and another volume will soon appear, entitled "Intimations of the Beautiful."

WORKS.

Days and Dreams. Accolon of Gaul and other Poems. Blooms of the Berry. Lyrics and Idyls. Triumph of Music. Moods and Memories. Poems of Nature and Love. Red Leaves and Roses.

THE WHIPPOORWILL.

(From Red Leaves and Roses.[52])

I.

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 May-times know, Out of the crimson afterglow, We heard the homeward cattle low, And then the far-off, far-off woe Of "whippoorwill!" of "whippoorwill!"

II.

Beneath the idle beechen boughs We heard the cow-bells of the cows Come slowly jangling towards the house; And still, and still, Beyond the light that would not die Out of the scarlet-haunted sky, Beyond the evening-star's white eye Of glittering chalcedony, Drained out of dusk the plaintive cry Of "whippoorwill!" of "whippoorwill!"

III.

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 flow'rs the dew-drops ope,— Lost in faint deeps of heliotrope Above the clover-scented slope,— Retreats, despairing past all hope, The whippoorwill, the whippoorwill.

FOOTNOTE:

[52] By permission of the author, and publishers, G. P. Putnam's Sons, N. Y.



DIXIE.

I.

I wish I wuz in de land ob cotton, Ole times dar am not forgotten; Look away! look away! look away! Dixie land. In Dixie land whar I wuz born in, Early on one frosty mornin'; Look away! look away! look away! Dixie land.

CHORUS.

Den I wish I were in Dixie, hooray! hooray! In Dixie land I'll took my stand To lib and die in Dixie, Away, away, away down south in Dixie, Away, away, away down south in Dixie.

II.

Dar's buckwheat cakes and Ingen batter, Makes you fat or a little fatter; Den hoe it down and scratch your grabble, To Dixie land I'm bound to trabble.



LIST OF AUTHORS.

The following is a list of other authors and works that would have been included in the body of the book if space had allowed. It is with great regret that only this mention of them can be made. See "List of Southern Writers" for fuller notice.

Allan, William: Army of Northern Virginia.

Asbury, Francis: Journals.

Blair, James: State of His Majesty's Colony in Virginia.

Bledsoe, Albert Taylor: A Theodicy, Is Davis a Traitor?

Brock, R. A.: Southern Historical Society Papers.

Burnett, Mrs. Frances Hodgson: That Lass o' Lowrie's.

Cable, George Washington: Bonaventure (Acadian sketches in Louisiana).

Caruthers, William A.: Knights of the Golden Horseshoe (tale of Bacon's Rebellion).

Dabney, Virginius: Don Miff.

Davis, Mrs. Varina Jefferson: Jefferson Davis.

Dinwiddie Papers.

Elliott, Sarah Barnwell: John Paget.

Goulding, Francis Robert: Young Marooners.

Hearn, Lafcadio: Youma.

Hooper, Johnson Jones: Captain Suggs' Adventures.

Ingraham, Joseph Holt: Prince of the House of David.

Jones, John Beauchamp: Rebel War Clerk's Diary, Wild Western Scenes.

Kouns, Nathan Chapman: Arius the Libyan.

Le Conte, Joseph: Geology, Science and the Bible.

Loughborough, Mrs. Mary Webster: My Cave Life in Vicksburg (in prison during the war).

McCabe, James Dabney, Jr.: Gray-Jackets.

McGuire, Mrs. Judith Walker: Diary of a Southern Refugee; (said to be a most faithful and pathetic picture of the terrible times in 1861-5. It was a private journal kept during the war, and Mrs. McGuire was afterwards induced to publish it).

Mason, Emily Virginia: Popular Life of R. E. Lee.

Maury, Dabney Herndon: Recollections of a Virginian.

Meade, William: Old Churches, Ministers, and Families of Virginia.

Parker, William Harwar: Recollections of a Naval Officer.

Piatt, Mrs. Sarah Morgan Bryan: Poems.

Randolph, Innis: Good Old Rebel, Back-Log.

Randolph, Sarah Nicholas: Domestic Life of Jefferson.

Semmes, Raphael: Service Afloat, Cruise of the Alabama.

Semple, Robert Baylor: History of Virginia Baptists.

Sims, James Marion: Story of My Life.

Smedes, Mrs. Susan Dabney: A Southern Planter; (a biography of Mrs. Smedes' father. Of this work, Hon. W. E. Gladstone says in a letter to the author: "I am very desirous that the Old World should have the benefit of this work. I ask your permission to publish it in England. . . . Allow me to thank you, dear Madam, for the good the book must do.").

Smith, Francis Hopkinson: Colonel Carter of Cartersville.

Spotswood, Alexander: Letters, 1710-22.

Stith, William: History of Virginia (before 1755).

Strother, David Hunter: Virginia Illustrated.

Taylor, Richard: Destruction and Reconstruction.

Wiley, Edwin Fuller: Angel in the Cloud.



QUESTIONS.

These questions are not recommended as essential, but merely as suggestive and perhaps useful to teachers who prefer the Socratic method. They might also serve to call the attention of students to some point which they would otherwise overlook.

The general questions and those in ordinary type may be answered from the text itself; the answers to those in italics are to be found in other parts of the book, in a history of the United States, or in a cyclopedia. The questions in italics may of course, like all the rest, be omitted at the discretion of the teacher. The research required to answer such questions, however, will be of great value to the students, if they have the time for it. See also the suggestions given in the Preface.

GENERAL QUESTIONS.

These questions apply to all the authors, and hence will not be repeated under each name.

1. Give the date of birth, and the date of death of those not living. 2. Where was the author born? 3. Where did he pass his life? 4. What was his education? 5. What was his profession and what positions, if any, did he fill? 6. Describe his character. 7. His style of writing. 8. Give the names of his Works. 9. Title and contents of the extracts given. 10. Learn the short extracts and poems by heart. 11. Find on the map all the places mentioned. (This is of prime importance, and I beg that this question may never be omitted).

FIRST PERIOD, 1579-1750.

JOHN SMITH.—1. Why did Captain Smith fight against the Turks? 2. When did he come to America? 3. How did he spend his time after 1609? 4. What other settlement was in America at this time besides Jamestown? 5. By whom and when made?

WILLIAM STRACHEY.—1. What is the special fame of this description of a storm? 2. Give some features of it. 3. Who was ruler of England at this time?

JOHN LAWSON.—1. Why did he come to Carolina, and when? 2. Tell of his sad death. 3. What is the story of "Sir Walter Raleigh's Ship"? (See the poem, "The Palatine Ship," by William Gilmore Simms) 4. Was there any settlement in South Carolina at this time? 5. If so when and by whom made?

WILLIAM BYRD.—1. What distinction has Byrd among the writers of Virginia? 2. For what was his daughter Evelyn noted? 3. Who was governor of North Carolina in 1713-1720? 4. Is the Dismal Swamp so hard to cross now? 5. How old was George Washington when William Byrd died? 6. What town is named for Governor Eden?

SECOND PERIOD, 1750-1800.

HENRY LAURENS.—1. Why did he go to Europe in 1771? in 1779? 2. What title was given his son John? 3. For whom was he exchanged? 4. How was he buried? 5. What was happening in America during his imprisonment, 1779-1781?

GEORGE WASHINGTON.—1. What did his mother say of him? 2. What is his national title? 3. What monuments have been reared to him? 4. What salary had he as Commander in Chief? 5. When was the Farewell Address written? 6. Where and when did his inauguration as President take place? 7. When was Washington City laid off as the Capital of the United States? 8. Name the thirteen original States.

PATRICK HENRY.—1. What did Jefferson say of him? 2. What part did he take in the Revolutionary War? 3. When did he say "If this be treason—"? 4. When and where was his greatest speech made? 5. What other great man died the same year that he did? 6. What difference in their ages?

WILLIAM HENRY DRAYTON.—1. Who went with him to be educated? 2. What bold public statement did he make in April, 1776? 3. What battles of the Revolution occurred in South Carolina during Drayton's life?

THOMAS JEFFERSON.—1. What is Jefferson's title? 2. Of what political party is he considered the founder? 3. What other ex-president died the same day? 4. What inscription is on his tomb? 5. What does he say of the relative positions of the upper and lower classes? 6. Who were presidents before Jefferson? 7. Who, after him, up to the time of his death? 8. What famous Frenchman visited Jefferson in 1825? 9. Quote some of the Declaration of Independence.

DAVID RAMSAY.—1. Who was his second wife? 2. Of what profession were their daughters? 3. Where is Fort Moultrie and for whom named? 4. Where is there a statue to Sergeant Jasper?

JAMES MADISON.—1. What is Professor Fiske's estimate of him? 2. Tell of his marriage and of Mrs. Madison. 3. How long and when was Madison President? 4. What war took place during that time? 5. What disaster occurred in Washington in 1814? 6. What patriotic song was written the same year?

ST. GEORGE TUCKER.—1. When did he come to America and whom did he marry? 2. Where is William and Mary College and when was it founded? 3. What famous men were teachers and students there?

JOHN MARSHALL.—1. How long was he Chief Justice? 2. Repeat Charles Cotesworth Pinckney's famous remark. 3. Over what great trial did Marshall preside? 4. When was it? 5. Where are fine statues of him? 6. Who was Pinckney?

HENRY LEE.—1. What title had he in the Revolution? 2. Who was his mother? 3. What well known words were first used by him? 4. Who was his most famous son? 5. Was Mrs. Motte's house burned down?

MASON LOCKE WEEMS.—1. Of what church was he rector?

JOHN DRAYTON.—1. Whose son was he? 2. When did the battle of Noewee occur? 3. Who were Lord North and Lord Grenville? 4. What relation was Lieutenant Hampton to General Wade Hampton, of South Carolina?

WILLIAM WIRT.—1. What two famous speeches by Wirt are here mentioned? 2. Who was the "Blind Preacher"? 3. What did Wirt say of life, in 1829? 4. Learn something more about the "Blind Preacher." (See People's Cyclopedia, Hart's American Literature.) 5. Who were Demothenes, Ossian, Homer, Milton, Rousseau?

JOHN RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE.—1. From whom was he descended? 2. What does Paulding say of him? 3. Where is found the quotation—"Free will fixed fate, foreknowledge absolute"?

GEORGE TUCKER.—1. To whom was he related? 2. How long was he professor at the University of Virginia? 3. Who was founder of the University? 4. Where is the Natural Bridge? (See picture under Mrs. Preston.) 5. When was the University established and opened?

THIRD PERIOD, 1800-1850.

HENRY CLAY.—1. What two titles did he have, and for what reasons? 2. Mention some of his companions in public life. 3. Of what measures was he the author? 4. Who was Jackson? 5. Who were Philip, Alexander, Caesar, Brutus, Madame de Stael, Bonaparte? 6. What was the difference in the ages of Clay, Calhoun and Webster?

FRANCIS SCOTT KEY.—1. Relate the circumstances under which the "Star Spangled Banner" was written. 2. What city was burned by the British in the year in which this song was composed?

JOHN JAMES AUDUBON.—1. What was his favorite pursuit? 2. Where is a set of his works to be seen?

THOMAS HART BENTON.—1. What title did he gain, and how? 2. What is said of his great work? 3. Who were Randolph and Clay? 4. What was the cause of the duel? 5. What office had Clay at the time? 6. How were Benton and Clay connected? (Mrs. Clay was a cousin of Benton's, she had been Miss Lucretia Hart.) 7. Whom did Benton's daughter Jessie marry, and what did she write? (See "List of Southern Writers," Fremont.)

JOHN CALDWELL CALHOUN.—1. Who was his early teacher? 2. What was the remark of Calhoun's father about government? 3. What is Calhoun's home now? 4. What is the principle of Nullification? 5. Who first said, "To the victors belong the spoils," as applied to public offices? 6. What does Calhoun say of it? 7. Who are the three greatest statesmen of the "Compromise Period" (1820-1850)? 8. What does Everett say of them? 9. What does Stephens say of Calhoun in 1850? (See under A. H. Stephens.) 10. What does Webster say of him? 11. What rank does he hold as a statesman and patriot? 12. Who are the others mentioned as contemporary with Calhoun in the Senate?

NATHANIEL BEVERLEY TUCKER.—1. Whose son was he, and whose half brother? 2. Give the plan of the "Partisan Leader." 3. When was Van Buren president?

DAVID CROCKETT.—1. What was his motto? 2. What does he say of the earthquake and its effects? 3. When was the great earthquake in the Mississippi Valley? 4. Where is the Alamo? 5. Tell something of its defence and fall. (See under Houston.)

RICHARD HENRY WILDE.—1. What discoveries did he make in Italy? 2. What is the poem by which he is known? (It is also called "The Captive's Lament"). 3. Tell the incident of its translation. 4. Who was Mrs. White Beatty? 5. What else can you learn of her? 6. Who were Giotto Dante Tasso and Petrarch?

AUGUSTUS BALDWIN LONGSTREET.—1. Who was "Ned Brace"? 2. How did Judge Longstreet feel about "Georgia Scenes" in his later years? 3. When did Washington make his Southern tour? 4. How old was Judge Bacon then?

ROBERT YOUNG HAYNE.—1. When and with whom was his great debate on Nullification? 2. What action did South Carolina take in 1832? 3. What prevented war? 4. What did Webster say the Union would be if the doctrine of State Sovereignty should be accepted? 5. What action had the citizens of Boston taken in 1809? 6. What was the resolution of the Virginia Convention on adopting the Constitution of the United States? 7. Who wrote Hayne's Life?

SAM HOUSTON.—1. When did Houston go to Texas? 2. What caused the Texan war of independence? 3. Who were the four presidents of the Republic of Texas? 4. How long was Texas independent and when did she enter the Union? 5. Who was then president of the United States?

WILLIAM CAMPBELL PRESTON.—1. What great orator was his uncle? 2. With what distinguished men was he associated, and who were they? 3. When was South Carolina University founded?

JOHN PENDLETON KENNEDY.—1. In what novel of Thackeray did he write a chapter? 2. What was his connection with the Peabody Institute? 3. What poet did he befriend? 4. Who was Horse Shoe Robinson? 5. Whence his name? (He was a blacksmith.)

HUGH SWINTON LEGARE.—1. For what was he noted? 2. What does Judge Story say of him? 3. When did he live in Washington City? 4. When was he in Belgium? 5. Where did he die? 6. What poet wrote his life?

MIRABEAU BUONAPARTE LAMAR.—1. When was he president of Texas? 2. Who succeeded him?

FRANCIS LISTER HAWKS.—1. What induced Dr. Hawks to write a history of North Carolina? 2. Who was the first white child born in America? 3. When? 4. Who was the first Indian baptized? 5. Where is the town named for him? 6. What probably became of the Lost Colony of Roanoke and of the little Virginia Dare? 7. How old was she when her grandfather came back? 8. When did Sir Walter Raleigh send his first colony? 9. Did he ever come himself? 10. Tell of his life.

GEORGE DENISON PRENTICE.—1. What paper did he establish? 2. How many mouths has the Mississippi River? 3. Who wrote his life? (See under G in "List of Southern Writers.")