toh-W m MM m m mmm ■ ■ i ■n ■ 111 mm m m 'mm ' ■ |(W1 nfiijniif n BHfl ibh flass TS55 / Book ^~ & £*, I JOHN R. THOMPSON, VIRGINIA, JAMES WOOD DAVIDSON, A.M., SOUTH CAROLINA, HON. W. G. M c ADO, GEORGIA, CHARLES DIMITRY, LOUISIANA, A Quartette of Southern Authors tuho have ever kindly encouraged and judiciously advised the "Female Writers of the South:" Tliis Record of them i» jjesjKctfulh) l]ecHe;ited. %'- THE LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH 7^ THE LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. EDITED BY THE AUTHOR OF SOUTHLAND WRITERS. "Quos fama obscura recondit." ^xeid v. 302. PHILADELPHIA: CLAXTON, KEMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, 819 & 821 MARKET STREET. 1872. ^5 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by CLAXTON, REMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. STEREOTYPED BY J. FAGAN & SON, PHILADELPHIA. PRINTED BY MOORE BROTHERS, Franklin Buildings, Sixth St., below Arch, Philadelphia. CONTENTS. INTRODUCTORY. PAGE 1 KENTUCKY. MRS. CATHARINE A. WARFIELD. S. A. D 17 MISS ELIZA A. DUPUY. & A. D 28 Daguerreotype from a Dead Man's Eye. N. Y. Ledger:. 31 ROSA VERTNER JEFFREY 33 Extract. — Florence Vale. A Poem 38 AGNES LEONARD 39 Fra Diavolo. Poem 43 Angel of Sleep. Poem 44 SARAH M. B. PIATT 46 Proem : To the World. A Woman's Poems 47 My Wedding-Ring. Poem. Nests at Washington, and Other Poems. . . 48 The Fancy Ball. Galaxy Magazine 48 NELLY MARSHALL. Charles Dimitry 49 Questions. Poem 50 Alder-Boughs. Poem 51 A Woman's Heart.., 52 FLORENCE ANDERSON 53 Florence Anderson, the Poet. Poem, by Mary R. T. McAboy. . . 54 The World of the Ideal. Poem 54 MRS. CHAPMAN COLEMAN AND DAUGHTERS. Eliza Lee 50 vii Vlll CONTENTS. PAGE MRS. ROCHESTER FORD 57 Aunt Peggy's Death-Bed. Grace Truman 58 MRS. MARIE T. DAVIESS 62 Harvest Hymn. Poem Q5 Value of Permanence in Home and Vocation. Extract 66 VIRGINIA PENNY 67 SALLIE J. H. BATTEY 68 Dreams. Poem. Southern Magazine 69 ALICE McCLURE GRIFFIN 70 Spirit Landscapes. Poem 70 M. W. MERIWETHER BELL 71 The Valley Lily's Message. Poem 72 LOUISIANA. SARAH A. DORSEY 74 A Texan Prairie. Recollections of Allen.... 78 Agnes Graham, Reviews of. N. Y. Round Table 79 Refugeeing. Lucia Dare 80 Governor Allen. Recollections of Allen 81 The Lauries at Home. Lucia Dare . 81 MARIE BUSHNELL WILLIAMS. M. F. Bigney 85 Pleasant Hill. Poem 87 The Legend of Don Roderick. Editor N. 0. Times 89 TkteEnchanted Tower of Toledo. Poem. N. 0. Sunday Times. . . 91 ./The Last Wild Flower. N. 0. Sunday Times 95 ANNA PEYRE DINNIES 98 The Wife. Poem 100 The Love-Letter. Poem 103 The Blush. Poem 104 JULIA PLEASANTS CRESWELL 105 The Minstrel Pilot. Poem 108 M. SOPHIE HOMES 110 The Dream-Angel. Scott' 's Magazine 116 ELIZA LOFTON PUGH. Margaret C. Pig got 118 St. Philip's 120 CONTENTS. IX PAGE ELIZA ELLIOTT HAEPEE 121 I'll Come in Bright Dreams. Poem 122 MAEY WALSINGHAM CEEAN 123 Santa Claus. Poem 124 Broxze Johx and his Saffrox Steed. Poem 125 MES. JOSEPHINE E. HOSKINS 127 SUSAN BLANCHAED ELDEE. A.P.I) 128 Cleopatra Dyixg. Poem 130 MES. M. B. HAY 132 Aspasia. Sonnet. Crescent Monthly 132 GEETEUDE A. CANFIELD. 31. B. Williams 133 Ix the Trexches 134 ELLEN A. MOEIAETY 136 Ax Old Story. Poem 137 MES. E. M. KEPLINGEE 138 Oyer theEiyer. Poem 139 MES. LOUISE CLACK. G. Augusta Canfield 141 Grandmother's Faded Flower. Poem 143 MAEY ASHLY TOWNSEND 144 Ebb axd Flow. "Xariffa's" Poems 146 Creed. "Xariffa's" Poems 146 MES. FLOEENCE J. WILLAED 148 Eip Tax Winkle. Poem 149 JEANNETTE E. HADEEMANN 150 CATHAEINE F. WINDLE 151 Why do I Loye Him? Poem 152 No yels axd Novelists. Extract. N. O.Sunday Times 152 MES. A. M. G MASSENA 154 MAEY TEEESA MALONY 154 Dead lx the Steerage. Poem 155 A Home of Laxg Syxe. Poem 156 A CRESCENT CITY COTEEIE, yiz. : 157 Matilda A. Bailey 157 Florexce Burckett 158 Mary Cresap 158 Alice Dalsheimer 158 CONTENTS. PAGE Mary Green Goodale 159 Sarah C. Yeiser 161 Samuella Cowen 161 GEOEGIA. MARY E. TUCKER. Autobiography 163 Hugging the Shore. Poem 170 Kindness. Poem 170 MARGIE P. SWAIN. W. G. Mb Ado ,, 170 Vanitas. Poem 172 The Last Scene. Poem . 173 The Sentinel of Pompeii. Poem 174 KATE A. DUBOSE 175 LOULA KENDALL ROGERS 177 The Healing Fountain. Poem 179 EMMA MOFFETT WYNNE 180 Life's Mission. Cragfont 181 ANNIE R. BLOUNT 183 Under the Lamplight. Prize Poem 185 MARIA J. WESTMORELAND 188 The Unattainable. Scott? s Magazine 189 Talking. Scott 1 8 Magazine 191 MARIA LOU EVE 193 Sincerity in Talking. Extract. Prize Essay 1 93 KATE C. WAKELEE f. 194 To the Memory of Captain Herndon. Poem. Oodey's Lady's Book 195 CARRIE BELL SINCLAIR 196 "Unknown." Poem 198 MRS. BETTLE M. ZIMMERMAN 200 Christmas Tears. Poem 200 SALLIE M. MARTIN 202 Charlotte Corday. Women of France 203 CLARA LECLERC 204 CONTENTS. XI PAGE MRS. BESSIE W. WILLIAMS 205 After the Battle. Ciaromski and his Daughter 205 LOUISE MANHIEM, (Mrs. Herbert.) R. J. 207 On Dress. Southern Illustrated News 208 MRS. REBECCA JACOBUS 211 MRS. MARY A. McCRIMMON 212 Florida. Poem. Literary Crusader 213 MRS. AGNES JEAN STIBBES 214 Rev. A. J. Ryan, the Golden-Tongued Orator 214 MISS FANNY ANDREWS 216 A Plea for Red Hair. Godey's Lady's Book 218 Paper-Collar Gentility 221 maria j. Mcintosh 223 KATE CLIFFORD KENAN 229 The Doctor. "Violetta and I." 230 MARY LOUISE COOK. Emma Moffett 232 CORNELIA BORDERS. "H." 233 MRS. EPPIE B. CASTLEN. W. G. McAdo 234 Autumn Days. " Chiquita V Poems 235 MRS. A. P. HILL. Mrs. Colquitt 236 MRS. MARY F. McADO 237 Oneiropion. Poem 238 THEODOSIA FORD 239 JANIE OLLIVAR 240 Morning Dreams. Poem. Southern Field and Fireside 240 JULIA BACON 240 Will's a Widower 241 E. W. BACCHUS 242 Charles Dickens. Poem. Baltimore Home Journal 242 XII CONTENTS. ALABAMA. PAGE MADAME ADELAIDE DE V. CHAUDRON 244 MISS KATE CUMMING 245 MRS. ANNIE CREIGHT LLOYD 247 MRS. E. W. BELLAMY 248 Four Oaks. Reviews. W.T.Walthall 248 A Summer Idyl. Poem. Land We Love 251 Transition. Poem. Land We Love 253 MARY A. CRUSE 255 Waking of the Blind Girl by the Tones of the Grand Organ. "Cameron Hall." 257 LILIAN ROZELL MESSENGER 261 The Old Wharf at Pine Bluff. Poem. A 7 ". Y. Home Journal 262 SARAH E. PECK 264 JULIA L. KEYES. G. P. K. 265 To my Absent Husband. Poem 266 A Dream of Locust Dell. Poem. Southern Field and Fireside 268 AUGUSTA J. EVANS 270 Macaria, Review of. James R. Randall - 273 St. Elmo, Review of. Jerome Cochran, M.D 276 I. M. PORTER HENRY 281 Rimmer. Poem. Land We Love 282 CATHERINE W. TOWLES , 283 MRS. JULIA SHELTON, (Laura Lorrimer.)..".. : 285 The Fever-Sleep. A Prize Poem. Southern Field and Fireside 285 MRS. OCTAVIA WALTON LE VERT 291 MARY WARE. S. E. Peek 292 Consolation. Poem. Home Monthly, [Nashville.) 293 MRS. E. L. SAXON 294 My Vine. Poem. N. 0. Sunday Times 295 S. S. CRUTE 296 ANNA FREDAIR 296 CAROLINE THERESA BRANCH. Rev. Dr. Myers 296 BETTIE KEYES HUNTER 297 A Mother's Wish. Poem. Baltimore Home Journal. 297 CONTENTS. X11I MISSISSIPPI. PAGB SALLIE A. VANCE. M. E. B 299 The Two Angels. Poem 300 Guard Thine Action. Poem 301 MRS. MARY STANFORD 303 My New- Year's Prayer. Poem. Southern Monthly, [Memphis.).... 305 MRS. S. B. COX 307 Spirit- Whisperings. N. O. Sunday Times 309 ELIZA J. POITEVENT 311 A Chirp from Mother Robin. Poem. N. O. Picayune 313 The Royal Cavalcade. Poem 314 MARY W. LOUGHBOROUGH 315 FLOEIDA. MARY E. BRYAN 316 Anacreon. Poem 321 Miserere. Poem 326 By the Sea. Poem. Mobile Sunday Times 329 The Fatal Bracelet 331 How should Women Write ? Southern Field and Fireside 335 FANNY E. HERRON 340 The Siege of Murany. Extract. Mobile Sunday Times 340 MRS. M. LOUISE CROSSLEY 342 AUGUSTA DE MILLY 343 "Implora Pace." Poem , 344 "Florida Capta." Poem 345 TENNESSEE. MRS. L. VIRGINIA FRENCH 347 "Mammy:" A Home Picture of 1860. Land We Love 352 The Broken Sentence. A Tribute to the late Lieut. Herndon 354 XIV CONTENTS. PAGE MRS. ANNIE CHAMBERS KETCHUM. Mary J. S. Upshur 357 A Mother's Prayer. Poem. N. Y. Churchman 358 Eequiem. Poem 360 Under the Leaves. "Lotus." 362 MRS. CLARA COLES 364 Sabbath Morn. "Clara's" Poems 365 ADELIA C. GRAVES 366 Human Sovereignty ; or, Every Man a King. Poem. Scott's Magazine 369 MRS. MARY E. POPE , 371 The Gift of Song 372 MARTHA W. BROWN 374 " Thotj art Growing Old, Mother." Poem 374 AMANDA M. BRIGHT 376 ANNIE E. LAW. W. G. McAdo 377 Memories. Poem 377 VIRGINIA. MRS. MARGARET J. PRESTON 379 Old Songs and New, Review of. London Saturday Review 379 Beechenbrook, Review of. N. Y. Bound Table 380 Beechenbrook, Review of. Field and Fireside 382 Mrs. Preston's Poetry, Review of. Wm. Hand Browne 385 Non Dolet. Sonnet. Old 1 Songs and New 386 Undertow. Sonnet. Old Songs and New 387 Acceptation. Poem. Beechenbrook 387 The Lady Hildegarde's Wedding. Old Songs and New 388 MRS. S. A. WEISS. Charles Dimitry 391 The Battle Eve. Poem. Southern Literary Messenger 393 Con Elgin. Poem. Susan Archer Tally's Poems 394 MRS. CONSTANCE CARY HARRISON. Charles Dimitry 398 MISS M. J. HAW '. 399 MRS. MARY WILEY 400 A Bunch of Flowers. Poem. Southern Literary Messenger 400 CONTENTS. XV PAGE MISS M. E. HEATH 401 VIRGINIA E. DAVIDSON 402 MES. J. W. McGUIEE 403 MISS SALLIE A. BEOCK 404 What is Life? Poem. Metropolitan Bend 407 MISS SUSAN C. HOOPEE 409 The Occupation of Eichmond 411 MATILDA S. EDWAEDS 414 MES. MAEY McCABE 415 IISS MAEY J. S. UPSHTJE ., 416 Margaret. Poem. Southern Literary Messenger 418 MISSSAEAH J. C.WHITTLESEY 420 HELEN G. BEALE 421 MES. COENELIA J. M. JOEDAN. Charles Dimitry 423 Fall Softly, Winter Snow, To-Night. Poem 426 Flowers for a Wounded Soldier. Poem. Magnolia Weekly 427 LAUEA E. FEWELL 428 A Virginia Village — 1861. Scoffs Magazine 428 LIZZIE PETIT CUTLEE 430 Spirit-Mates. Household Mysteries 431 MAEY E. WOODSON 433 M. VIEGINIA TEEHUNE, (Marian Harland.) 433 MES. WM. C. EIVES. & D 436 MAEY TUCKEE MAGILL 438 MISS EMILY V.MASON 439 MAEY EUGENIE McKINNE. A. W. H. 440 NOETH CAEOLINA. MAEY BAYAED CLAEKE. Judge Edwin G. Reade 442 Aphrodite. Poem. Mosses from a Rolling Stone 449 Grief. Poem. Land We Love 451 Life's Fig-Leaves. Poem. Land We Love 433 XVI CONTENTS. PAGE MBS. MARY MASON 454 CORNELIA PHILLIPS SPENCER 454 FANNY MURDAUGH DOWNING. H. W. Busted 455 Sunset Musings. Poem 456 VIRGINIA DURANT COVINGTON 458 MARY AYER MILLER. Mary B. Clarke 459 MRS. SARAH A.ELLIOTT 460 FRANCES C. FISHER , 461 Valerie Aylmer, Review of. T. Cooper De Leon 461 SOUTH CAEOLINA. SUE PETIGRU KING 463 A Lover's Quarrel. Sylvia's World 464 CAROLINE GILMAN 468 CAROLINE H. JERVEY. Jeanie A. Dickson 469 Julia Sleeping. Poem 470 A Summer Memory 472 CAROLINE A. BALL 473 The Jacket of Gray. Poem 473 MARY S. B. SHINDLER 475 JULIA C. R. DORR 477 ESSIE B. CHEESBOROUGH 478 Renunciation. Poem. Crescent Monthly 478 MISS ALICE F. SIMONS.. 479 MARY SCRIMZEOUR WHITAKER V 480 The Summer Retreat of a Southern Planter 482 FANNY M. P. DEAS 484 MARGARET MAXWELL MARTIN 485 My Saviour, Thee ! Poem 487 MRS. M. A. EWART RIPLEY... 488 MRS. CATHARINE LADD 489 CONTENTS. XVU PAGE CLAEA V. DAEGAN 491 Jean to Jamie. Poem 493 Sleeping. Poem. Southern Field and Fireside 495 Flirting with Philip. Philip: My Son 495 MAEIAN C. LEGAEE EEEVES 498 Ingemisco, Eeview of. C. W. Hutson 498 Eandolph Honor, Eeview of. Bound Table 500 FLOEIDE CLEMSON 502 ANNIE M. BAENWELL 503 On Southern Literature. Scott's Magazine 504 MAEY CAEOLINE GEISWOLD 505 The White Camelia. Poem 505 MISS JULIA C. MINTZING. Charles Dimitry 506 Victor and Victim. Poem 507 Gozthe and Schiller. Land We Love 508 JEANIE A. DICKSON f . 512 MES. LAUEA GWYN. Ex-Governor B. F. Perry 5J3 My Palace of Dreams. Poem 513 MISS CATHAEINE GENDEON POYAS 515 Sonnet. Year of Grief , and Other Poems 516 SELINA E. MEANS 517 LOUISA S. McCOED 518 MES. MAEY C. EION 518 MAKYLAND. ANNE MONCUEE CEANE 519 Emily Chester, Eeview of. E. P. Whipple 519 Emily Chester, Eeview of. Geo. H. Milliard 520 Emily Chester, Eeview of. Gail Hamilton 521 Opportunity, Eeview of. Paul H. Hayne 523 Words to a "Lied ohne Worte." Poem 526 Winter Wind. Poem. Galaxy Monthly 527 Faith and Hope. Opportunity 527 LYDIA CEANE 529 Korner's Battle Prayer 529 c XVlli CONTENTS.- PAGH ELLIE LEE HARDENBROOK 530 GEORGIE A. HULSE McLEOD 531 Mine ! Thine and Mine ; or, The Stepmother's Revenge 532 The Lost Treasure. Poem 532 EMMA ALICE BROWNE 533 ESTELLA ANNA LEWIS 534 The Forsaken. Poem. Records of the Heart 535 The Grief of Aialetts. Poem. Sappho. — Act II. 538 HENRIETTA LEE PALMER , 539 The Stratford Gallery, Review of. Atlantic Monthly 540 MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH 541 MISS ELIZA SPENCER 542 A Maryland Farm-House. Mary Ashburton 542 TAMAR A. KERMODE 543 Giye Us this Peace. Poem 543 ELEANOR FULLERTON 544 So Long Ago. Poem 544 TEXAS. FANNY A. D. DARDEN 546 The Old Brigade. Poem 546 Checkmate. Poem 548 MRS. S. E. MAYNARD 549 Cleopatra to Marc Antony. Poem. Crescent Monthly 550 MAUD J. YOUNG 551 MOLLIE E. MOORE. Colonel C. G. Forshey 555 The River San Marcos. Poem......... 556 Stealing Roses through the Gate. Poem 560 Minding the Gap. Poem 561 FLORENCE D. WEST 565 The Marble Lily. Poem. Land We Love 565 ALPHABETICAL INDEX. ABORIGINAL Portfolio, 9. Acceptation, (Poem,) 387. Adrienne, 410. Adhemar, 536. After the Battle, 205. Agnes Graham, (Review of,) 79. Albert Hastings, 480. Alder-Boughs, (Poem,) 51. Alpurente, Dr. F. R., 157. Alfriend, F. H., 8. Altorf, 12. Alone, 434. Alida, 489. Allen, Governor, 81. Alston, Edith, 159. Alston, Washington, 479. "American Pulpit," Sprague's, 151. American Courier, 294. American Poets and their Favorite Poems, 406. Alma Grev, 369. Allworth Abbey, 541. Amaranth, The Southern, 406. Anacreon, (Poem,) 324. Ann Atom, 150. Anderson, Florence, 53. Anderson, Florence, the Poet, (Poem,) 54. Anderson, Dr. Leroy H., 503. Andrews, Fanny, 216. Ancient Lady, 515. Angel of Sleep, (Poem,) 44. Angoisse, 26. Answered, (Poem,) 159. Ante-Bellum, 232. Antethusia, 237. Arnold, Matthew, 152. Appleton's Journal, 461. Arria, 119. Arcturus, 489. Army Argus and Crisis, 247. Ashhurst, Lady of, 30. Ashleigh, 30. As By Fire, 50. Aspasia, (Sonnet,) 132. Ashmead, Rev. Wm., 151. Ashes of Roses, 410. At Last, 435. Atlantic Monthly, 540. Aunt Abby the Irrepressible, 448. Autobiography of an Actress, 9. Aunt Charitv, 161. Aunt Kitty, 224. Aunt Phillis's Cabin, 9. Aunt Peggy's Death-bed, 58. Autumn Dreams, 235. Autumn Days, (Poem,) 235. Auchester, Charles, 492. Ayer, General Henry, 459. Azile, 4. Azelee, 161. BACON, Julia, 240. Bacchus, E. W., 242. Baden, Frances Henshaw, 541. Bagby, G. W., 8. Bailey, Matilda A., 157. Baker, Gen. Mosely, 546. Ball, Fancv, (Poem,) 48. Ball, Caroline A., 473. Ball, Isaac, 473. Ballard, J. J., 549. Banner of the South, 214. Baring, Mrs. Charles, 12. Barber, Miss C. W., 184, 283. Barnwell, Annie M., 503. Barnwell, Thomas Osborn, 503. Bartow, Gen. Francis S., 239. Battle Eve, The, (Poem,) 393. Battle of Manassas, 447. Battcy, Sallie J. H., 68. Battey, Manfred C, 68. Beale, Helen G., 421. Beale, Wm. C, 421. Beauseincourt, 25. Bell, M. W. Meriwether, 71. Bell, Captain Darwin, 72. XX ALPHABETICAL INDEX. Bellamy, Mrs. E. W., 248. Beech enbrook : A Rhyme of the War, 380-382. Beechwood Tragedy, The, 399. Benny, 359. Bennett, Martha Haines Butt, 10. Bertha the Beauty, 420. Bessie Melville, 256. Betts, Mary Wilson, 4. Betts, Morgan L., 4. Beulah, 271. Beverley, 309. Beverley, Jr., 309. Beverly, Elise, 542. Bigby, Mary Catharine, 6. Bigney, Mark F., 4, 148. Bibb, Thomas, 106. Blake, Mrs. Daniel, 13. Blackwell, Rev. John C, 414. Blanchard, General A. G., 128. Blind Alice, 225. Blount, Annie R., 183. Bloody Footprints, 403. Borders, Cornelia, 233. Bowdre, Judge P. E., 234. Branch, Caroline Theresa, 296. Branch, Rev. James O., 297. Brace, Ned, 241. Bradley, Thomas Bibb, 107. Brenan, Joseph, 123. Brewer, Sarah, 5. Bridal Eve, 541. Bride's Fate, 541. Bride of Llewellyn, 541. Brigand's Bride, 138. Bright Memories, 531. Bright, Amanda M., 376. Brockenborough, Judge, 403. Brock, Miss Sallie A., 404. Broken Sentence, The, 354. Brother Clerks, The, 145. Bronze John and his Saffron Steed,(Poem,) 125. Browne, Wm. Hand, 312, 385. Browne, Emma Alice, 533. Brown, Martha W., 374. Brown, R. B., 374. Burckett, Florence, 158. Bryan, Mary E., 316. Bryan, Madeline T., 189. Bunch of Flowers, A, (Poem,) 400. Bug Oracle, The, 420. Burwell, W. M., 5. Burke, T. A., 183. Buds from the Wreath of Memory, 296. Busy Moments of an Idle Woman, 463. " Byrd Lyttle," 14. By the Sea, (Poem,) 329. CAIUS Gracchus, 518. Callirhoe, 5. Callamura, 108. Calhoun, John C, 502. Caldwell, Howard H., 491. Cameron Hall, 256. Canfield, Gertrude, A., 133. Caruthers, Wm. A., 8. Carra, Emma, 214. Castlen, Eppie Bowdre, 234. Castlen, Dr. F. G., 234. Carrie, 505. Carrie Harrington ; or, Scenes in New Or- leans, 111. Carnes, Rev. J. E., 553. Cary, Constance, 398. Cary, Archibald, 398.. Casper, 458. Cave Life in Vicksburg, My, 315. Celeste ; or, The Pirate's Daughter, 30. Charleston Daily News, 473. Charlotte Corday, 203. Charms and Counter-Charms, 225, 227. Charles Morton ; or, The Young Patriot, 477. Charity, Aunt, 161. Ciaromski and his Daughter, 205. Chaudron, Madame Adelaide De V., 244. Cheesborough, Miss Essie B., 478. Cheesborough, John W., 478. Checkmate, (Poem,) 548. Chesney, Esther, 491. Cheves, Langdon, 518. Chester, Emily, (Reviews of,) 519-521. Chirp from Mother Robin, A, (Poem,) 313. Chiquita, 235. Chicora, 9. Changed Brides, 541. Christmas Guest, 542. Christmas Tears, (Poem,) 200. Christmas Holly, 435. Child of the Sea, 536. Citizen : Miles O'Reilly, 168. Clack, Mrs. Louise, 141. Clara, 196. Clara's Poems, 364. Claiborne, Ferdinand, 303. Claudia, 491. Clarke, Mary Bayard, 442, 460. Clarke, Colonel Wm. J., 442. Cleopatra to Marc Antony, (Poem,) 550. Cleopatra Dying, (Poem,) 130. Clemson, Floride, 502. Clvtie and Zenobia; or, The Lily and the Palm, 449. Coleman, Mrs. Chapman, 56. Coleman, Eugenia, 56. Coleman, Judith, 56. Coleman, Sallie, 56. Coles, Mrs. Clara, 364. Colquitt, Mrs., 237. Cochran, Dr. Jerome, 272, 276. Come to Life, 492. Coming Home, 492. Common Sense in the Household, 435. Coquette's Punishment, 30. Cotting, Doctor, 165. ALPHABETICAL INDEX. XXI Constantine, 171. Constance, 205. Concealed Treasure, 30. Conspirator^ The, 29. Conquest and Self-Conquest, 225. 226. Confederate Dead, 242. Cook, Mary Louise, 232. Cocke, William Archer, 415. Consolation, (Poem,) 293. Con Elgin, (Poem,) 394. " Confederate Notes," 417. Cordova, 553. Correspondence of Mr. Ealph Izard, 12. Corinth, and other Poems, 425. Cousin Kate, 229. Cousin, Victor, 152. Cousins, The, 225. Courtland, Miss, 415. Covington, Virginia Durant, 458. Cox, Mrs. S. B., 307. Cragfont, 180. Crane, Anne Moncure, 519. Crane, Lydia, 529. Crane; Wm., 529. • Country Neighborhood, 29. Courier, Louisville, 39. Cowden, Mrs. V. GK, 7. Cowen, Samuella, 161. Creed, (Poem,) 146. Creole, 154. Creola, 161. Crescent Monthly, 132, 246, 550. Crescent, New Orleans, 309. Creswell, Julia Pleasants, 105. Creswell, Judge David, 107. Crescent City Coterie, A, 157. Cresap, Mary, 158. Crean, Mary Walsingham, 123. Creight, Annie P., 247. Cruel as the Grave, 542. Crittenden, Life and Times of J. J., 57. Crimes that the Law does not Reach, 463. Crossbone Papers, 144. Cross, Jane Tandy Chinn, 3. Crown Jewels, The, 182. Crossley, Mrs. M. Louise, 342. Crossley, J. T., 343. Cruse, Mary A., 255. Cruse, Sam, 255. Cruse, Wm., 255. Crute, S. S., 296. Cumrning, Miss Kate, 245. Curse of Clifton, 541. dishing, E. H., 559. Cutler, Mrs. Lizzie Petit, 430. DALE, Salvia, 158. Dalsheimer, Alice, 158. Daguerreotype from a Dead Man's Eye, 31. Daisy Dare, and Baby Power, 37. Dacotah ; or, Legends of the Sioux, 8. Dana, Charles E., 475. Darden, Fanny A. D., 546. Daughter, The Planter's, 30. Darlington Southerner, 492. Dargan, Clara V., 491. Dargan, Dr. K. S., 491. Davis, I. N., 284. Davidson, Virginia E., 402. Davidson, J. W., 493. Daviess, Marie T., 62. Daviess, Captain Samuel, 63. Daviess, Jos. Hamilton, 63. Dawson, Rev. John E., 236. Day-Spring, 486. Devereux, Thomas P., 442. Dead Heart, 30. Dead in the Steerage, (Poem,) 155. Deas, Mrs. Anna Izard, 12. Deas, Fanny M. P., 484. Deems, R-ev. Dr., 454. Deeds, The Lost, 30. De Milly, Augusta, 343. Deen, Ethel, 343. De Leon, T. C, 461. Destiny, 479. De Vere, Lalla, 202. Deserted Wife, The, 541. Diary of a Southern Refugee during the War, 403. Dictionary of Similes, Figures, Images, Metaphors, etc., 264. Dickens, Charles, (Poem,) 242. Dickson, Jeanie A., 512. Dickson, Dr. Samuel Henrv, 512. Dimitry, Charles, 393, 398/426, 512. Dimitry, Alexander, 5. Dixie, (Poem,) 457. Divorce, The, 30. Dinnies, Anna Peyre, 98. Dispatch, Richmond, 433. Discarded Daughter, 541. Doctor, The, 230. Dorsey, Sarah A., 74. Dorsey, Anna H., 14. Downing, Fanny Murdaugh, 455. Downing, Charles \W., 455. Dorr, Julia C. R., 477. Dorr, Seneca M., 477. Dorr, Zulma, 477. Dreams, (Poem,) 69. Dreams, My, 518. Dream of Locust Dell, (Poem,) 268. Dress under Difficulties, 217. Duncan Adair; or, Captured in Escap- ing, 4. Du Bose, Kate A., 175. Du Bose, Charles W., 175. Du Ponte, Mrs. Sophie A., 5. Du Ponte, Durant, 5. Dupuy, Eliza A., 28. EARLS of Sutherland, 214. Ebb and Flow, (Poem,) 146. Eastman, Mrs. Mary II., 8. XX11 ALPHABETICAL INDEX. Edwards, Major John D., 31". Edwards, Matilda S., 414. Edwards, Rev. A. S., 414. Edwards, General S. M., 414. Edgar, Rev. John T., 365. Edgefield Advertiser, 492. Edenton Sentinel. 420. Ellis, Colonel John, 18. Ellis, Thomas G., 29. Ellett, Mrs. E. F., 486. Eliot, George, 22. Elder, Susan Blanchard, 128. Elder, Charles D., 129. Ellen Leslie, 225. Ellen; or, The Fanatic's Daughter, 7. Ellen Fitzgerald, 129. Elzey Hav, 216. Elliott, Mrs. Sarah A., 460. Elliott's Housewife, Mrs., 460. Ellen Campbell ; or, King's Mountain, 488. Elma South, 478. Empty Heart, The, 435. Emerson, 152. Emma Carra, 214. Emma Walton, 30. Emily Herbert, 225. Employments of Women, 67. Enchanted Tower of Toledo, (Poem,) 91. Eolarid, 401. " Estelle," 374. Error, Fatal, 30. Etna Yandemir, 68. Evans, Augusta J., 270. Evans, Mrs. E. H., 10. Evans, Miss Mary, 400. Evans, Dr. M. H., 400. Eve, Maria Lou, 193. Evening Star, The, (Poem,) 185. Evenings at Donaldson Manor, 225. Evangeline, 137. Evening Post, New York, 462. Evil Genius, The, 30. Evelyn, Wm. M., 492. Ewart, James B., 488. Exhortation to the Inhabitants of the Prov- ince of South Carolina, 11. Extracts from " Florence Yale," (Poem,) 38. Exiles, Huguenot, 30. Eyrich, A., 148. FADETTE, 502. Fancy Ball, The, (Poem,) 48. Faith and Hope, 527. Fairfax, Ruth, 214. Fairfax, Monimia, 398. Fairfax, Thomas, 398. Fair Play, 542. Fall Softly , Winter Sno w,To-night, ( Poem, ) 426. Familv Secret, 30. Fatal Error, 30. Family Doom, 541, 542. Fallen Pride, 541. Fashionable Life, 9. Fatal Bracelet, The, 331. Fatal Marriage, The, 541. Fielding, Fannv, 416. Fewell, Laura R., 428. Fever-Sleep, The, (Poem,) 285. Filia Ecclesia?, 76. First Love, (Poem,) 162. Fisher, Frances C, 461. Fisher, Colonel Charles F., 461. Finley, Miss Julia, 285. Five "Hundred Employments adapted to Women, 67. Flirting with Philip, 495. "FlorenceYale," Extracts from,(Poem,)38. Flori, C. de, 502. Florence Anderson, the Poet, 54. Floral Year, The, 99. Floral Wreath, 489. Florida, (Poem,) 213. Florida Capta, (Poem,) 345. Florida, 457. Florence Arnott, 225. Floyd, General John, 237. Floyd, Mary Faith, 237. Florine de Genlis, 416. Flowers of Hope and Memory, 424. Flowers and Fruit, 486. Flowers for a Wounded Soldier, (Poem,) 427. Ford, S. Rochester, 57. Ford, Theodosia, 239. Forever Thine, 491. Fortune Seeker, 541. Foote, Maiy E., 371. Forgiven at Last, 150. Forrester, Dr. Alexander, 151. Forlorn Hope, 157. Forest City Bride, The, 194. Fortune's Wheel ; or, Life's Vicissitudes, 234. Forrest, Life of General Bedford, 371. Forecastle Tom, 477. Forsaken, The, (Poem,) 535. Forshev, Colonel C. G., 565. Four Oaks, (Reviews of,) 248. Fra Diavolo, (Poem,) 43. Frazer, Martha W., 374. Fredair, Anna, 296. French, L. Virginia, 316, 347. Furman, Prof. Samuel, 480. Furman, Richard, 480. Fullerton, Eleanor, 544. Fuller, Violet, 544. n ALLAWAY, Colonel M. C, 261. IT Galaxv, The, 436. Gan Eden, 446. Gardner, Colonel James, 322. Garnet; or, Through the Shadows into Light, 247. Georgia Gazette, 196. ALPHABETICAL INDEX. XX111 George Balcombe, 43S. Gerald Gray's Wife, 463. Gertrude Glenn, 292. Gipsy's Prophecy, The, 541. Gibbs, Dr. P. W., 294. Giddings, Joshua P., 366. Gift of Song, The, (Poem,) 372. Gilman, Caroline, 468. Gilman, Pev. Samuel, 468. Gift-Book, Mrs. Gilman's, 468. Give us this Peace, (Poem,) 543. Gleanings from Fireside Fancies, 50. Glenmore, Addie, 70. Glenelglen, 340. Glover, Wilson, 469. Goodale, Mary Green, 159. Goetzel, S. H., 7, 245. Goethe and Schiller, 508. Grace Truman; or, Love and Principle, 57. Gray, Amy, 14. Grandmother's Faded Flower, (Poem,)143. Grace and Clara, 225. Graves, Adelia C, 366. Graves, Z. C, 367. Grief of Alcseus, (Poem,) 538. Griswold, Mary Caroline, 505. Griswold, Hon. Whiting, 505. Griffin, Alice McClure, 70. Griffin, Geo. W., 2, 70. Guard Thine Action, (Poem,) 310. Guardian, Southern, 491. Gwyu, Mrs. Laura, 513. Gulf City Home Journal, 247. HADERMAXN, Jeannette P., 150. Hagar ; or, The Lost Jewel, 247. Halleck, Fitz-Greene, 47. Hamilton, Gail, 521. Hancock, Mrs., 68. Hansford, 8, 438. Harland, Marian, 433. Harper, Eliza Ellis H., 121. Harper, Dr. James D., 121. Harp, The Southern, 476. Harp, The Northern, 476. Hart, Prof. John S., 224, 226. Harrison, Constance Carv, 398. Harrison, Burton N., 398". Harvest Hymn, (Poem,) 65. Harris, Edmund, 292. Hardenbrook, Ellie Lee, 530. Haunted Homestead, 541. Hawes, Alice, 434. Hawes, Samuel P., 433. Hawes, M. Virginia, 433. Haw, Miss M. J., 399. Hay, Mrs. M. B., 132. Hay, Rev. A. L., 132. Havwood Lodge, 322. Hayne, Paul H., 523. Heart Historv of a Heartless Woman, 463. Heath, Miss M. E., 401. Helen Courtenay's Promise, 470. Heart Whispers • or, Echoes of Song, 197. Heart Drops from Memory's Urn, 420. Heart Histories, 157. Hemans, Felicia, 154. Hentz, Caroline Lee, 6. Helemar ; or, The Fall of Montezuma, 537. Healing Fountain, The, 179. Hester Howard's Temptation, 26. Henry, Ina M. Porter, 281. Henry, George L., 282. Heroism of the Confederacy, 148. Hermine, 129. Herron, Fanny E., 340. Herbert, Mrs., 207. Hevdenfeldt, Judge, 211. Herbert Hamilton ; or, The Bas Bleu, 420. Heriolt, Edwin, 489. Hidden Heart, 420. Hidden Path, 434. Hildegarde, 128. Hill, General D. H., 503. Hill, Mrs. A. P., 236. Hilliard, Hon. Henrv W., 233. Hilliard, Hon. Geo. H., 520. Hillver, Rev. John F., 549. Hili; Judge Edward Y., 236. Holmes, Rev. Wm, 202. Holcombes, The, 8, 439. Holt, Harrv, 204. Holt, Polly, 204. Home of Lang Syne, A, (Poem,) 156. Homes, M. Sophie, 110. Homes, Luther, 116. Home Monthly, 276, 417. Hope, Ethel, 281. Home and Abroad, 437. Hooper, Miss Susan C, 409. Hosmer, Harriet, 454. Hospital Life in the Army of the Tennes- see, 245. Houston Telegraph, 558. Household Mvsteries, 430. Hougbton, Colonel R. B., 319. Household of Bouverie, 22. How Women can Make Money, 67. How should Women write ? 335. Howard, Samuel, 468. Howard, Caroline, 469. Howard, Helen, 492. How He won Her, 541. Hulse, Dr. Isaac, 531. Huguenot Daughters, 515. Hughes, Judge Beverley, 307. Hugging the Shore, (Poem,) 170. Hull, Angele De V., 7. Human Sovereigntv; or, Even* Man a King, (Poem,) 369. Huguenot Exiles, 30. Hume, Mrs. Sophie, 11. Hutson, Mrs. Mary, 12. Hutson, C. Woodward, 49S, 501. Huxlev, Prof., 152. XXIV ALPHABETICAL INDEX. Hunter, Mrs. Fanny E., 165. Hunter, Judge John, 165. Hunter, Bettie Keyes, 297. Hunter, A. M., 297. Husks, 434. Husbands and Homes, 434. Husted, H. W., 455. Helen Gardner's Wedding-Day, 435. IDE Delmar, 478. " I '11 come in Bright Dreams," (Poem,) 122. " Implora Pace," (Poem,) 344. In a Crucible, 120. India; or, The Pearl of Pearl River, 541. Indian Chamber, and other Poems, 21. India Morgan ; or, The Lost Will, 194. Ingemisco, (Review,) 498. Inez : A Tale of the Alamo, 271. In the Trenches, 134. Ivy Leaves from an Old Homestead, 531. Iztalilxo, The Lady of Tula, 348. JACOBUS, Mrs. Rebecca, 211. Jacobus, J. Julien, 211. Jacqueline, 128. Jacket of Gray, (Poem,) 473. Jackson, " Stonewall," 379. Jeffrey, Rosa Vertner, 33. Jeffrev, Alexander, 34. • Jephthah's Daughter, 368. Jenkins, D. O, 5. Jessie Graham, 225. Jean to Jamie, (Poem,) 493. Jervey, Caroline Howard, 469. Jervey, Louis, 469. Jones, Dabney, 204. Jones, General Samuel, 498. Jordan, Mrs. Cornelia J. M., 423. Jordan, Francis H., 424. Journal, Louisville, 414. Joseph the Second and his Court, 244. Jourdan's Cook-Book, Mrs., 188, Judith, 294, 492. Junkin, Margaret, 379. Junkin, Rev. George, 379. Julia Sleeping, (Poem,) 470. KALOOLAH, 549. Kampa Thorpe, 248. Kenan, Kate Clifford, 229. Kermode, Tamar A., 543. Keplinger, Mrs. E. M., 138. Keplinger, Samuel, 138. Ketchum, Mrs. Annie Chambers, 357. Key, Francis Scott, 115. Keyes, Julia L., 265. Keyes, Colonel Washington, 297. Keyes, Joseph M., 297. Kimball, Mrs. Leonard, 311. Kindness, (Poem,) 170. King's Stratagem, The, 538. King, W. H. C, 139. King, Henry, 463, King, Judge Mitchell, 463. King, Mrs. Sue Petigru, 463. Kitty's Tales, Aunt, 225. Knickerbocker Magazine, 463. Knights of the Horseshoe, 8. Korner's Battle Prayer, (Poem,) 529. LA Tenella, 445. Lacy, General Edward, Life of, 517. Lady of Virginia, A, 403. Lady of Ashurst, 30. Lady Hildegarde's Wedding, 388. Lady of the Isle, 541. Ladies' Southern Florist, 518. Ladies' Home, 357. Ladies' Home Gazette, 202. Lady Tartuffe, The, 539. Ladd, Mrs. Catharine, 489. Lalla De Vere, 202. Lamartine, 536. Lanman's Adventures in the Wilds of America, 106, 255. " Land We Love," 281. Lansdowne, 421. La Roche, Dr. Rene, 19. Last Days of the War in North Carolina, 454. Last Scene, The, (Poem,) 173. Last Wild Flower, The, 95. Latona, 68. Latienne, 242. Lauries at Home, 81. Laura Lorrimer, 285. Law, Miss Annie E., 377. LeVert, Mrs. Octavia Walton, 178, 291. Le Vert, Dr. Henry S., 291. Lee, Eliza, 516. Lee, Rev. S. M., 414. Lee, Robert E., 379. Lee, Mary Elizabeth, 13. Lee, Eleanor Percy, 7. Lee, Edith, 158. Lee, General, and Santa Clans, 142. Le Clerc, Clara, 204. LeClerc, 161. Legare, Hugh S., 151. Legend of Don Roderick, 89. Leila Cameron, 176. Leola, 177. Legend of Sour Lake, 553. Leisure Moments, 10. , Letters to Relatives and Friends on the Trinity, 476. Letters of Eliza Wilkinson, 468. Letter addressed to Mrs. Woodhull, A, 297. Lennox, Mary, 232. Leonard, Agnes, 39. Leonard, Dr. O. L., 39. Leroy, 503. Leverett, 166. Lewis, Estella Anna, 534. Lewis, S. D., 534. ALPHABETICAL INDEX. XXV Little Episcopalian, 256. Literary Crusader, 321. Literature, Studies in, 70. Lily of the Valley ; or, Margie and I, 14. LTnconnue, 240, 348. Lloyd, Mrs. Annie Creight, 247. Lloyd, Wm. E., 247. Living Christianity Delineated, 12. Locust Dell, 265. Lochlin, 171. Logan, Mrs. Martha, 12. Lola, 182. Lofty and the Lowly, 225. Lost Heiress, 541. Loew's Bridge, A Broadway Idyl, 169. Lotus, 357. Lost Deeds, The, 30. Lost Diamonds, 484. Lewis, Colonel John L., 121. Life of General Lee for Youth, 440. Life and Campaigns of General Lee, 415. Life's Mission, 182. Life's Curse, 30. Life and Writings of Mrs. Jameson, 128. Life of M. M. Pomeroy, 169. Life's Changes, 294. Light and Darkness, 430. Linda Lee, 460. Lily, 463. Little Match-Girl, The, 484. Loughborough, Mary W, 315. Louisville Journal, 35, 39, 170, 414. Lost Treasure, (Poem,) 530. Love Letter, The, (Poem,) 103. Love's Stratagem, 127. Love's Labor Won, 541. Lover's Quarrel, A, 464. Lucia Dare, 79. Lucy Ellice, 137. Luola, 459* Lyle Annot, 294. Lyle Currer, 343. MCABOY, Mrs. Mary B. T., 54. McAdo, W. G., 170, 377. McAdo, Mrs. Mary F., 237. McBride, Mrs. Julia, 317. McClure, Dr. Virgil, 71. McCabe, Mrs. Mary, 415. McCabe, James D., Jr., 415. McCord, Louisa S., 518. McCord, D. J., 518. McClanahan, Saml. G., 513. McCrimmon, Mrs. Mary A., 212. McGuire, Miss J. W., 403. McGuire, Rev. John P., 403. Mcintosh, Maria J., 223, 229. Mcintosh, Major Lachlan, 224. Mcintosh, Captain James M., 224. McKinne, Mary Eugenie, 440. McLeod, Georgie A. Hulse, 531. McLeod, Dr. A. W., 531. McMahon, Colonel J. H., 374. D McMahon, Mary Ann, 488. McPhail, Bev. G. Wilson, 421. Mabbit Thorn, 419. Macaria ; or, Altars of Sacrifice, 273. Madison, Virginia, 405. Madison Family Visitor, 284. Magill, Mary Tucker, 438. Magnolia Weekly, 343. Maiden Widow, 542. Malony, Mary Teresa, 154. " Mammy : " A Home Picture of 1860, 352. Manheim, Louise, 207. Mara, 171. Marble Lily, The, (Poem,) 565. March, Prof. F. A., 422. Mardis, Hon. Samuel Wright, 161. Margaret, (Poem,) 478. Marshall, Annie Mary, 157. Marshall, Humphrey, 49. Marshall, Nelly, 49. Marie's Mistake, 154. Maria del Occidente, 3. Marguerite ; or, Two Loves, 448. Mary Bunyan ; or, The Dreamer's Blind Daughter, 58. Mary Austin ; or, The New Home, 14. Mayfield, Millie, 110. Martin, Mrs. Sallie M., 202. Martin, George W., 202. Martin, Margaret Maxwell, 485. Martin, Bev. William, 485. Mary Ashburton, 542. Maryland Farm-House, 542. Mason, Emily V., 439. Mason, Mary, 454. Massena, Mrs. A. M. C, 154. Masonic Signet and Journal, 284. Matthews, Cornelia Jane, 423. Matthews, Edwin, 423. Mayflower, Minnie, 489. May Bie, 123. Maynard, Mrs. S. E., 549. Means, Selina E., 512. Means, Dr. T. Sumter, 518. Mendelssohn's Songs, 492. Mepsise, (Poem,) 159. Memories, (Poem,) 377. Men, Women, and Beasts, 39. Meredith, Bev. Thomas, 200. Merton, 30. Meta Gray, 225. Messenger, Lilian Rozell, 261. Metcalfe, Amanda, 376. Metcalfe, Barnett, 376. Methodism; or, Cbristianitv in Earnest, 486. Meriwether, Dr. Charles Hunter, 71. Messenger, Southern Literary, 8, 418. Miller, Mary Aver, 459. Miller, Willis M., 459. Mine, 532. Minding the Gap, (Poem,) 561. Mintzing, Miss Julia C, 506. XXVI ALPHABETICAL INDEX. Minor, B. B., 8. Minor Place, 296. Miriam, 434. Miss Barber's Weekly, 284. Missing Bride, 541. Mobile Sunday Times, 205, 247, 340. Moffett, Emma, 180. Moffett, Major Henry, 181. Mollie Myrtle, 39, 241. Montanas, Tbe, 68. Minstrel Pilot, The, (Poem,) 108. Miserere, (Poem,) 326. Miriam, 401. Moore's Anecdotes and Incidents of the War, Frank, 197. Moore. Miss Mollie E., 295, 555. Moore^ Dr., 517. Moriarty, Ellen A., 136. Moriarty, Eliza, 136. Mina, 98. Morna, 489. Mosely, Mrs. Mary Webster, 9. Motherhood, (Poem,) 158. Mother's Wish, A, (Poem,) 297. Mother's Prayer, A, (Poem,) 358. Morton House, 461. Morna Elverley ; or, Outlines of Life, 458. Morning Dreams, (Poem,) 240. Moss-Side, 434. Mosses from a Polling Stone, 443. Motte Hall, 478. Mother-in-Law, 541. Muhlbach, L., 245. Muni Tell, 70. Murray, Hon. Miss, 446. Murdaugh, Hon. John W., 455. Mrs. Hill's New Cook-Book, 236. Myths of the Minstrels, 536. My Saviour, Thee, (Poem,) 487. My Poses : A Romance of a June Day, 352. Mystery of Cedar Bay, The, 324. My Cousin Anne, 133. My Penny Dip, 145. Mysterious Marriage, 30. Myrtle Blossoms, 39. My Wedding Ping, (Poem,) 48. Mvstery, 189. Myers, Pev. Dr., 296. My Palace of Dreams, (Poem,) 513. N ALLEY, Pev. G. W., 414. Nation, 68. National Quarterly Review, 537. Nashville Christian Advocate, 4. Nameless, 457. Natchitoches Times, 323. Neale, Flora, 531. Neale, Nellie, 401. Nereid, The, 237. Neighborhood, Country, 30. Nelly Bracken, 357. Nemesis, 434. Neria, 428. Nests at Washington, and Other Poems, 47. New Year's Prayer, My, (Poem,) 305. New Orleans Mirror, 4. New York Ledger, 31. New York Evangelist, 58. New York Tribune, 168. New York Sunday Times, 168. " Nobody Hurt," 455. Non Dolet : a Sonnet, 386. Norton, Mrs., 3. Norfolk Herald, 418. " None but the Brave deserve the Fair," 281. Not a Hero, 119. Nothing Unusual, 492. Novels and Novelists, (Extract,) 152. Nott, Dr. Josiah C, 517. Nott, Prof. Henry Junius, 517. Novelettes of a Traveller, 517. OCCUPATION of Richmond, The, 411. O'Hara, Theodore, 34. Old Brigade, (Poem,) 546. Old Songs and New, 379. Old Landlord's Daughter, 14. Old Story, An, 137. Old, Old Story, The, 531. Ollivar, Janie, 240. On Dress, 208. Oneiropion, (Poem,) 238. Opportunity, (Review,) 523. Osborn, Colonel Wm. C, 233. Our Little Annie, 492. Our Refugee Household, 142. Outlaw's Bride, 30. Over the River, (Poem,) 139. Old Wharf at Pine Bluff, (Poem,) 262. Overall, J. W., 5, 115, 312. PALMER, Henrietta Lee, 539. Palmer, Dr. J. W., 539. Palmer, Rev. B. M., 4, 75. Palmer, Mary Stanly Bunce, 475. Paper-Collar Gentility, 221. Parke Richards, 428. Partisan Leader, The, 8, 438. Parted Family, and Other Poems, 476. Pastimes with my Little Friends, 10. Pastor's Household, 176. Patterson, Mary, 303. Pearl Rivers, 311. Pearl ; or, The Gem of the Vale, 247. Peck, Sarah E., 264. Penny, Virginia, 67. Perry, Ex-Governor B. F., 513. Perfect through Suffering, 457. Percy, Charles, 18. Percy, Sarah, 18. Perine, Mary Eliza, 164. Perine, Edward M., 164. Perdita : a Romance of the War, 433. Petit, Lizzie, 430. ALPHABETICAL INDEX. XXVI 1 Petigru, John James L., 463. Planter's Daughter, 30. Planet Lustra, The, 26. Pleasant Hill, (Poem,) 87. Phemie's Temptation, 435. Philip Arion's Wife, 39. Philanthropist, 403. Principle and Policy, 403. Piatt, Sarah M. B., 46. Piatt, John J., 47. Piggot, Margaret, 120. Pinckney, Miss Maria, 13. Pleasants, John Hampton, 105. Pleasants, Governor James, 105. Pleasants, Hugh P., 105. Pleasants, Tarleton, 106. Plea for Bed Hair, A : by a Bed-Haired Woman, 218. Pocahontas : A Legend, 9. Pope, Mrs. Mary E., 371. Pope, Lieutenant W. S., 371. Poe, Edgar Allan, 3, 8, 316. Poe's Literati, 3, 534. Poems by Two Sisters of the West, 21. Poems by Bosa, 34. Poems by Mary E. Tucker, 168. Poems by Matilda, 415. Poetry of Travelling in the United States, 468. Poet-Skies, and Other Experiments in Versification, 502. Poitevent, Miss Eliza J., 311. Popinack, 458. Porter, Ina M., 281. Porter, Judge B. F., 281. Poyas, Catharine Gendron, 515. Praise and Principle, 225. Preston, Margaret J., 357, 379. Preston, Colonel J. T. L., 380. Prentice, Geo. D., 2, 70. Prentiss, S. S., 29. Prince of Seir, The, 377. Progression ; or, The South Defended, 114. Proem : To the World, 47. Pugk, Eliza Lofton, 118. Prairie, A Texan, 78. QUESTION'S, (Poem,) 50. Queen of Hearts, 138. Quillo types, 144. RACHEL'S What-Not, 100. Baids and Bomance of Morgan and his Men, 58. Bamsay, Mrs. Martha Laurens, 12. Bayon d' Amour, 68. Bandom Beadings, 100. Rankin, McKee, 149. Bankin, Be v. Jesse, 459. Randall, James B., 273. Bandolph Honor, (Beview,) 500. Beade, Judge Edwin G., 442. Beeves, Marian C. Legare, 498. BecoUections of a New England House- keeper, 468. BecoUections of a Southern Matron, 468. BecoUections of Governor Allen, 74. Beedy, Captain James, 299. Beflected Fragments, 4. ■ Befugeeing, 80. Befugitta, 398. Becords of the Heart, 534. Beginald's Bevenge, 420. Begister, Mobile, 461. Beginald Archer, 526. Beid, Christian, 461. " Beliquse," 13. Beligious Poems, 486. Bena, 343. Beminiscences of Cuba, 448. Beminiscences of York, by a Septuagena- , rian, 517. Benunciation, (Poem,) 478. Bequiem, (Poem,) 360. Betribution, 541. Bion, Mrs. Mary C, 518. Bing, My Wedding, (Poem,) 48. Bichards, Bev. Wm., 175. Bichards, T. Addison, 176. Bichardson, M., 142. Bimmer, (Poem.) 282. Bip Van Winkle, (Poem,) 149. Bichmond: Her Glory and her Graves, 425. Bitchie, Anna Cora Mo watt, 9. Bipley, Julia Caroline, 477. Bipley, Wm. Y., 477. Bivals, The : A Tale of the Chickahominy, 399. Bichmond during the War, 404. Bives, Mrs. Wm. C, 436. Bives, Hon. Wm. Cabell„436. Biver, San Marcos, (Poem,) 556. Bipley, Mrs. M. A. Ewart, 488. Bipley, Colonel V., 488. Biverlands, 492. Boadside Stories, 282. Bomance of Indian Life, 8. Bomance of the Green Seal, 25. " Bosa," 34. Bobinson Delmonte, 534. Bound Table, 79, 148, 244, 248, 276, 376, 435, 499, 500. Bose and Lillie Stanhope, 225. Bose-Bud, 468. Boss, John, 29. Bogers, Norman, 110. Bogers, M. Louise, 342. Bogers, Dr. C, 179. Bogers, Loula Kendall, 177. Boval Becluse, 12. Boyal Cavalcade, The, (Poem,) 314. Buined Lives, 368. Butledge, Emma Middleton, 13. Ruth, 236. Buth Baymond ; or, Love's Progress, 468. Ryan, Bev. A. J., 436. XXV111 ALPHABETICAL INDEX. Russell's Magazine, 463. Ruby's Husband, 435. SCOTT'S Magazine, 180. Scanland, Dr. S. E., 42. Scrimzeour, Sir Alexander, 480. Seaton, Gales, 445. Seals, John, 321. Sea-Drift, 502, 531. Seclusaval; or, The Arts of Romanism, 368. Secret Chamber, 30. Secret, Family, 30. Seemuller, Mr., 526. Sentinel of Pompeii, The, (Poem,) 174. Sergeant Dale, 273. Shackelford, W. F., 98. Shaw, Dr. John, 115. Shindler, Mrs. Mary S. B., 475. Shindler, Rev. Robt. D., 476. Shelton, Mrs. Julia, 285. Sheppard, Elizabeth Sara, 492. Sibyl, 202. Siege of Murany, (Poem,) 340. Sigoigne, Madame, 20. Silverwood : a Book of Memories, 380. Simkins, Colonel Arthur, 492. Sisters, The, 183. Simonton, Anna Frances, 516. Sincerity in Talking, 193. Sinclair, Carrie Bell, 196. Sinclair, Rev. Elijah, 196. Simms's War Poetry of the South, 281. Simms, W. Gilmore, 12, 438, 485. Simons, Alice F., 479. Sketches of Southern Literature, 415. Sleeping:, (Poem,) 495. Smith, Rev. B. M., 434. Smith, Robert White, 165. Smith, Rev. Geo. G., 503. Smiley, Matilda Caroline, 414. So Long Ago, (Poem,) 544. Sonnet, 516. Sophisms of the Protective Policv, 518. Southworth, Mrs. Emma D. E. N., 541. Southern Poems of the War, 440. Southern Societv, 422. Souvenirs of Travel, 292. Souvenirs of a Residence in Europe, 437. Southern Girl's Homespun Dress, 197. Southern Villegiatura, A, 80. Southern Opinion, 403. " Southland Writers," 6. South Carolina Gazette, 10. South, The, 128. Southern Monthly, The, (Memphis,) 127, 304, 365. Southern Literary News, 161. Southern Literary Companion, 184, 284. Southern Field and Fireside, 268, 273, 285. Southern Literature, On, 504. Spencer, Dr. D. M., 366. Spencer, Miss Eliza, 542. Spencer, Cornelia Phillips, 454. Spirit-Mates, 431. Spirit-Landscapes, (Poem,) 70. Spirit- Whisperings, 309. Spotswood, Dr. John C, 296. Standing Guard, 531. Stanford, Mrs. Mary, 303. Stranger's Stratagem ; or, The Double De- ceit, 420. St. Philip's, 120. St. Elmo, 276. Stark, A. B., 169. Stella Letters, 538. Stephens, Hon. Alexander H, 234. Stealing Roses through the Gate, (Poem,) 560. Stibbes, Mrs. Agnes Jean, 214. Stilling, Margaret, 400. Still Faithful, 492. Stonewall Jackson's Way, 539. Stockton, Rev. Thomas H, 10. Stratton, Catharine, 489. Stratford Gallery, (Review,) 540. Studies in Literature, 2, 70. Student of Blenheim Forest, 14. Sturdevant, Captain Joel, 28. Sturges, Mr., 419. Stuart Leigh, 448. Sunnybank, 435. Summer Memory, A, 472. Summer Idyl, A, (Poem,) 251. Summer Noonday Dreams, 392. Sunset Musings, (Poem,) 456. Summer Retreat of a Southern Planter, 482. Swain, Margie P., 171. Swift, Miss, 106. Sylvia's World, 463. Sybil Huntingdon, 477. TALES for the Freemason's Fireside, 284. Tales of the Weird and Wonderful, 26. Tale of the Pearl-Trader, 26. Tales and Legends of Louisiana, 87. Tales and Ballads, 468. Talking, 191. Terhune, M. Virginia, 433. Terhune, Rev. E. P., 434. Tears on the Diadem, 14. Tenella, La, 445. Temperance Crusader, 204. Temperance Lyre, 477. Ten Years Outre Mer, 538. Thine and Mine; or, The Stepmother's Reward, 531. Thackeray, Wm. Makepeace, 463. Thomas, Sarah Brewer, 5. Three Bernices; or, Ansermo of the Crag, 376. Three Golden Links, 284. Think and Act, 67. Thompson, John R., 8. ALPHABETICAL INDEX. XXIX Thoughts about Talking, 193. Thou art Growing Old, Mother, (Poem,) 374. Timothy, Lewis, 10. Tiinrod, Henry, 492. To the Memory of Captain Herndon, (Poem,) 195. To my Absent Husband, 266. Townsend, Maiy Ashly, 144. Townsend, Gideon, 144. Townsend, Cora, 144. Towles, Catherine W., 283. Towles, Hon. John C, 284. Trials of May Brooke, 14. Trials of an Orphan, 294. Transition, (Poem,) 253. Triumphs of Spring, 446. Triumphant, 503. |jjfeatise on Gardening, 12. Tried for her Life, 542. Tucker, Mary E., 163. Tucker, Beverly, 8, 438. Tucker, Judge St. George, 438. Three Beauties, 541. Two Sisters, 541. Two Lives ; or, To Seem and To Be, 225. Two Angels, The, (Poem,) 300. Two Heroines ; or, Freaks of Fortune, 549. Types of Mankind, 517. UNDER the Stones, 144. Under the Lamplight, (Poem,) 185. Under the Oaks, 401. Unattainable, The, 189. Unknown, (Poem,) 198. Unknown, 517. Under the Leaves, 362. Undertow : a Sonnet, 387. Upshur, Mary J. S., 416. Upshur, Wm. Stith, 416. Upshur, Judge Abel P., 416. YALERIE Aylmer, 461. Vance, Sallie Ada, 299. Yanitas, (Poem,) 172. Van Voorhises, 144. Van Wickle, J. O, 144. Vanquished, (Review,) 40. Vashti; or, Until Death Us do Part, 280. Vendel, Emile de, 244. Verses of a Lifetime, 468. Vernon Grove ; or, Hearts as They Are, 469. Victor and Victim, (Poem,) 507. Virginia Zulaine, 12. Violet; or, The Cross and Crown, 225, 228. Violetta and I, 229. Viola, 455. Vine, My, (Poem,) 295. Virginia, 403. Vick, Captain Joseph, 440. Village, A Virginia, (1861,) 428. Vivia; or, The Secret of Power, 541. WAGGLE, Sam, 157. Waddell, John, 440. Walker, Judge Alexander, 5, 144. Wallis S. Teakle, 447. Wakelee, Miss Kate C, 194. Waking of the Blind Girl by the Tones of the Grand Organ, 257. WalthaU, Major W. T., 245, 248. Walker, Miss, 296. Walker, Judith Page, 436. Walker, Colonel Francis, 437. Warfield, Mrs. Catharine A., 17. Ward, Hon. John, 225. Ware, Mary, 292. Way it aH Ended, The, 433. Weiss, Mrs. S. A., 391. Weimar, 552. Welby, Amelia B., 3. West, Florence D., 565. Westmoreland, Maria J., 188. Westmoreland, Dr. W. F., 189. What is Life ? (Poem,) 407. Whig, Richmond, 417. Whipple, E. P., 519. Whitaker, Mary S., 480. Whitaker, Daniel K., 5, 481. Whitaker, Lily, 482. Whittlesev, Miss Sarah J. C, 420. White, Thomas W., 8. Whiting, General John, 6. Why do I Love Him? (Poem,) 152. White Camelia, The, (Poem,) 505. Wife, The, (Poem,) 100. Wife's Victory, 541. Willard, Mrs. Florence J., 148. Williams, Marie Bushnell, 85. Williams, Josiah P., 86. Williams, Dr. R. D., 129. Williams, Mrs. Bessie W., 205. Will's a Widower, (Poem,) 241. Wilev, Mrs. Mary, 400. Windle, Mrs. Catharine F., 151. Windle, Geo. W., 151. Windle, Mary J., 151. Wind Whispers, 348. Winter Wind, (Poem,) 527. Wilson, L. M., 280. Wood Notes, 449. World of the Ideal, (Poem,) 54. Words to a " Lied ohne Worte," (Poem,) 526. Woman in America : Her Work and her Reward, 225. Woman an Enigma, 225. Women of France, The, 203. Women, Employments of, 67. Women, Five " Hundred Employments adapted to, 67. Woman: Her Education, Aims, Sphere, Influence, and Destiny, 369. XXX ALPHABETICAL INDEX. " Women of the South," by Mary Forrest, 57, 347, 391. Worthington, Jane Taylor, 9. Woodbine, Jenny, 183. Wreath of Rhymes, A, 116. Woodson, Mary E., 433. Wynne, Emma Moflfett, 180. XARIFFA, 144. Xariffa's Poems, 145. XlXth Century, 458. YALE Literary Magazine, 473. Yeiser, Sarah C, 161. Yeiser, Dr. Philip, 161. Yule, 434. Young Housewife's Counsellor and Friend, 454. Young Sailor, 477. Yorkville Enquirer, 479. "Year of Grief," 515. Young, Mrs. Maud J., 551. yAIDEE, 505. Lk Zimmerman, Mrs. Bettie M., 200. Zena Clifton, 262. Zenaida, 53. INTRODUCTORY. HIS record of the " Living Female Writers of the South " is intended to embody the names and works of all those ladies who have written for publication, and been recognized as " writers " in the Southern States. Few of the " writers " sketched have made a profession of litera- ture; that is, have made writing the means whereby they earn a subsistence. From the Southern portion of the United States come the most popular of the Female Novelists of America. Although literature in the South is in its youth, there is a bloom of youthful vigor and glowing enthusiasm about it, giving promise for the future. Yet dilettanteism — the treating literature as if it were the amusement of an idle hour, instead of a most grave and serious pursuit, on the right following of which, to a great extent, our people's intel- lectual life depends — has been the bane of Southern literature ; this, and the eulogy of many editors, whose politeness and amiability would not let them see the mischief they were doing. It is incumbent upon the press of the South to try to redress this evil ; to stimulate those who write tolerably, to write well if they can ; and those who write well, to write better ; and gently but firmly to repress those who have mistaken their vocation. What has given the literature of France its brilliancy, that of Ger- many its depth of learning, and that of England its clear rationality, but the presence of a competent and exigent criticism ? I INTRODUCTORY. In this collection will be found record of Southern writers, good, bad, and indifferent. I have not pretended to pick the chaff from the wheat. I have made record of such writers as have written and pub- lished sufficient to form a volume, and told the world who they are, and what they have done, and left it to conclude what it has a right to expect from them in the future. The pages following show that in the South we have creative art ; but we have not that art of criticism which comes from culture and study. It is but meet and right to give a superficial glance at those " female writers of the South " who are no longer among the living ; and of those of whom little is known, who may be among the living. The enterprise of the South in journalism can hardly be complained of, if we estimate it by the number of efforts made. The late George D. Prentice, distinguished as poet and journalist, (born at Griswold, Conn., on December 18, 1802, removed to Louis- ville, September, 1830, and on the 24th day of November following published the first number of the Louisville Journal: died January 21, 1870,) by private correspondence, and timely notices in his Jour- nal, caused many a blossom of poetry to blow in hearts that might otherwise only have worn a purple crown of thistles. Of many of these poets the pages following bear record. George D. Prentice exer- cised a wide influence in the field of literature. To quote from Mr. George W. Griffin's " Studies in Literature : " * " The affluence of Mr. Prentice in genius and in equipments of education seemed to be well- nigh endless. He was as generous in the beneficent use of his intel- lectual wealth as he was great in the magnitude of its possession. Those who knew him intimately, during his editorial career in Louis- ville, can easily call up from the storehouse of memory a hundred ex- amples of his judicious, unstinted, and benevolent kindness to young aspirants for fame." * Second edition, revised, (Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger,) Philadelphia, 1871. INTEODUCTOEY. 3 The lovely song-bird "Amelia" was one of Mr. Prentice's most noted protegees. Amelia B. Welby, whose maiden name was Coppuck, was born in the town of St. Michael's, Md., in 1821, and died at Lexington, Ky., May 2, 1852. When she was about fourteen years of age, her father removed to Kentucky. She married, in 1838, Mr. George B. Welby, of Louisville. Through Mr. Prentice, " Amelia's " poems were intro- duced to the public. A collection of her poems was published in 1844, which passed through four large editions. In 1850, Appleton & Co., New York, published her poems in one handsome volume, illustrated. Edgar A. Poe, in his " Literati," says : " Mrs. Welby has nearly all the imagination of Maria del Occidente, with a more refined taste ; and nearly all of the passion of Mrs. Norton, with a nicer ear, and equal art. Very few American poets are at all comparable with her in the true poetic qualities. . . . " There are some poets in America (Bryant and Sprague, for exam- ple) who equal Mrs. Welby in the negative merits of that limited versification which they chiefly affect — the iambic pentameter ; but none equal her in the richer and positive merits of rhythmical variety, conception, invention. They, in the old routine, rarely err. She often surprises, and always delights, by novel, rich, and accurate combina- tion of the ancient musical expression." An author, whose books achieved popularity of the purest and rarest type — " books that are the evident product of intellect and culture ; full of vigor, as well as the most delicate grace and perception — the portraiture showing the graphic and true lines of a master, and her works all touched with the issues of a refined, womanly, and religious spirit"* — has recently been called from her ministry here to a heavenly home. I allude to Jane Tandy Chinn Cross, who was born in Harrodsburg, Ky., in 1817, and died in the same town, October, 1870. *Mary Forrest. 4 INTRODUCTORY. At a youthful age Miss Chinn was married to James P. Hardin, of Ken- tucky. He died in 1842, leaving his widow with three children. In 1848, Mrs. Hardin was married to the Kev. Dr. Cross, who survives her. With her husband, she made a tour to Europe, and corresponded with the Nashville Christian Advocate. This series of letters was pub- lished under the title of " Reflected Fragments." It was about 1851 be- fore Mrs. Cross commenced writing for publication. Her books are four volumes for children, and "Duncan Adair; or, Captured in Escaping;" "Azile: A Story," Nashville, 1868. Mrs. Cross wrote a great deal for periodicals, in prose and verse, and translated in a masterly manner, from the Spanish of Florian, " Gon- zalvo de Cordova ; or, The Conquest of Granada." " Azile," her most ambitious effort, is a quiet story, straightforward, growing in interest to the close. The scene of the first part is in Dres- den. There is some fine-art criticism, and a deal of information about the customs and habits of the German people, their amusements and recreations. The scene is transferred to the Southern States at the beginning of the war, (I860,) and ends with the first battle of Manassas. Mrs. Cross's picture of life in the South, during that time of revulsion and enthusiasm, is true in conception. Her style was clear, smooth, and lively ; and knowing Jean Paul, she was an enthusiastic admirer of him. The minor writers of Kentucky, who have no mention in this vol- ume, and are not among the living, are few in number. Among the dead may be mentioned Mary Wilson Betts. She was born about 1830, near Maysville, Ky, At the time of her marriage (1854) to Morgan L. Betts, editor of the Detroit Times, she was one of the most popular of the younger writers of the South. " Mrs. Betts was widely admired as a young poet whose writings gave promise of decided ex- cellence." She died suddenly, September 16, 1854. The New Orleans Mirror — a literary journal established by Mark F. Bigney, a poet and journalist, (at this time editor of the New INTRODUCTORY. 5 Orleans Times, was a medium for the debut of several of the female writers of the South. I believe the suspension of this weekly paper was caused by the war. There have been a vast number of literary journals started in New Orleans — short-lived — and it would be of little benefit to attempt to enumerate the titles. Frequent mention is made in the following pages of the Sunday issues of the New Orleans daily papers, which contain much that is worthy of preservation in a more permanent form. D. C. Jenkins, Judge Walker, Alexan- der Dimitry, J. W. Overall, M. F. Bigney, D. K. Whitaker, W. M. Burwell, Durant DuPonte, and other less known writers are em- ployed editorially on the New Orleans press. There are several authors resident in Louisiana, of Northern birth, who have made the Pelican State their home, and might be classed as among the writers of the South, whose names do not appear in this volume. Sarah Brewer, born in Wilbraham, Mass., 1793, came South over fifty years ago, to establish institutions for the education of the daugh- ters of the South. She married Captain David Thomas, of Jackson, La., and after his death, in 1849, removed to New Orleans, which she made her home. In 1857, Mrs. Thomas crossed the Atlantic, and made a tour of England, Scotland, Ireland, France, etc., and prepared for publication (J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia, 1860) " Travels in Europe, Egypt, and Palestine." Mrs. Thomas is the oldest living female writer of the South — nearly eighty years of age. She has an earnest desire to aid in building up a Southern literature. She has on hand MSS. for a volume of poems, collected from periodicals to which she occasionally contributed. New Orleans is her home. Since this volume has been printed, Mrs. Sophie A. DuPonte, nee Brook, of New Orleans, has published a translation of " Callirhoe," (Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger, Philadelphia,) one of the novels of Maurice Sand, son of Madame Dudevant, of whose nom de plume he has claimed inheritance. Mrs. DuPonte's translation is excellent. Mrs. DuPonte is the wife of Durant DuPonte, of the New Orleans press. 6 INTEODUCTOEY. Georgia, styled the "Empire State," is certainly the empress of the Southern States as regards the number of female writers, and from having been the home of the most successful literary journals of the South, and whose literary light burned brighter and longer. In the "Southland Writers," published in 1869, a brief notice is made of Mary Catharine Bigby, born in Newnan, Ga., and resident in that charming town ; the author of many gems of verse, and several prize poems. Mrs. Bigby died at Newnan, July 23, 1870. Alabama's literary journals have been few and of brief existence. The people of this State are a commercial rather than a literary peo- ple ; and, to quote the language of the late Hon. Alexander B. Meek, poet and historian, "Until a taste for the fine arts is excited, when that mighty, slumbering attribute of the mind — its only immortal part — the ideal, is stirred, and not till then, may we hope for a native literature; a literature that shall redeem and illustrate this cotton- growing region. All previous efforts will be a wasteful dissemination of pearls. You might as well scatter, with the vain hope of vegeta- tion, the delicate seed of the chrysanthemum or the dahlia upon the sandy slopes of the Chandeleur Isles." A few periodical works have been maintained in Alabama for a time, by the efforts of an exalted purpose upon the part of the publishers ; but they have met with no adequate and spirited patronage, and have ceased to exist, and soon been forgotten. Alabama has had authors — now not among the living — of whom we are proud. Meek, from the southern part of the State ; from Mid- dle Alabama, Pickett ; and Jere Clemens, from a northern county, were a distinguished trio. " A very distinguished and sweet daughter of Southern literature was Caroline Lee Hentz. She was the daughter of General John Whiting, of Massachusetts, and in 1825 married Mr. Hentz, who was at one time a professor at Chapel Hill College. Her destiny was cast with the South, where she preferred to live, and to end a delicate exist- ence, amid the magnolia flowers, whose pure and gentle zephyrs min- INTRODUCTORY. 7 gled their aroma with her dying breath. Her productions are pure fiction, simple and true, drawn from the heart, and highly illustrative of the unstained elements of Southern society, manners, and morals. They are domestic tales, which reflect the best features of home life, and are true, because drawn from the fountains of nature. The authoress does not strike for the bolder region of historic romance, but relies upon a truthful and appreciative sense of the affections, which she handles with delightful delicacy." * Mrs. Hentz passed many useful years in Alabama ; first, at Locust Dell, near Florence, Ala., (of which homestead her elder daughter charmingly sang in after years,) where she was in charge of a female academy for nine years — afterward at Tuscaloosa, and then for three years at the pleasant town of Tuskegee. Mrs. Hentz died in 1856, at Columbus, Ga. Mrs. Angele De V. Hull, who resided in Mobile, and died there, was a favorite contributor for several years to Graham's Magazine and other literary journals. She was a sister of Mrs. Adelaide De V. Chaudron, a sketch of whom opens the record of living female writers of Alabama. In Natchez, the gay-society town of Mississippi in years agone, the lovely, lively Eleanor Percy Ware was a belle among noted belles. Miss Ware was the younger sister of Mrs. Catharine A. Warfield, and author jointly with her of the "Wife of Leon, and other Poems," pub- lished in 1843, and the " Indian Chamber, and other Poems," (1846.) She married Mr. Henry Lee, a native of Virginia, and resided in Hinds County, Miss., where she died in 1849. In 1860, S. H. Goetzel & Co., of Mobile, published "Ellen ; or, The Fanatic's Daughter," a novel, by Mrs. V. G. Cowden. This lady was a resident of Mississippi. Her book was not a success. Virginia, the " Old Dominion " State, is well known for the produc- tion of statesmen, jurists, historians, and authors. " The Knights of * William Archer Cocke, of Virginia. 8 INTRODUCTOEY. the Horseshoe " — an interesting tale, founded on colonial life in Vir- ginia in the days of Governor Spottiswoode, in which the author, William A. Caruthers, of Virginia, has given some fine illustrations of the manners, habits, and tastes of the old Virginia settlers — has seemed to me as the Alpha of Virginia fiction. Judge Beverly Tucker produced two very attractive novels, one of which, " The Partisan Leader," acquired considerable notice during the late war, on account of its political prescience. His nephew, a brave and gallant man with gifted genius, was the author of an inter- esting historic novel, entitled "Hansford: A Tale of Bacon's Kebellion,' , and it is a pleasure to tell the readers of the South of a niece of this latter, and grand-niece of the former, who has recently published her first book, "The Holcombes." The Southern Literary Messenger, published in Bichmond, under the editorial care of Thomas W. White — the first number published in 1835, and the last in 1864 — was the longest-lived monthly of the South. To this magazine there was a bright constellation of con- tributors. Its editors, after Mr. White, were B. B. Minor, E. A. Toe, John K. Thompson, George W. Bagby, and F. H. Alfriend ; and its contributors embraced the names of men and women now well known wherever the English language is read. Among the authoresses of Virginia, not elsewhere noted, mention must at least be made of Mrs. Mary H. Eastman, daughter of Dr. Thomas Henderson, of the U. S. A., and wife of Captain S. Eastman, of the U. S. A. She was born at Warrenton, Fauquier County, Va. While she was a child, her parents removed to the City of Washington, where she lived until the time of her marriage, which took place at West Point, in 1835. As a companion of her husband at Fort Snelling and other frontier stations, Mrs. Eastman enjoyed excellent opportunities of studying the Indian character, which she has graphically depicted in her four works relating to the Aborigines of America, viz. : 1. Dahcotah ; or, Legends of the Sioux. New York, 12mo, 1849. 2. Bomance of Indian Life. Philadelphia, 8vo, 1852. INTRODUCTOEY. 9 3. Aboriginal Portfolio, illustrated by S. Eastman, U. S. A. 4to, 1853. 4. Chicora, and other Regions of the Conquerors and Conquered. 4to, 1854. Besides these, Mrs. Eastman, in 1852, published a novel entitled " Aunt Phillis's Cabin," intended as a response to Mrs. Stowe's " Uncle Tom's Cabin." The sale of this book reached eighteen thousand copies in a few weeks. In 1856, she published " Fashionable Life," a novel, the motto of which was — "But the world! The heart and mind of woman I Every one would like to know something about that ! " Mrs. Eastman has been a frequent contributor to magazines, etc. Mrs. Mary Webster Mosely, wife of John G. Mosely, of Rich- mond, and daughter of Robert Pleasants, wrote for various periodicals, and was highly esteemed for her virtues and literary accomplishments. Her only published work was " Pocahontas," a legend, with historical and traditional notes ; issued in 1840. Mrs. Mosely died in Richmond, in 1844, aged 52 years. Mrs. Anna Cora Mowatt Ritchie has been frequently sketched as a Southern authoress, and I am proud to place the name of so gifted a woman upon my pages. Anna Cora Ogden was born in Bordeaux, France, in 1818. When sixteen years of age, she was married to James Mowatt, of New York, a lawyer of wealth and culture. For a history of her eventful and heroic life, the reader is referred to her " Autobiography of an Actress," published first in 1855. Mr. Mowatt died in 1851. In 1854, Mrs. Mowatt became the wife of William F. Ritchie, at that time editor of the Richmond Enquirer. Mrs. Ritchie published numerous plays and novels that were suc- cessful. She died in England, July 26, 1870. Mrs. Jane Tayloe Worthington, wife of Dr. F. A. Worthington, of Ohio, and daughter of Colonel Lomax, of the U. S. A., was a na- tive of Virginia. By the frequent changes of residence involved in military service, she was afforded large opportunities for observation and social and intellectual culture, but she always retained a strong 10 INTRODUCTORY. attachment for her native State, and nearly all her writings in prose and verse appeared in the Southern Literary Messenger of Richmond. She died in 1847. Mrs. Martha Haines Butt Bennett, born in Norfolk, Va., was the author of several successful volumes. " Leisure Moments," a col- lection of short tales, essays, and sketches, was published in New York in 1859. She contributed to various periodicals. In 1865 she was married to Mr. N. J. Bennett, of Bridgeport, Conn In 1866, Mrs. Bennett published a volume for children, entitled " Pastimes with my Little Friends," (New York, Carleton.) She died in New York in 1871. Mrs. E. H. Evans, a sister of the Rev. Thomas H. Stockton, and the wife of Dr. M. H. Evans, of Amelia County, Va., published a volume of poems, (Philadelphia, 1851, 12mo,) and was a contributor to magazines. She is the mother of Mrs. Mary Wiley, who is sketched among the living female writers of Virginia. The "Old Dominion" State has had a few other female writers who are worthy of mention, whose literary works were popular and attractive, but whose addresses, amid the mighty changes of a few years, it has been impossible to ascertain. South Carolina has been quite as fruitful of endeavors to establish literary journals as her Southern sisters, and quite as unfortunate, if judged by the financial standard alone. Literary success has often been good, while the financial was not; and in general, the former has been far ahead of the latter. Journalism in South Carolina dates back about a hundred and thirty years. Its protagonist — to use that word in Mr. Petigru's sense of it — was Mr. Lewis Timothy, who in Charleston established The South Carolina Gazette, in the year 1731. Literary periodicals have been less successful, financially speaking, than the political; less than agri- cultural ; and less, if possible, than religious. Experiments, however, have been made in a large variety of spheres, from the heaviest to the lightest ; from grave to gay ; from the orthodox doctrinal utterances INTRODUCTORY. 11 of Church organs, to the flippant on dits of village gossip ; from the Magnolia (not grandiflora) of Mr. Whitaker, to the sweet little Rose- bud of Mrs. Gilman ; from the solid learning of Legare's Southern Review, to the niaiseries of Sargent's Brazen Nose. In earlier times there were TJie Columbian Herald, The South Carolina Museum, The Monthly Magazine, Heriot's Magazine, and The Southern Literary Jour- nal of Mr. Carroll; not to mention some half literary and half politi- cal issues. Then there were Whitaker's Magazine, or magazines, and afterward Russell's. Mrs. Gilman's Southern Rose bloomed for a while. Besides, Mr. Simms did earnest and effective work in TJie Southern Literary Gazette, TJie Cosmopolitan, The Magnolia, his Southern and Western Magazine and Review; and did heroic work on The Southern Quarterly Review. All of these lived only for a time. Not one of all the above — and this list of the dead is not complete, and many were meritorious in their way — not one is now living. In those past days, the great mass of pen-work was done by men. Few of the gentler sex ventured into print. It was not the style. The life of ease, elegance, and leisure, for ladies, in those statelier times, was full of noble and beautiful deeds ; but few of those ladies cared for literary laurels, and many seemed to shrink with native delicacy from the bruit of authorial notoriety. The number of female writers in the past of the " Palmetto State " is small. About a dozen names, of the few dozens who have written for newspapers, are all that have become authors ; and several of these never wrote a line for publica- tion, but their letters or writings were given by others to the w r orld after their lives had closed. The earliest name that we meet is that of Mrs. Sophie Hume, whose " Exhortation to the Inhabitants of the Province of South Carolina, to bring their Deeds to the Light of Christ and their own Consciences," seems to be a pious book, and one of a woman thoroughly in earnest. She dates this volume at " Charles Town, in South Carolina, the 30th of the Tenth Month, 1747 ; " and it was published at Bristol, in Eng- land, in 1750. Her " Epistle to the Inhabitants of South Carolina " appeared in 1754, London. 12 INTRODUCTORY. A few years later, in 1760, appears the second name. This is Mrs. Mary Hutson, n£e Woodward, whose good works live after her in the shape of a small volume — " Living Christianity Delineated in the Diaries and Letters of two Eminently Pious Persons, lately deceased, viz., Mr. Hugh Bryan, and Mrs. Mary Hutson, both of South Caro- lina." The book is divided into two parts, the second pertaining to Mrs. Hutson. A decade later, 1770, appeared a " Treatise on Gardening," which had been written by Mrs. Martha Logan, in her seventieth year. Later, Mrs. Anna Izard Deas appeared as the editor of the " Cor- respondence of Mr. Ralph Izard, of South Carolina, from the year 1774 to 1804," which she prefaced with a short memoir of her father. A second volume is still unpublished. In 1811 was published Dr. David Ramsay's "Memoirs of Mrs. Mar- tha Laurens Ramsay, with Extracts from her Diary." Of this excel- lent lady — a daughter of Mr. Henry Laurens, of Revolutionary fame — Mr. Simms says : " Her letters to her son at college are models of their kind. She was a matron and a mother of rare excellence of char- acter, of pure nature, of vigorous thought and fine taste, and richly deserving of that title of strong-minded woman which is so much abused at the present day. Her mind had strength without pretension, grace without flippancy or conceit ; and she wrote her morals at once from heart and head, not from the latter alone, and feeling the faith which she so earnestly professed, and conscious of the truth in all the lessons which she taught." In the earlier years of tbe present century figured in Charleston so- ciety Mrs. Charles Baring, a lady of the great banker's family, an actress and author, who wrote " Altorf," "The Royal Recluse," "Vir- ginia Zulaine," and possibly some other dramas. Dr. Simms, who met Mrs. Baring in her old age, says : " She had been a successful actress, and even in her latter days she carried herself with the air of a tragedy queen who had been trained in the excellent but stately school of the famous Siddons." INTRODUCTORY. 13 The subject-matter of Miss Maria Pinckney's work in defence of nullification principles, indicates the force and character of her vigor- ous and practical mind. Under the touching and appropriate title of " Reliquse " are em- bodied the poems of Mrs. Daniel Blake, nee Emma Middleton Rut- ledge. Sprung from a line most illustrious in a State of historic renown, this lady, a daughter of Major Henry M. Rutledge, and grand-daugh- ter both of Arthur Middleton and of Edward Rutledge, whose names grace the Declaration of Independence, was born in 1811, and died in her native Charleston in 1853. Nature, which gave her personal beauty, rare elegance of manner, and unequalled loveliness of disposition, added a childlike unconsciousness, which made her the only one unaware of her great charms, and gave her the divine gift of song. The character of her poetic principle is that vital sympathy with the outer world, which the true poet alone knows. As she herself so happily expresses it, she seemed to hold " The fibres of a hidden chain, That, linked by thousand sympathies, In close communion can enwreathe Insensate things with those that breathe ; As if pure spirit stooped to hold Commerce with child of mortal mould.' One rises from the perusal of this dainty volume with a conscious- ness of something sweetly sad, but fresh and hopeful ; with a feeling like the memory of sad music heard at morning, in spring, amid the smiles and odors of early violets. The tone, the thoughts, and the spirit of the book are all the reflex of an accomplished, refined, and gifted Southern woman. The name of Miss Mary Elizabeth Lee, her delicacy of constitution, her superb endowments, her physical suffering, her early death, the hue of mingled melancholy and hope that tinges all her genius and her life, these are all fresh in the memories of the host of friends who knew and appreciated her in Charleston. Her " Poems " were published in 14 INTEODUCTOEY. 1851, two years after her death. She died in her thirty-ninth year, at her home, in Charleston. She had contributed to most of the literary journals of the South, in her day — to The Southern Rose, The Orion, and Whitaker's Magazine, of her native State, and to others not entirely literary. Besides the " living writers " noted in this volume, there are a few not mentioned on account of the impossibility of obtaining data for a sketch, etc. Mrs. Anna H. Dorsey is, I believe, a native of Baltimore. She has been writing for over twenty years, (without any notice of herself or writings, in the numerous " cyclopaedias of literature.") She has writ- ten dramas, poems, novels, tales and essays, a great many stories for young people, and in all she has shown considerable talent and research. "The Trials of May Brooke," "Tears on the Diadem," " The Old Landlord's Daughter," etc., are the delight of school-girls. Nearly all of the Catholic periodicals have articles from her pen, for she is a most prolific writer. " The Student of Blenheim Forest," second edition, was published in 1867, (John Murphy & Co., Baltimore.) This story is sad, but beau- tiful. It opens in Virginia, at Blenheim Forest, the elegant residence of Colonel Clavering, on the banks of the Rappahannock River. The elegant diction and refined taste displayed in this book commend it to cultivated readers. " The Lily of the Valley ; or, Margie and I: and other Poems," by Amy Gray, (Baltimore, Kelly & Piet, 1870.) This little volume con- tains the first fruits of the imagination of a lady of Maryland, who published the book " to aid in the education of destitute little girls of the South, orphaned by the late war." " Byrd Lyttle " is the nom de plume of a lady of Baltimore, who has contributed charming sketches to Southern magazines, and pub- lished one small volume, " Mary Austin ; or, The New Home," (Alfred Martien, Philadelphia, 1870.) This book is inscribed to the "Sunday- school Scholars of Memorial Church, Baltimore." INTEODUCTOEY. 15 These and perhaps a few others, whose names we find as con- tributors to the numerous ephemeral periodicals of the past, make up the total of the small number of "female writers " that figure in the literature of the Southern States who are not mentioned in our volume. The data of this work are correct, and reliable, and carried to the present time. The errors that appeared in the " Southland Writers," I have endeavored to correct. I can only hope this book may meet with as many kind friends as did that, and be of more benefit to our infant Southern Literature. Mobile, June, 1871. aiiflgMk, HYING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. KENTUCKY. MRS. CATHARINE ANN WARFIELD. " G-enius does what it must, and Talent does what it can." HESE words of Mr. Lytton sprung involuntarily to our lips when we turned away from the hospitable door of Beech- moor, on the occasion of a recent visit to its gifted mistress. She stood at the door, looking wistfully after our departing carriage, and we watched the calm, gracious, matronly figure, with its well-poised, haughty head, until the last wave of the beautiful white hand was shut from our eyes by the thick groups of spruce and fir- trees which stud the borders of the carriage-drive. The grass was fresh and dewy, glittering with water diamonds, and the tufts of pink and white peonies, the fragrant lilies and early spring roses grouped upon the lawn, filled the morning air with perfumes. As we passed through the gate, the breeze wafted to us a strong breath from the trestled honeysuckle and jasmines that overhung, canopied, and com- pletely curtained in the back porch which adjoined Mrs. Warn" eld's apartments. It was a sigh of farewell from a spot where we had passed two happy months, — a period for remembrance, when, like the hero Gottreich, of Jean Paul's little tale, we come to make up our " Re- membrances of the best hours of Life, for the hour of Death," — when ourselves " at our last hour with the views of 17 we , too, mean to cheer 18 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. a happy life, and to look back from the glow of evening to the bright- ness of the morning of oar youth; — then we will recall our visit to Beechmoor, and the friendship of its mistress. We will remember the hours of frank intercourse and honest communion of heart and soul passed under the shade of those clambering jasmine vines. So few people in this world are thoroughly true, — so few are thoroughly re- fined, — so few are thoroughly sympathetic, — so few are thoroughly educated. The author of "The Household of Bouverie" is all of these. It was like awakening from a beautiful dream to go away from that deep inner life, with the continual intoxication of that soulful society, back into the bustling, fretting, hurrying world of travel ; — to look away from the soft dark-gray eyes, radiating emanations from a spirit so warm and so strong, — eyes so full of vitality, both mental and sensuous, — into the hard, rapid, eager eyes of money-changers and souls engrossed in thoughts of traffic and material life. During this visit we learned many facts connected with our subject. Charles Percy, a captain of the British army, was one of the early colonists of Louisiana. He married his third wife, a lady of Ope- lousas. His descendants are numerous in Mississippi and Louisiana. Sarah Percy was married first to Colonel John Ellis, a man of wealth and influence at Natchez, Miss. After his death, she married Nathan- iel A. Ware, a lawyer from South Carolina, — a man of profound learning and well versed in science, particularly in Botany, but a man full of eccentricities and naturally very shy and reserved in char- acter, His domestic trials rendered him bitter and outwardly morose, even to his friends, sometimes even to his children. He was a philos- opher of the school of Voltaire, a fine scholar, with a pungent, acrid wit, and cool sarcasm, which made him both feared and respected by those brought into collision with him. He lived to be old, and died of yellow-fever, near Galveston, Texas, where he had invested his means very extensively in lands. He was a handsome man, his feat- ures marked, — his nose aquiline, his mouth small and compressed, his eyes of a bright blue, his complexion pure and fair as a young girl's, his cheeks freshly colored, his brow white as a lily, — a very venerable- looking man, with long, thin, white locks falling on his neck ; his fore- head was very high, very prominent, and very narrow. He wrote two works on Political Economy, which made some reputation for him among the class of men who take interest in such reasonings. He was CATHARINE ANN WARFIELD. 19 a man of mark, though not much beloved — out of his own family circle. He wrote also a " geographical " novel. His wife, who was very young when left a widow by Colonel Ellis, had borne Major Ware two daughters, Catharine and Eleanor ; but at the birth of the latter, family procliv- ity inherited from her father declared itself, and the charming, attrac- tive young woman never recovered her reason, from the delirium of puerperal fever. Major and Mrs. Ware were then living near Natchez. There was the loudest expression of sympathy and regret on the part of her many friends, by whom Mrs. Ware was greatly beloved, but after trying every medical suggestion that the South could afford, Major Ware was compelled to take his suffering wife to Philadelphia for better advice ; — her two children by her first marriage were already there. Her son was at college at Princeton, K". J. ; her daughter, Mary Ellis, the wife of Dr. Pene La Roche, of Philadelphia. Now the father had to take charge of his two helpless little girls, so sadly deprived of their mother's tender care. He was passionately devoted to his little daughters, never content to have them away from him ; and he did the best he could for them. They had wealth and friends, but it was lonely for the little things, wandering about from place to place, as their father's wretchedness led him to do, in his restless, weary life, — never long separated from the stern, peculiar scholar, whom they could not comprehend, except in his intense ten- derness and earnest anxiety to bring them up as lovely, refined ladies should be educated. There was only eighteen months' difference between the sisters ; Catharine was the elder, but Eleanor was so bright, so clever, and so active, that she always took the lead, wherever they might happen to be. They were nearly of one size. Eleanor was a beautiful child ; Catharine's face was not so regular in feature, and she had not her sister's brilliant complexion. Catharine had the Percy eye, dark-gray with black lash ; she was like her mother, dark-haired and brunette. Eleanor was a picture to see ; her eyes were as blue as heaven, her features statuesque, her hair black, with a purple tinge. Catharine was shy, sensitive, easily abashed, and readily provoked to tears — a sad, pensive child ; Eleanor was self-reliant, gay, dancing like a sun- beam. So Catharine readily yielded the pas to her younger sister, and believed more devoutly than any one else in Eleanor's superiority, both physical and mental. She retained through life the same feeling of homage to her sister, and still believes Eleanor to have been more 20 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. gifted than herself. These children had a singular training. Their father taught them a good deal himself, and he always provided them with the best masters, when he would sometimes make a prolonged halt in Philadelphia or elsewhere, for the purpose of their better instruction. They had a good many strange experiences. Their principal governess was a Mrs. Mortimer, an English lady, for whom they always expressed great affection. Some winters they spent in their native South ; some summers they would be in Florida, some in the North. Then Ellen was placed at school at Madame Sigoigne's, in Philadelphia. Catharine would not go to school ; she ran away and returned to her sister's house, which was only a few squares from the school. Madame came soon after in great agitation, in search of the truant, but the girl hid herself in a wood-closet, and wept so un- restrainedly when discovered, that the dismayed friends had to give up the point, and Major Ware had to take her back again to himself. He rented a suite of rooms now, and supplied her with books and masters. Then he went through a careful course of reading with her in English classics and in French ; teaching her to scan English pros- ody, and furnishing her, thus, with most invaluable and rare learning. Eleanor came to them every Saturday. She learned everything with facility ; she played delightfully on her small harp, that her father had ordered from Erard, made expressly for her use. She danced like a fairy ; talked French like a native. She was a bright, beautiful, inevitable child. Catharine shrunk timidly from the world, into which, however, she was frequently forced to go. Her elder sister's house was the centre of a gay and fashionable circle ; the reunions at Madame Sigoigne's and Dr. La Koche's were frequented by the most distinguished persons, both native and foreign. Madame Sigoigne, an emigree from St. Domingo, was a marchioness of France by birth, and at that time there was a very brilliant circle of French exiles in and near Philadelphia. All strangers brought letters to her, and to her nephew, Dr. La Roche. Mrs. La Roche was a great favorite in this circle, and so Catharine and Eleanor were obliged to see much of the fashion and gayety of Philadelphia. Eleanor liked it very much ; she was always a little queen in society, kind and warm-hearted, gen- erous, but tant soit peu capricious, and rather tyrannical, perhaps, over her more timid sister. Catharine advised Eleanor. The love between these sisters was peculiar and beautiful. They absolutely seemed to have but one soul. Their intercourse was as frank and unreserved as CATHARINE ANN WAEFIELD. 21 that of a penitent and father eonfessor. They never had a thought or an emotion from each other in all their lives. Their hearts were absolutely bare to each other's gaze, — they hid not even weaknesses from each other. Nothing could be more perfect than the confidence and friendship between them. The oneness of sympathy was won- derful. They did everything together. At an early age, they began to write little tales and poems together. Catharine married, at an early age, Mr. Elisha Warfield, of Lexington, Kentucky. Eleanor was necessarily separated a- good deal from her; but they vowed to spend at least some months together every year, and they wrote to each other nearly every day. We have had some of these letters in our hands — some of Eleanor's later letters to her sister ; graphic word- pictures, descriptive of thought and every passing shade of feeling. Catharine lived a quiet, domestic life, absorbed in the rearing of her family of six children, in Lexington, some years, and afterward near it, on a farm she purchased for the sake of country air. She devoted herself to her children ; her only recreation was in her pen. She and Eleanor had always kept up their habit of writing poems and other matter. It was instinct with them. Their father, getting pos- session of some of their poems, had a volume published in 1845 — " Poems by Two Sisters of the West." These were received with some favor by the public. Then another volume was published in 1846 — "The Indian Chamber, and other Poems." The sisters were gratified by the reception of their writings, and had planned out a number of tales and poems to be collated, when suddenly Eleanor died at Nat- chez, in her thirtieth year. When told by her weeping niece, accord- ing to solemn promise made that she would inform her aunt "if danger was near," her first words were, " Oh, what a blow for Cath- arine!" Her last thoughts, after bidding farewell to her husband and her four little children, were for her sister — far away in Lexington. She charged her niece and her husband with messages of loving words and consolation for Catharine; then gave directions for her funeral, received extreme unction from the hands of Bishop Chanche, (the family were Roman Catholics,) and died tranquilly. The news of Eleanor's death prostrated Catharine, both physically and mentally. She was now alone — her elder half-sister, Mrs. La Roche, was dead after great suffering — her brother was dead — and now Eleanor. — She was frantic in her grief; there never has been any consolation for 22 LIVING FEMALE WKITEKS OF THE SOUTH. her save in the hope of Immortality and the restitution of those whom she still loves and longs for. Her father died ! Blow after blow had stricken her into the dust. She abandoned even her pen — it " re- minded her of Eleanor." Years after her sister's death, her niece, who had supported "Eleanor's" dying head upon her bosom, — the eldest daughter of her only brother, — visited her. There was much weeping and much talking of the beloved dead ; and then the niece opened the closed drawer which contained the manuscripts of the two sisters, and prevailed upon Catharine to review some of them with her. Thus the pen, so long unused, was taken up again, and shortly after, Mrs, Warfield published "THE HOUSEHOLD OF BOUVERIE" — one of the most remarkable novels ever written by an American woman. It may challenge comparison with any novel, American or English, in originality, style, and diction. The portrait of Erastus Bouverie is as original and peculiar as that of Goethe's Mephistopheles. Indeed, it is only with the works of great masters that one can think of comparing this book. It is a vain attempt to review it or do justice to its merits in such a brief article as this. It is a work that will endure, and will grow in the favor of scholars. Of living female authors, we can only class Mrs. War- field with George Sand and George Eliot. She holds her pen with like mastery; her conceptions are Shakspearean. The only American author whom she at all resembles in diction, is Hawthorne. Many pages of the "Household of Bouverie" might be interleaved with his without detection of difference of style in the writers. It is perhaps a fault in this book to have put the " Diary of Camilla " as an appendix. It should have been inserted in the body of the book ; — but this Diary, in itself, is quite perfect. Mrs. Warfield is always Southern in opinion; and so her writings have had sectional prejudice to con- tend against. Herself a slave-owner and possessor of large landed interests in Texas — birth, instinct, education, sympathy, and interest bind her to the fortunes of her own people. She has been unfortunate, like all the rest of the South, and has lost very heavily in the recent war. Her spirited war-lyrics were frequently on the lips and stirred the pulse of the Confederate soldiers. Her love of country, like all the rest of her sensations, is a passion. She has no transient nor frivolous emotions; there is nothing light or ephemeral about Mrs. Warfield. She feels profoundly, or not at all. Matters that fret and disturb, or interest lighter natures, do not move her. She passes over CATHARINE ANN WARFIELD. 2S them with calm, icy indifference. The majority of people bore her ; though she is kind to all of God's creatures, few interest her much. She lives almost like a recluse. There are a few friends who visit her constantly, who esteem it a high privilege to be the recipients of her graceful hospitality. She is a very Arab in her ideas of the duties connected with bread and salt. But her friends are few; even 1 hey are admitted only to intimacy - — never to familiarity. She preserves always a certain reserve and decorum of life, if we can phrase it so, in speaking of such a very simple and unaffected manner as hers is. She is always conscious of her own value in God's universe, in the presence of humanity; though she kneels low enough before the Creator. This gives her an equipoise and tranquillity of manner, which is soothing and full of repose. One feels how strong she is, and yet so gentle, — a strong, fertile, tropical nature, never weak, rarely cold, always creative, and emanating sensuous vitality at every breath. She delights, physically, in light, warmth, and perfumes. The temperature of her apartments is kept always at an almost equatorial grade of warmth; any but semi-tropical beings would be oppressed by such an atmosphere as seems almost absolutely necessary for her exist- ence. She is like the Greeks in her detestation of cold and darkness. She is very impressible to atmospheric influences — being "akin with .Nature." She feels the electricity in the air long before the thunder- storm bursts, and suffers until the lightnings flash out and the rain breaks through the clouds charged with electric fluid. Mrs. Warfield's voice is singularly pleasant in speaking — full, soft, low, and vibrating — with a wonderful chromatic scale in its flexible tones. The sounds alone compel one's attention ; like the playing of an instrument of music, the register and tone are delightful to the ear. She reads finely, and one of the greatest pleasures in frank companion- ship with her, is a habit she has frequently, in the pauses of conversa- tion, of turning to her table, upon which always lies a number of books, and taking up a favorite volume, either of prose or poetry, without any exordium, beginning to read portions from it, making exquisite com- ments and criticisms as she reads. We recall hours spent in that way over Praed, Lowell, and others, which were delightful. There is freshness, breadth of color, and warmth about her in every- thing. She is rather below the medium height, five feet three inches in stature, now inclining to embonpoint. Her hands are studies for an 24 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. artist — very beautiful. Her head is set rather haughtily upon her shoulders — she is very erect — and it is rather tossed back as she moves. Her head is well shaped, looking larger than it really is, from the heavy mass of very black hair, now slightly streaked with gray, which seems as if it would bow her head with its weight. She usually wears, in spite of this great mass of tresses, a small point, a la Marie Stuart, of lace, black or white. Her eyes are dark-gray, shadowed by black lashes; her brow is beautiful; nose, straight, fine, and delicate, with dilating nostrils. Mouth is large and very mobile, — it is her most expressive feature, — but not regularly handsome ; her chin is rather heavy, showing strong vitality and physical power, though not coarse, nor square. Her appearance is striking and attractive; genius is stamped in every lineament, and sorrow too. Her life has not been happy, — neither are her writings. She is by nature a dra- matist, and a great tragic writer; She is not to be judged by the small tastes and petty rules of ordinary minds. She belongs, by birth- right, to the highest order of human genius, and has sat at the feet of the masters who have sung powerfully of the " guilt, the crimes, and the misery of humanity, as well as of the eternal beneficence and glorious compassion of God." Mrs. Warfield is never commonplace — neither is she always pleas- ing. She indulges little in fancy — her imagination is wonderful — her pictures sometimes seem to have a lurid glow, and have a strange fascination. Though occasionally nearly melo-dramatic, she is never extravagant, nor exaggerated, holding her passion in rein always ; this belongs to the retinue of her nature. Her flights are always assured and steady — one never feels alarmed about them; she sails like an eagle — does not skim like a swallow, but will swoop down when she is ready, with a perfect precision. She handles her pen always en maitre. Her books will bear study and close criticism — they are lessons of art ; her periods have that beautiful rhythm which mark3 the sentences of the noblest writers, and yet she writes with ease; there is no effort visible — indeed, there is no effort ever in her writings! She writes without exhaustion; frequently without any need for review or correction; page after page is traced by her rapid pen, and flung aside without further care. She has written all her life — so that she does not prepare a book, or has not yet done so, for any special publication; — she puts her hand in her drawer of manu- scripts, and selects a book, a poem, or a tale, as may be needed. She CATHAKINE ANN WAEFIELD, 25 never sits down to manufacture a book — she writes because she must "Genius does what it must, and Talent does what it can." We do not think that Mrs. Warfield's power has been fully devel- oped to the public — the extent and variety of her pen is yet unknown. She has in MSS. volumes equal, if not superior, to the " Household of Bouverie," yet entirely dissimilar. Some day they will all be placed before the public — then Mrs. Warfield will take her right position in the world of letters. There is one marked peculiarity in Mrs. Warfield's writings. It is their perfect — we will not say purity, for it is a higher quality — it is the perfect chastity of mature womanhood. Amour with her is always firmly constrained, controlled by womanly modesty, subordinated to duty and to womanly pride. The truest, highest, noblest instincts of womanhood are those developed in her characters ; she never dispar- ages, degrades, or defames her own sex. Her women are not perfec- tions ; — they are not icy; — they are sensuous, capable of passion, emotional, not above trial or temptation, but they are true and pure. The character of Camilla Bouverie teaches the happiest lessons of noble womanhood : women ought to become better after receiving such an ideal; and so of Miriam Hartz — of Bertie. How different this conception of Bertie is from what would have been a French conception of a young girl's developing nature. What snow-flakes with a rosy flush over them, are those sisters of Bertie, and the mother, and Cecelia, and Lilian ! worthy grand-daughter of Camilla Bouverie! Only a woman of noblest conceptions and finest instincts could have imagined chese characters — a woman who reverenced herself and her sex. Even in the heroine of the " Romance of the Green Seal," though there seems to have been a shallowness of nature and some obliquity of moral sight, the instincts were pure. Mrs. Warfield has published no mere love story ; not that she could not have written it — her poems have passion enough, — but that she did not choose to write it, and her taste shrinks from exposure and flaring analysis of a passion she believes congruous only with youth. Dreams are over with her; — the experiences of life have been very sad and very bitter. " Beauseincourt " was suggested by some incidents which occurred during a visit to Florida, in Mrs. Warfield's early childhood, which made a deep impression on her susceptible nature. The character of Marcelline is drawn from actual fact, as well as the fearful death of 26 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. Colonel La Yigne — even to the having his eye picked out by vultures, as he lay dead three days in the swamp. Eleanor had intended making this story up into form, and it was rather a fond fancy upon her sister's part, which induced her to do it, after Eleanor's death. Mrs. "Warfield has a volume of " Tales of the Weird and "Wonder- ful," written by her sister and herself — in manuscript, which are very remarkable. Her own tale of " The Planet Lustra" will compare with anything of E. A. Poe's, in imaginative power ; and her sister's " Tale of the Pearl-Trader" is very beautiful. We hope Mrs. War- field may be induced to print these stories. Another novel, called " Angoisse," is very fine ; and another called " Hester Howard's Temptation" interested us deeply. She has also a novel in verse, nearly finished, in the style of " Aurora Leigh." She has written numbers of tales, sketches, poems ; some have been printed in news- papers, magazines, etc., and many she has still in manuscript. Mrs. Warfield has been reproached for presenting such analyses of crime and criminals, as she has seemed to prefer as studies of art, in her two published novels. If we had the space, we would copy fairly and reiterate what Bulwer has already so well said in his " Word to the Public " written as an appendix to his " Lucretia." " Thus it will be perceived that in all the classic, tragic, prose-pictures, preceding our own age, criminals have afforded the prominent characters, and crime the essential material. " The tragic fiction is conceived — it has taken growth — it may be des- tined, amid the comparative neglect of the stage, to supply the lessons which the tragic drama has, for a while, abandoned. Do not fetter its wanderings from free search after truth through the mazes of society, and amid all the contrasts of nature. If it is to be a voice to the heart, an interpreter of the secrets of life, you cannot withhold from it the broadest experience of the struggle between good and evil, happiness and woe. " ' Hunc igitur terrorem animi, tone brasque necesse est.' "Terror and, compassion are the sources of the tragic writer's effects; the destructive or pernicious power of intellect corrupted into guilt, affords him the natural means of creating terror for the evil, and compassion for its victims." Thus argues one of the great masters of modern fiction, — and, reasoning from his premises, one can recognize great moral teachings in the incidents which cluster around Erastus Bouverie, and Prosper La Vigne. Intellect without moral goodness is nothing worth, — a CATHARINE ANN WAKFIELD. 27 love all selfish is a blasting fire, baleful to itself and all within the circle of its influence. Is there no lesson taught in that portrait sketched in with Occagna-like power, of that brilliant, bad, selfish man, Erastus Bouverie ? Is there not a Brahminical love of life in all its forms, and a stern reiteration of the cry against Cain — in Prosper La Vigne's story ? Those books teach morals that underlie all humanity and teach the lessons grandly, if not charmingly. Mrs. Warfield can sing syrens' songs when she chooses. In these two books she has preferred to strike in men's ears, the startling clang of the iron fasces of the Lictors leading the way into the Hall of Judgment. " Beauseincourt " is her latest publication, — that book is simply an episode of a larger work, entitled, originally, " The retrospect of Miriam Montfort," which was considered too long for the Press — and therefore mutilated by having the beginning and the end summarily cut off. Mrs. Warfield intended to work these fragments up into another volume, but we doubt whether her failing health will permit her to carry out this infusorial scheme. We have read the work, as it was originally composed, and have no hesitation in saying, that Mrs. Warfield did herself great injustice in this decapitation of her book. She composes usually in the form of the English three- volume novel ; the truth is, she is not American, either in her genius, tastes, or knowledge of literature. She is neither fast nor superficial ; sensations she is, because she is dramatic by nature, and is a Poet writing prose. Like Goethe, with her every emotion, every incident finds its vent in rhyme ; and to one whom she honors sufficiently to allow of entrance into her inner life, the glancing over her books of MSS. poems is a revelation of her entire life. It is very probable that the 7 extent of her ability may never be known during her mortal life. " They learn in suffering what they teach in song," — and at her door the god of silence stands ever with his finger on his lip ; honored and worshipped, no irreverent hand will be allowed to lift the veil which falls before the inner life. It is very unjust to such a writer as Mrs. Warfield, to attempt to give any idea of her powers by cutting out a paragraph, or an occa- sional poem, and setting it at the end of such an article as this, — and I refuse to do it. " In all good works," Buskin says, " Every part is connected, so that any single portion is imperfect when isolated." This 28 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. is just the case here — one knows not what, or where to choose. In this Abyssinian butchery of cutting a steak from a living animal, and holding it up as a sample of meat, we feel more inclined to take what comes first to hand. Mrs. Warfield excels in descriptions of storms. The storm in "Beauseincourt," page 94, is very fine; and the storm on the lake, in her little tale dubbed by the publisher "The Romance of the Green Seal," (a name reminding one involuntarily of cham- pagne wine,) is very remarkable. "All human work is necessarily imperfect," * and our friend is only human. Her life has not been gay — her books are sad. She has lived too much out of the world. In this day a writer must study men, as well as books — a woman's life is necessarily limited, and a wounded heart seeks quiet and isolation. If Mrs. Warfield had the large experience of cities and men that "George Sand" and "George Eliot" have had, she would write with them. As it is, her genius is sometimes morbid, but it is always — genius. Her war-songs can be read in the collection of " Southern Poems of the War," made by her friend, Miss Emily V. Mason. Mrs. Warfield resides on a farm in Peewee Valley, near Louisville, Kentucky. June, 1868. f ELIZA A. DUPUY. MISS DUPUY, perhaps one of the most widely known of the authors of the South, is the descendant of that Colonel Dupuy who led the band of Huguenot exiles to the banks of James River. Colonel Dupuy's grave is still exhibited in the old church whose ruins consecrate the ancient site of Jamestown. Her maternal grand- father was Captain Joel Sturdevant, who raised a company at his own expense, and fought gallantly throughout the war of the Revolution. Miss Dupuy is also related by blood to the Watkins family of Virginia. One of her best novels is founded on the story of "The Hugue- not Exiles ; " many of the incidents therein are drawn from family tradition. Miss Dupuy was born in Petersburg, Va. / After the death of her father, her family experienced heavy reverses of fortune, and this girl, then a handsome, stately, dark-haired maiden, with a spirit * Ruskin. ELIZA A. DUPUY. 29 worthy_-of-her- lineage, stepped boldly forward to aid in the support of her younger brother and sister. She was competent to teach. She became a governess in the family of Mr. Thomas G. Ellis, of Natchez, where she had charge of the education of his daughter, now known as the author of several books, publishing under the name of " Filia." Miss Dupuy found a pleasant home here, where she was thrown con- tinually into the society of such women as Eleanor and Catherine Ware, and such men as S. S. Prentiss, John Ross, Boyd, and Biugaman. Natchez at that time boasted a brilliant circle of wit and intellect, and the handsome young governess, with her dignified reserve and noble pride, was one of its ornaments. Miss Dupuy began to write very early. While at Natchez she wrote the " Conspirator," and read it aloud to her little circle of friends and admirers. Eleanor Ware and she used to have grand literary symposiums, where they would read their productions to each other and to gentle Mrs. Ellis, who sympathized warmly in their tastes, and little "Filia" would often hide in a corner to listen. With some difficulty Miss Dupuy succeeded in getting her "Con- spirator" published. It is a story of the conspiracy of Aaron Burr. It was successful — over 25,000 copies of this novel have been sold. She now devoted much of her time to writing, and gradually was enabled to give up the irksome confinement of a teacher's life. She taught after this in a " Country Neighborhood," near Natchez, where she wrote her novel of that name. She has written constantly ever since. She was unfortunate in the failure of her publisher and the consequent loss of her copyrights, which would have supplied her now with a handsome income./ She has always been wonderfully industrious, a patient worker, and very exacting of herself. She labors usually about four hours every morning, and her MSS. are only corrected when sent to the printer. Her physical health has been firm and vigorous, else she could never have endured such a drain upon her mental powers. She is a tall, large, nobly developed woman, with healthy nerves — mens sana in corpore sano. She has always been calm, firm, simple, but reticent in nature and deportment, — a woman everywhere respected and often much beloved. She has pre- served her friends through life unchanged. She is a friend in the rainy days of existence as well as in sunshine — immaculate, pure, high- principled and companionable ; her features are large and well moulded, Greek in outline ; her eyes blue ; and her hair, which was very abun- 30 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. dant in early womanhood, rippling and satiny, fell in ebon waves, a Hood of tresses, below her knee. She wore it usually in a broad, heavy braid around her head, like a diadem, while a multitude of ringlets streamed over her cheeks ; the crown of hair a coiffure not unsuited to her large head and stately frame. She moves softly and tranquilly, but decidedly. Her voice is sweet and pleasing in tone, but distinct and clear in its low articulation. She has been engaged for several years past in writing for Bonner's "Ledger." She is bound by contract to furnish Mr. Bonner with a thousand pages annually. She is really a litterateur by profession, and an honest and faithful one. In consequence, she improves in her writings. She is faithful to her art. Her recent novel of " The Evil Genius," furnished to the Ledger, is regarded by many persons as the best of her numerous writings. It is very difficult to make a selection from such abundant material, and scarcely necessary, as Miss Dupuy's novels are so gen- erally popular. She resides now at Flemingsburg, Kentucky. She says, in a letter to a friend, these remarkable words, in answer to a question : "As a Southern woman, I would sooner have thrust my hand in a blazing fire, as the Roman youth did, than have taken a pen in it, to throw discredit on my own people." None who ever knew her intimately, could conceive of Miss Dupuy's failing in any duty, toward God, or friends, or country. The following is a list of the novels furnished to the "New York Ledger " : " The Lost Deeds," " Mysterious Marriage," " White Ter- ror," "Outlaw's Bride," "Life Curse," "Warning Voice," "Secret Chamber," " Family Secret," " Lady of Ashhurst," " Fatal Error," "Eril Genius," and "The Dead Heart;" and she has published in book-form, — " Merton ; a Tale of the Revolution," " The Conspirator," "Emma Walton, or Trials and Triumphs," "The Country Neighbor- hood," " Celeste, or The Pirate's Daughter," " The Separation," " The Divorce," " The Coquette's Punishment," " Florence, or The Fatal Vow," " The Concealed Treasure," " Ashleigh," " The Planter's Daugh- ter," and " The Huguenot Exiles." October, 1868. ELIZA A. DTJPUY. 31 THE DAGUERREOTYPE FEOM THE DEAD MAN'S EYE. One bright morning, toward the close of September, Arden strolled to a nook, a mile above the fall, filled with rocks and water-plants; and he became so absorbed in transferring them to his sketch-book, that time passed insensibly on. The hours from dawn till eleven he reserved to the claims of his art ; the remainder of the day was devoted to other less entrancing labors. It was his usual custom to bring with him a basket containing his frugal breakfast, but this morning he had forgotten it, and toward ten o'clock he discovered that he was very hungry. Reluctantly closing his portfolio, he turned his loitering steps toward the cottage, pausing every few moments to catch some new beauty in the flitting shades of light upon the hill-sides. Suddenly there was a noise — a trembling of the earth around, and frag- ments of glass and wood were thrown into the air. One wild glance showed him that the domed roof was blown from the cottage, and, casting down all that impeded his steps, he ran with wild speed toward the scene of the dis- aster. But he was half a mile distant, and many moments elapsed before he reached the entrance of the cottage. Swiftly passing through the hall, he found the door which separated Carlyle's laboratory room from the body of the house, thrown from its- hinges, and with inexpressible anguish he saw his cousin lying amid the wrecks of his apparatus, utterly lifeless. To raise him up, scan his lineaments, and sink down in utter hopelessness, was the work of a moment ; for he who had studied every phase of death as an artist, saw its unmistakable impress upon the features of the fallen man. Yet there was an expression of resistance and anguish upon them, which forbade the idea that he had perished from the effects of the explosion. In his wUd agony, Arden called loudly on Carlyle's name; but, alas! on earth he would never more respond to that call. He lifted him up, and placed him upon a large chair; as he did so, he saw, with dilating eyes, that a stream of blood welled slowly from his throat. A brief examination satisfied him that his cousin had not perished from the explosion, but that a sharp weapon had severed the jugular vein at one blow. Then he knew that be had been murdered, and a sickening sense of self-accusation overcame him. He had brought him there, in spite of all the warnings which should have turned him from his purpose. A sudden tremor came over him, and cold drops gathered on his brow ; for he remembered that he had lured his kinsman to that lonely spot ; he was next heir to property which many thought had been unjustly bestowed upon Carlyle to his own injury ; they were alone in the house, and he might be accused of having compassed his death. He looked wildly around for help. His eyes fell upon the box containing the plates which Carlyle had shown him a short time before. Their conver- sation flashed upon his mind ; and he rushed to his own room, to remove the instrument with which he took daguerreotypes, in the faint hope that he might gain a clue to the murderer, by taking a picture of the eye of the dead 32 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. man. Those orbs which scarcely yet had begun to glaze in death, might be made to shadow forth the form on which they had last gazed, and thus reveal the dread secret of his tragic fate. With incredible speed, Arden placed the lens at the proper focus, took the prepared plate, and adjusted the figure of the dead man. The light from above fell upon the ghastly form, with the life-stream slowly welling over the snowy linen of his shirt-bosom, and he could have cried aloud in the agony of his soul at that fearful sight ; but this was no time to give way to emotion ; he must to work to save himself from the foulest suspicion that ever darkened the fame of a man. Magnifying the eye to its utmost extent, with trembling hands, he closed the aperture, and awaited the result. Twenty was counted more from the rapid pulsations of his heart, than from any effort of his own, and he removed the plate. Excited as he was, he submitted the picture to the usual chemical tests with extreme care, though he scarcely hoped for any successful result to the ex- periment. It was alone suggested by the desperate circumstances in which he was placed, and with feverish doubt he watched the lines as they appeared upon the highly polished surface. To his unbounded amazement, the eye was delineated bold and clear, and upon the surface of the retina was visible a distinctly outlined head ! Using a powerful magnifying glass, he saw that it was the face of a young and singularly lovely girl, with heavy braids of hair falling low upon her cheeks. The large eyes were filled with mingled compassion and terror, and the half parted lips expressed the extremity of horror. Arden gazed in amazement and incredulity, though he held before his eyes the mute evidence of his skill ; here was a nearly perfect picture of a creature so lovely that under other circumstances his artist soul would have bowed before her as the realization of his fairest ideal of woman. Could this crea- ture indeed have dealt the fatal blow which deprived his kinsman of life ? Could nature create a being so fair, and yet deny those finer impulses which should move one of such perfect mould ? But if she had not committed the deed, why was she here, why should her lovely face have been the last object on which the eyes of the dead man rested ? While this scene progressed, Arden was so intensely excited that he was unconscious that others had reached the scene of action, and were watching his movements with intense eagerness. As he first turned the head toward the light, three persons entered the apartment ; they uttered exclamations of surprise and horror at the terrible scene which met their view, they gazed with him on the fair image he had so wonderfully obtained, but the pre- occupied artist was unconscious of it all. If they touched him, he shook of their grasp, but gave no heed to them, — when they questioned him, he heard them not. His senses seemed frozen into unconsciousness by the awful shock his nervous system had received. But one idea possessed him : to gain a clue to this mysterious deed, for which he, in all probability, would be held accountable. ROSA VERTNER JEFFREY. ROSA VERTNER JEFFREY was born Rosa Vertner Griffith. Her father, John Griffith, lived near Natchez, was a man of elegant culture, and wrote very pretty little tales and poems, many of his Indian stories having been published in the first-class Annuals, years ago, and several of them highly complimented in England, (" The Fawn's Leap," and " Indian Bride," were quite celebrated.) Rosa inherits her talents from him ; his brother, Wm. T. Griffith, was one of the most eminent lawyers at the bar of Mississippi, in his day. All of the Griffiths are gifted, having graceful manners — were charming people. "Rosa" is a granddaughter of Rev. Dr. James Abercrombie, whose memory is highly revered in Philadelphia, and indeed throughout the United States, as an Episcopal minister. Her mother, who was a Miss Abercrombie, was beautiful and accomplished, but died early, leaving four little children ; and it was then that Rosa's maternal aunt, Mrs. Vertner, adopted her, and was all that an own mother could be. Her early childhood was passed at a beautiful country place near Port Gibson, Miss., called "Burlington," and owned by her adopted father. She loved that home as she has never loved another, " for the attachments of imaginative children to local- ities are stronger than those formed in after-life." Some idea of her attachment to that lovely spot may be formed by the perusal of her beautiful poem, "My Childhood's Homer When only ten years of age, she was taken to Kentucky for the purpose of completing her education, and the parting from " Burlington " was her first sorrow. She was educated at the seminary of Bishop Smith, at Lexington, Ky. ; was married, at the early age of seventeen, to Claude M. Johnson, a geutleman of elegant fortune. A friend of Rosa from childhood, says : " Rosa was one of the most beautiful women, physically, that I ever knew ; her head and face were perfect as a Greek Hebe. She is large and full, with magnificent bust and arms ; eyes, real violet-blue ; mouth, exquisite, with the reddest lips; and perfect features; her hair, dark-brown, glossy, curliug and waving over a nobly proportioned brow. She is bright, gay, joyous, and perfectly unaffected in manner, full of fun and even practical jokes, and with the merriest laugh." Such was Rosa the girl. 5 83 34 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. After the death of Mr. Johnson, leaving her with four children, she resided with her adopted parents until her marriage to Alexander Jeffrey, Esq., a native of Edinburgh, Scotland. In 1850, under the signature of " Rosa," she became a contributor to the " Louisville Journal," of which Geo. D. Prentice was editor. A great number of her poems appeared in this journal, although from time to time she contributed to the principal literary journals of the country. In 1857, her poems were published in a volume by Ticknor & Fields, Boston, and elicited from the press throughout the country the warmest tributes of praise. The following pretty complimentary notice of " Poems by Rosa," was written by the lamented hero-poet, Theodore O'Hara: — " If in the general distribution of blessings, Providence has been impar- tial, and so bestowed its favors as to equalize the condition of human beings, there are instances in which exceptions seem to occur that utterly overthrow the idea of universal equity. The author of these exquisite lyrical gems fur- nishes an example in point. Young, beautiful, accomplished, with every en- joyment which health can covet, or admiration afford, or fortune procure, she might have been denied, without injustice, those brilliant gifts which often alleviate the ills of poverty, or light the darkness of misfortune. But Nature, as if to illustrate the munificence of her bounty, and signalize the object of her favor by a prodigality of blessings, has bestowed upon Mrs. Johnson, in ad- dition to great personal beauty, gentleness of disposition, vast fortune, and : all the joys of domestic life, the lofty attributes of genius. We have read this volume with the deepest pleasure. There is scarcely a line which does not breathe the inspiration of true poetry. There is no pretension, no straining after effect, no stilted phraseology, seeking in its pompous flow to dignify, by mere word-draping, trivial commonplace impressions, but a gen- mine outpouring of that exquisite sensibility which gives to the occurrences of daily life the fascination of romance. We have seldom seen developed in a higher degree that subtile power which clothes with a mantle of tenderness and beauty every object which it touches. Memory and imagination mingle their trophies in the lovely pictures which she paints ; and so faultless is the skill with which they are blended, that some of these poems seem an exquis- ite tissue of interwoven light and shade. The style is easy and glowing, the language chosen with scrupulous taste, — or rather not chosen at all, for it seems to be but an atmosphere of the thoughts which it envelops, — the imagery is striking and appropriate, and always perfect in its analogies ; the sentiment tender and noble, reflecting in beautiful harmony the radiance of intellect with the cheering warmth of true womanly feeling. " Among the poems which specially excited our admiration we may mention ' The Sunset City,' which is one of the most magnificent specimens of de- ROSA VERTNEE JEFFREY. 35 scriptive poetry we have ever read. Every line seems to glow with brilliant gems, and over all is thrown a gorgeous emblazonry of fancy which dazzles and deludes the mind by its sparkling splendor. ' The First Eclipse ; is a poem in blank verse, of greater length and of much higher order. In it, the author conceives and describes the lofty mission of science, its noble elevation above the commoner pursuits of life, its glorious achievements and rewards, although the instrument by which its triumphs were accomplished may pass unnoted from the memory of men. The crowning jewel of the casket is 'The Frozen Ship.' f This beautiful story exhibits the highest order of poetic merit. The argument is most happily conceived, the surroundings are all grouped with perfect propriety, and the gradual evolution of the de- nouement is most artistically wrought. The piece abounds in graphic, life- like descriptions, in delicate tenderness of expression and exquisite beauty of sentiment. . . . " In perusing these poems and contemplating their countless infinity of gems, we lose the power to discriminate in the general and dazzling impres- sion of their brilliancy, like the Chaldee shepherd, who has gazed upon the starry splendors of the firmament till his overpowered vision can distinguish but one unbroken sheen of glory." In the spring of 1864, Mrs. Jeffrey published, through Sheldon & Co.. New York, a novel entitled " Woodburn," of which we give the following review. (From the "Louisville Journal") " Woodbtten : A Novel. — Several weeks ago, in announcing this work as forthcoming, we said : " ' Where its scene is laid, or what its plot is, or who is its hero or heroine, are points upon which the public as yet have received no inkling ; but those who are acquainted with the genius and taste of the fair authoress must feel assured, that, in respect to the scene and plot, as well as in all other respects, the production will be brimful of charm. Her legion of admirers feel a world of curiosity respecting the work, but no solicitude. They confide im- plicitly, as they well may, in her rare and beautiful powers.' " We are now able to say that this implicit confidence was not misplaced. It has been nobly justified : Woodburn, in respect to the scene and plot, as well as in all other respects, is indeed brimful of charm. In support of this judgment, we beg to adduce the following notice from the Hartford Courant, which is one of many favorable notices that we might cite, and which throws quite as much light on the scene and plot and principal characters, as we think a person who has not read the novel is entitled to receive. " ' It is refreshing to meet, in these days of the sensational Braddon-Wood school of fiction, a story possessing so much real ability as " Woodburn." The scenes are, for the most part, laid at the South ; and the many fine pic- tures of its sunny landscapes, with which the book abounds, relieve the 36 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. intense interest of the story. Most of the characters are drawn with great cleverness, and a few in such clear outlines that we feel assured we have met them in real life. The hero and heroine, Mr. Clifford and Ethel Linton, are fine characters. Both possess the noblest qualities of mind and heart, and the reader will be in love with them from the first. The villain of the story, who bears the harsh-sounding name of Basil Thorn, is a real villain. For unmitigated scoundrelism and remorseless hatred it would be hard to match him. His miserable death in the woods is a relief to us. Rachel Thorn, a sort of Becky Sharp, but without Becky's triumphs, is a powerfully drawn character. One of the best personages in the book is the narrator herself, Amy Percy — bright , shrewd, honest — a girl who, disappointed in her first love, doesn't believe in breaking her heart therefor. The plot is ably managed, and the secret that hangs about Doctor Foster and the maniac, is so skilfully concealed until the denouement, that it is impossible to guess at it. There is much acuteness displayed in many of the author's reflections and observations. Her style is clear, compact, and animated, and with occa- sional exuberance reminding us of Miss Prescott. " Woodburn " will add largely to Mrs. Jeffrey's fame, and in the difficult field of fiction-writing she will take high rank.' "This is very high praise, but not too high. It is rather below than above the merits of 'Woodburn.' The fascination of the story is complete. No reader who crosses the threshold will pause short of the recesses which enshrine the mystery. ISTor is the style unworthy of the story. On the con- trary, the story blazes in the style like a gem in its setting. ' Woodburn ' is a success. Considered as a first effort in the field of fiction, it is a brilliant success." Here is a word-picture of the heroine : — . " Ethel Linton was the most superb beauty I ever saw. At that time past the bloom of early youth, being twenty-five, yet her loveliness had ripened — matured — losing not freshness, yet gaining depth and tenderness of expres- sion, in its growth to full perfection. She was tall and elegantly formed, — a wavy, graceful figure, yet so round, there were no harsh angles there to mar its stately symmetry ; fair, very fair, with large, lustrous hazel eyes, into whose clear depths you might gaze long and earnestly, and while gazing, feel as well assured that the soul within was a temple of purity and truth, as in watching the stars, we know those blue steeps which they adorn are boundary-lines to a world of angels. The features were regular, yet not with the severe per- fection of a Grecian statue. And it was the ever-changing lights and shades of expression, that constituted Ethel's chief attraction ; — the glow, the beam of intellect, the bewitching smiles or laugh of gayety — at times almost childish in its ringing merriment, and then, a shadow of mournfulness flit- ting over her face, eclipsing its light like wreaths of purple vapor, that some- times start suddenly across the glory of a summer sky, breaking into shim- mering gleams the glow of sunshine on some enchanting landscape, yet EOS A VEKTNEE JEFFREY. 37 shading it so softly, so dreamily, that we know not which to deem most lovely, the living picture bathed in light, or shadowed by its veil of purple cloud. My sister's hair was her crowning beauty. Golden-brown, silky, and abun- dant, it rippled in shining waves over her white brow, and, braided into a mass at the back of her regal head, shone like a halo — illuminating her whole form." Here is a beautiful stroke of pathos : " Still, Cecil Clare continued to preach — Sunday after Sunday rising up with that white, still face, whose very calmness told a tale of fearful, inward struggle ; and once, when the prayers of the congregation were requested for Pearl, (when the fever was at its height,) his voice grew so low and tremulous, we knew that it swept over a well of unshed tears, like the sad wailing wind of Autumn, when through some lone valley it comes, with a sobbing sound, drearily sweeping over deep, still waters." And here are acute reflections : " Poor, dear, beautiful Ethel ! — if they could only have met before her first miserable marriage ! Yet when I suggested this to Cecil Clare the other day, he looked very grave, and said : ' Don't suppose, because events are contrary to what our feeble judgment may deem best, that it is so, or that we could better the order of things by arranging them to suit ourselves ; for, by cul- tivating such 'noughts, we put our little mite of earthly wisdom up in oppo- sition to that Almighty One who never has erred and never can err. Had your cousin met Mr. Clifford in her early youth, they might not have been congenial in disposition and temper, as they now appear to be, for she has doubtless been softened and strengthened by early trials ; and, though we know nothing of his history, there is a sad, firm, calm look about Mr. Clifford, which indicates that he has borne some heavy weight of sorrow patiently, and met reverse of fortune bravely as a man — resignedly as a Christian. Perhaps they both needed this to make them what they now are, and (if destined for each other) it is far better they never met until now ; for God orders all things well. Suppose you, or I, or any other human being, had the government and direction of everything, even on this little globe of ours (to say nothing of the boundless universe) for one day, how would it end? In misery, confusion, and ruin. Let us not then presume, in the weakness of human folly, to doubt the wisdom of God.' " Mrs. Jeffrey has several novels in MS., and a poem which she thinks possesses more merit than anything she ever wrote, entitled "Florence Vale." Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfmger, Philadelphia, publish in the winter of 1870, "Daisy Dare, and Baby Power," a poem illustrated. Mrs. Jeffrey's residence is Lexington, Kentucky. October, 1S70. 38 LIVING FEMALE W BITERS OF THE SOUTH. EXTKACTS FEOM "FLOBENCE VALE."* I have been blest, — so fully blest — that, basking in the light Of purple joy — grief was to me like a wild stormy night To those who sweep silk curtains back, and watch the shut-out gloom Amid the rosy atmosphere of a luxurious room. I knew that death was in the world, and woe, and bitterness, But — insolent in happiness — I thought of sorrow less Than children think of cold, who gaze on painted polar seas 'Mid Syrian roses — 'neath the shade of balmy citron-trees. And when it came — Heaven dealt the blow with an unsparing hand: I dreamed in Eden ; to awake 'mid wastes of burning sand. Life's dreary waste, which 'neath a load of hate, I 've wandered through Weary, as 'neath his Saviour's curse, speeds on the " Wandering Jew." As scattered graves, that dot with gloom the eastern traveller's way, So grief and pain do sadly mark life's high-road as we stray ; And for that time has Memory raised an altar of regret, Among the joys, along my path, like golden mile-stones set. A glorious type of womanhood, whose very waywardness Beguiled my lips ere they could chide, to smile on her bliss. A nature with no hidden shoals, but clear as waves that show To mariners, through crystal deeps, the coral-reefs below ! I hate, aye, loathe, the very thought, that Love's blest name is given To passions scarce more like to it than Hell is like to Heaven. By one, the feelings are refined, as streams are purified In sparry caves, or shining sands, through which they ofttimes glide. The other is like some foul spring, where (lured by thirst) we drink, To find a noxious, burning tide, with ashes on its brink, And lo! it doth pollute the soul, as erst the God-cursed Nile With waves of blood the sunny lands of Egypt did defile. And from that time, above the wreck of hopes so bright and blest, Within my heart revengeful hate upreared his snaky crest, And on each tender, prayerful thought a foul pollution shed, Like blood upon a battle-field, staining the daisies red. * These extracts are taken at random from the MSB. poem. AGNES LEONARD. THIS lady was born in Louisville, Kentucky. She is a daughter of Dr. O. L. Leonard, celebrated as a "mathematician." He practised medicine in the city of Louisville for many years ; yet, de- sirous of giving his children the best possible educational advantages under his direct supervision, he gave up his practice as a physician, and took charge of the Masonic College, at La Grange, Ky., and was afterward President of the Henry Female College, at New Castle, Ky. At the age of thirteen, Agnes began to write for the press. Her first article was a short effort at versification, which was published in the Louisville "Journal," and noticed by George D. Prentice, the god- father of so many Southern writers, as follows : "A young girl, twelve years of age, sends us a piece of poetry, written when she was only ten. Though hardly worthy to be published, it indicates the existence of a bud of genius, which, properly cultivated, will expand into a glorious flower." Since thL debut, Miss Leonard has written almost constantly, under the nom de plume of "Mollie Myrtle," but of late years under her own name. In 1863 a collection of her earlier efforts appeared in book- form, under the title of " Myrtle Blossoms." There was nothing un- usual in the volume, the merit being of a negative order. Some of the poems were very good ; one critic saying : " These poems are so harmonious, as almost to set themselves to music." Miss Leonard's mother died when she was a small child, and her father remaining unmarried, and very indulgent, Miss Agnes led a roving, gypsying sort of life, following her own inclinations, and studying persons rather than books. Miss Leonard contributed to the Chicago "Sunday Times," in 1867, a series of articles, entitled "Men, Women, and Beasts," and also contributed regularly to the "Sunday Tribune" of said city, and the Louisville "Sunday Courier." Carleton & Co., of New York, pub- lished in 1867 a novel from her pen, entitled "Vanquished," which is to be followed by a sequel, under title of "Philip Arion's Wife." Miss Leonard's personnel is thus sketched by a prominent author of our Southern country : 39 40 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. "I can bring her very distinctly before my 'mind's eye,' in her tall and slender grace. She is youthful in appearance and in reality, and possesses a face almost as perfect as a Greek bas-relief, and full of power and passion, with capabilities both of sweetness and satire. Her conversational powers are brilliant, yet tinged with melancholy, which some might mistake for bit- terness. Sensibility and pride are the two distinctive expressions of her fea- tures ; and like many enthusiasts, she has found the world she lives in but ' Dead-Sea apples ' to the taste. In some of her essays there is deeper pathos and keener wit than are to be met with in her pleasing novel, ' Vanquished.' The poem, 'Angel of Sleep,' is full of singular abandon and beauty." From the numerous notices of "Vanquished," I make extracts from a candid review that appeared in the "Chicago Tribune": "'Vanquished' may be considered Miss Leonard's first sustained work, and her real debut before the literary world at large. It is not a gracious task at any time to criticise the first effort of a debutante in any department of art, and it is especially ungracious in literature ; but a very candid perusal of 'Vanquished' has convinced us that, while the debut may not be a success of enthusiasm, it is a success far more pronounced and positive than that achieved by the majority of young writers of fiction, and that she has secured a position with her first book which she may make permanent for the future, by the exercise of the increased skill in construction, and the power of con- densation which experience will give to her. "The story of 'Vanquished,' concisely stated, is the struggle of life, — the conflict which is fought on each individual battle-ground between inclination and duty. The ground- work of the story has been skilfully laid. The char- acters are introduced in quick succession, and many of them are drawn with a faithfulness and distinctness of outline which stamps them at once as por- traits. Her characters all bear the impress of probability, without a trace of the exaggerated, high tragic, and melo-dramatic tone which pertains to most of the heroes and heroines of latter-day fiction. Some of them, such as the cynical Rashton, Dr. Kent, the inquisitive Mr. Bagshaw, and his homely but delightfully domestic wife ; Philip Arion, the minister ; Bernice Kent, who is the real heroine of the story, and Olive, are complete and har- monious in their portraiture, and never lose their identity. There are others, such as Oswald Kent, Aurelia, his sister, and the Brainards, who are con- nected with every phase of the story, and yet are very imperfectly sketched. Still others, introduced as accessories, having no relation to the general movement of the story, such as the Murdlains, the Bonnivets, the Mortimer Browns, the Melbournes, and others, are very happy instances of character painting, with a very few touches of the brush. A few illustrations of this will explain what we mean. George Bonnivet was the kind of man that a certain class of women prey upon remorselessly, tormenting the poor fellow to death, and then bestowing any amount of posthumous praise upon the AGXES LEONAED. 41 victim's memory, wearing their widow's weeds complacently, and declaring that ' he was the best of men.' John Meggs, whose standard of perfection was apple-pie, and saw 'apple-pie personified in Miss Leila;' Mr. Lyons, who was ' a mature young man of twenty-five,' or ' a youthfully disposed per- son of forty, it was doubtful which;' Mrs. Murdlain, without whom 'Murd- lain was a cipher ; with her, their representation of society was not to be scorned. Mr. Murdlain, minus Mrs. Murdlain, was nothing. Mr. Murd- lain, plus Mrs. Murdlain, was the first member of an equation, to be finished with immensity.' " The movement of the story is kept well in hand, and the real denouement, the relation between Olive and Dr. Eashton, is very skilfully concealed until the proper moment. The most acute reader would hardly suspect the key which is to explain the connection between characters, and the final unfold- ing of the plot and disposition of the people who have been moving upon> the stage. This is one of the principal charms of the book — this utter con- cealment of motif, and its disclosure just at the right time to the reader, without having offered a hint of its nature, or betrayed a clue which might have weakened the interest in the story. "There is one respect in which 'Vanquished' differs from almost every other work of fiction. We can scarcely recall one written by a young lady, in which the author has not treated us to a very glowing description of scen- ery, drawn ( ut with painful minuteness, and devoted to ' fine writing ; ' to personal pictures, in which each picture is limned for us, commencing with the hair and ending with the toes, and in which we get the exact shade of the tresses, the color of the eyes, the length of the nose, and the curve of the lips ; and to mysterious toilet accounts, in which we get the color, texture, and material of the lady's or gentleman's wardrobe, as the case may be, with an extra touch of the technicalities of the language of fashion, in the case of a bride or bridegroom. Miss Leonard has had the good sense to omit all this. There is not a single description of scenery in the book She makes her characters describe themselves by their manners and their conver- sation, by the oddities and eccentricities which in real life distinguish men and women from each other, and by their actions in public and private. In the majority of cases, she has been very successful, and the result is, people are quite as sharply pictured as if she had given us the nationality of the nose, the cut of the sleeve, or the size of the slipper. Her work is nearly all subjective; a study of characters rather than of faces, of mental strug- gles, trials, aspirations, ambitions, and motives, rather than of physical sur- roundings or objective scenes. " A prominent feature in Miss Leonard's book is her frequent departure from the thread of her story — a straying out as it were from the beaten path into the fields — for the purpose of moralizing. These little dissertations are thoroughly healthy in their tone, often displaying a very keen insight into character, and are logical in treatment, although not always carried out 6 42 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. to their final result, as in some of the conversations between Bernice and Dr. Kashton. But, on the whole, they are terse, aphoristic, and pleasant, and throw her characters into stronger relief. We give a few of them at random. " ' Pain is an old story. We realize this after a time. We grow to under- stand by slow degrees that only the inconsiderate are confidential concerning their sorrows. Only the weak have groans extorted from them by the agony of mere heart-ache.' " ' Your talisman is Tact. Do not forget. You may consider this a plat- itude, nevertheless it is a truth. After Goodness, a woman's greatest posses- sion is Tact ; then Beauty, then — Intellect. The last is in most cases super- fluous in any unusual development. The first two are indispensable. You may be forgiven for being a fool, if you are a graceful one ; but you will never be forgiven if you lack Tact.' v " ' Duty is grand and Eeligion is glorious, but does not the human heart, steady and pure as it may be, and mounting on love-flights often as it dare, want a human sympathy perfectly indulged to make it healthful ? ' " ' We are in the midst of trifles that death may make relics of.' " ' So with mind. Experience disciplines it so gradually, it develops so silently and imperceptibly, that we do not realize its growth until some bitter experience bursts its calyx, and we marvel at what seems to be its sudden maturity. We say sorrow has matured, whereas sorrow has simply expanded the faded petals that joy would perhaps have kept hidden, but whose growth joy as well as sorrow has assisted.' " Miss Leonard has an admirable vein of humor, and a very skilful use of the weapons of satire ; summed up, ' Vanquished ' may be pronounced a success. The plot is well constructed ; the movement of the story is regular ; the denouement is skilfully sprung upon the reader, the characters are drawn from life, and depend for their interest upon their own merits, without the false coloring of improbability, exaggeration, or sensation, which are the prevailing attributes of latter-day fiction ; the style is pleasant and sketchy, and an air of refinement pervades the whole book. It has many of the faults which seem to be inseparable from all young writers, but experience will undoubtedly point them out, and suggest the method of curing them. We see no reason why Miss Leonard should not attain a very high position in the literary world." On the 29th of October, 1868, Miss Leonard was married to Dr. S. E. Scanland, formerly of Kentucky. Her varied accomplishments will adorn the domestic circle, as they have already the social and literary circle. October, 1869. AGNES LEONARD. 43 "FRA DIAVOLO." "Fra Diavolo," that was the play; And the night was a glorious night in May. Stars on her brow, and bloom at her feet, And the breath of her west winds warm and sweet; That was without; within, the light Of dancing eyes and of jewels bright, And radiant faces, proud and fair, Outshone the rays of the gaslight's glare, And a strange, sweet perfume filled the air From the fragrant flowers I wore in my hair. Well, there, in a front-row box, were we, As fond and happy as lovers could be; And on my libretto he wrote his name, And under it, " Cherie, je vous aime ; " And my brain went round with the maddening play, Ard the 'wildering joy of that night in May ; While the crimson glowed in my burning cheek, As I looked a love that I could not speak. " Forever and ever, love of mine, Forever and ever I am thine; The sun shall fade and the stars shall wane, And my heart cry out for return in vain; Yet ever and ever its troth shall be, Beloved, plighted but to thee." These were the words, on that night in May, That were said in the pauses of the play ; These were the words that rang in my heart, And made themselves of my soula part. And I asked in the glow of the joyous hours "Was there ever a love on earth like ours?" " Never, O queen of my heart," he replied, " Never, my beautiful spirit-bride, Never a feeling so pure and true, Never a woman so lovely as you." "Fra Diavolo!" that was the play, And the night was a glorious night in May ; Three years ago — oh, what an age it seems, With its roseate hues of vanished dreams ! 44 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. Three years ago! Ah, the love has fled; The last red spark of its flame is dead, And vainly we search each other's face For the olden charm and the olden grace; And we think of the past with an icy chill Which is very unlike the olden thrill, Which shook our hearts that night in May, When "Fra Diavolo" was the play. We are so cold, the past is dead, And the last red glow of love has fled. And we smile at the feeling that thrilled us then, When we see it in other women and men; And we sigh "Eh Men/ they must one day learn How short a time love's red-fires burn." Ah, yes, we are older and wiser now — Too wise for the follies of youth, I trow ; Yet, would to Heaven, that night in May, When " Fra Diavolo " was the play, And on my libretto you wrote your name, And under it, " Cherie, je vous aime ! " Might come again, to fade no more, Till I close my eyes on the earthly shore. AXGEL OF SLEEP. Angel of Sleep ! I am weary and worn, Faint with the burden of life I have borne, Eager for all that thy presence can bring, Folding me under thy sheltering wing, Shutting my eyes to the dull glare and heat, Closing my ears to the unquiet street, Taking me out from the bustle and strife, Giving a death that is sweeter than life. Angel of Sleep! All the day's work is done; Weariness surely thy blessing has won ; Nearer, come nearer, thy beautiful wing Visions of peacefulness ever can bring, Dreamings that over my worn spirit lie — Star-glory over a pale moonless sky, AGNES LEONARD. 45 Quietude soothing an overtasked brain, Hushing the cry of importunate pain. Angel of Sleep! I am tempted and tried; Lay your hands over the wounds in my side; Wounds that are deeper and wider, I ween, Than any that mortal eyes ever have seen. I am so weary, too weaiy to weep; Come to me, beautiful Angel of Sleep, Soothe me to slumber, and keep me at rest, And stifle the heart that beats in my breast. Angel of Sleep ! Success is a dream, Fame but a bubble on life's rushing stream ; Love is a mirage that beckons afar, Friendship the gleam of a pale distant star; Faith a vague rainbow that arches the sky Over the spot where the storm-ruins lie; Hope a red torchlight that brightens the way; Sorrow the measure of life's rainy day. Fain would I rest, blessed Angel of Sleep; Eest, though to-morrow I wake but to weep; Rest while my heart in my bosom I smother, Knowing one day is like unto another, Seeing no change in the long years that creep, Shadow-like over the Future's Great Deep; Shadows of vessels with gayly-filled deck, Barques that the breakers are ready to wreck. Over and over the story is told; Told to the youthful and proved by the old, Burden and sorrow, and bustle and strife, Hope and despair the sad story of life ; Yet oh, my beautiful Angel of Sleep, Over my spirit your loving watch keep; Wave your white wings that the tempest may cease, And slumber give unto my weariness peace. SARAH M. B. PIATT. A SOUTHERN critic and poet, doubtless desiring to be considered as one on whom the " mantle of genius " of E. A. Poe has fallen, in a series of "critical nibbles," placed Alice Gary high among the "lady poets" of America, saying: "Alice Cary has written more good poetry than any lady in America," — continuing: "There is but one other Southern poetess who can be compared to Alice Cary, and that one is Sallie M. Bryan. Miss Bryan is the more ima- ginative — Miss Cary the more touching of the two. The former is pas- sionate ..." He concludes by naming Miss Bryan as one whose name will live as long as there shall exist a record of American letters. We agree with this "critic" in his high estimate of Sallie M. Bryan. Sarah Morgan Bryan was born two or three miles from Lexington, Ivy., August 11th, 1836. Her grandfather, Morgan Bryan, was one of the pioneers of the State, and the founder of Bryan's Station, well known in the early Indian struggles. Her family was related to Daniel Boone. Her mother (who is represented to have been a lovely and beautiful woman) having died while she was a child less than eight years old, she lived with her aunt, Mrs. Annie Boone, at New Castle, Ky., and received her education principally at the Henry Female College, long a favorite Southern institution at that place. While yet a very young girl, she interested many who knew her with a poetic gift which in one so young seemed marvellous. Her first pub- lished poem was contributed without her knowledge by one of her cousins to a newspaper at Galveston, Texas, and she was afterwards prevailed on to allow her girlish writings to appear in the Louisville Journal, from whose columns they gained a wide circulation and pop- ular recognition, especially throughout the South. The late Fitz 46 S AL LIE M. BRYAN. 47 Greene Halleck was one of the first to notice and admire her poetic genius, and having been pleased with one of her earlier poems in the New York Ledger, he took pains to make inquiry and learn her ad- dress ; he then wrote her a note, which is so pleasantly characteristic and so brief that it may not be improper now to make it public. Guilford, Conn., , 185S. Dear Lady : No doubt you often receive letters requesting your own auto- graph. May I reverse the medal and ask you to accept the autograph of one who admires exceedingly your [the name of the poem] . I remain, dear lady, your obedient servant, Fitz Greece Halleck. In June, 1861, Miss Bryan was married to Mr. John James Piatt, a poet of " exceedingly great promise," and resided with her husband in Washington City until last year ('67). In 1864, Mr. Piatt published a small volume at New York, entitled "Nests at Washington, and Other Poem- " which included some of the later poems of Mrs. Piatt. But since her marriage she has written comparatively little, occasional poems by her having been published, during the year or two past, in the various magazines. Her later poems, which are generally very artistic, brief, and delicately turned, with a sort of under-current dramatic ele- ment in them often, as the reader will observe in the poem of "The Fancy Ball," have been recently published (1871) by J. K. Osgood & Co., under the title "A Woman's Poems." Mrs. Piatt's home is now in Cincinnati, Ohio. December, 1868. A PROEM. TO THE WOELD. Sweet World, if you will hear me now I may not own a sounding lyre, And wear my name upon my brow Like some great jewel full of fire. But let me, singing, sit apart, In tender quiet with a few, And keep my fame upon my heart, A little blush-rose wet with dew. 48 LIVING FEMALE WRITEES OF THE SOUTH. MY WEDDING-KING. My heart stirr'd with its golden thrill And flutter'd closer up to thine, In that blue morning of the June When first it clasp'd thy love and mine. In it I see the little room, Eose-dim and brush'd with lilies still, Where the old silence of my life Turn'd into music with "I will." Oh, I would have my folded hands Take it into the dust with me; All other little things of mine I'd leave in the bright world with thee. THE FANCY BALL. As Morning you'd have me rise On that shining world of art; You forget ! I have too much dark in my eyes — And too much dark in my heart. " Then go as the Night — in June : Pass, dreamily, by the crowd, With jewels to match the stars and the moon, And shadowy robes like cloud. " Or as Spring, with a spray in your hair Of blossoms as yet unblown ; It will suit you well, for our youth should wear The bloom in the bud alone. "Or drift from the outer gloom With the soft, white silence of Snow : " I should melt myself with the warm, close room ; Or my own life's burning. No. "Then fly through the glitter and mirth As a Bird of Paradise." Nay, the waters I drink have touch'd the earth ; I breathe no summer of spice. NELLY MAESHALL, 49 " Then ! " Hush ; if I go at all, (It will make them stare and shrink, It will look so strange at a Fancy Ball,) I will go as Myself, I think! MISS NELLY MARSHALL, THE subject of this sketch is the daughter of the distinguished General Humphrey Marshall, of Kentucky, celebrated in the annals of the South as a soldier and a statesman. She was born in Louisville, Kentucky, in the year 1847. From her earliest childhood, Miss Marshall's intellectual develop- ment was remarkable, and her first compositions, though, as was natu- ral, abounding in the crudities that mark the early efforts of all young writers, foretold that mental power and strength which have since w T on for her so many warm admirers and true friends. But those abilities which, in another, would have been carefully and tenderly nurtured, were, in her, subjected to the pruning-knife of opposition, and hence her talent may be said to have grown like the prairie-rose, climbing and clinging and blossoming at its own sweet will. Reared in the strictest seclusion, and allowed only the freest com- munion with Nature, she has grown into womanhood with the trusting confidence of childhood in her heart and beautifying her character. She is described as petite in stature, delicately proportioned, and with large gray eyes and wavy light-brown hair. Miss Marshall is perhaps one of the most popular writers in the South and West, although, as yet, her intellectual power is, as it were, undeveloped. Her friends claim and expect more marked manifesta- tions of talent than she has yet given, and, judging by what this young lady has already accomplished, we think we may safely assert that they will not be disappointed. The circumstances that led Miss Marshall to abandon the retirement in which she had hitherto lived, were very sad. The war, which brought devastation and desolation to so many homes in Kentucky, passed by "Beechland" with an unsparing hand. Unexpected trials, sickness, death, adversity, assailed that once merry household ; and as a member of the shadowed and grief-stricken circle, Miss Marshall was compelled to resort to her pen, to stand in the breach between those 7 50 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. most dear to her and misfortune. Miss Marshall's first volume was published in 1866, "Gleanings from Fireside Fancies," by Sans Souci. " As By Fire," a novel, published in New York in 1869, was successful — giving promise of future success. At Frankfort, Kentucky, Feb- ruary 13th, 1871, Miss Marshall was married to Mr. McAfee. 1369. Charles Dimitby. QUESTIONS. Why are the days so drearily long? Why seems each duty a terrible task? Why have my red lips hushed their glad song? Why? — thro' the distance I hopelessly ask! Why are the sunbeams ghastly and dim? Why have the flowers lost their perfume? Why wails my heart a funeral hymn? Why do my tears all my smilings entomb? Was I predestined a child of despair? Must all my brightest hopes soonest decay? Must all my castles be reared in the air, And hope, taking wings, speed fleetest away? Will he forever be haughty and cold? Never once melting 'neath love's sunny smile? Memories — sweet mem'ries of glad days of old — Teach me again how his heart to beguile! Has the bright past no brightness for him? Is the warm love that he cherished quite dead? Ah, love's gay visions have grown strangely dim ! Holdeth his heart a new passion instead? If this dark knowledge of misery be mine; If the hope of his truth, because brightest, be fleetest: Then, come, beloved Death! — I'll gladly be thine; And of all Love's embraces thine own shall be sweetest I NELLY MARSHALL. 51 ALDER-BOUGHS. Shake down, oh, shake down your blossoms of snow, Green alder-boughs, shake them down at my feet; Drift them all over these white sands below, Pulsing with perfume exquisite and sweet ; And 'neath their kisses it may be my heart, Frozen and cold all these long dreary years, Into fresh being may longingly start, Melting its ice into passionate tears: Tears that must flow like a wide gulf between Two hearts that loved in the days long ago; Da>s, when these alder-boughs nodding were green, Flecked, as they now are, with blossoms of snow: Days, w r hen my lover and I were both young, Both full of constancy, passion, and love; Eoaming and dreaming these wild woods among, While a blue May sky bent smiling above. Days that are dead as the dead in their graves; Days whose sweet beauty and perfume have passed, Like the white foam-fret on Ocean's green waves, Buoyant and lovely, but too frail to last. And as we bend o'er the cold forms of those Who have gone early to Death's sombre sleep, Folding their hands as to welcome repose, Thus have I come o'er these dead days to weep. So bend low, oh, bend low ! alder-boughs green, Till I can catch at your blossoms of snow; Nodding like hearse-plumes so soft in the wind Over these smooth stretching white sands below! Never again while I live, alder-boughs, Will I your snow-blooms and verdant leaves see; But when I lie dead and cold in my grave, I pray God they'll blossom and fade over me! 52 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. A WOMAN'S HEAET. From " As By Fire." Fanny Evesham was jealous as Gulbeyez, and the bitterness of her indig- nation against beautiful, innocent Electra amounted almost to passion. But it was not a jealousy prompted by love. It was simply the gangrene of wounded vanity, that her husband should not find her so irresistible that disloyalty to her charms would be impossible. Woman's heart is a deep and wonderful mystery, and it is not for the world, with the presumption of a Daedalus, to attempt to solve it by a process of metaphysical or philosophical investigation. Daedalus was ingenious artist enough to make the labyrinth of Crete, but the intricacy of a woman's emotions would be a riddle which I question if CEdipus himself could solve. In unhappiness of the heart they are seldom faithful to themselves ! In the hour of physical or social trials they stand forth in the arena magnanimous, unflinching — nothing sordid is mingled with their enthusiasm ; but let a woman's heart once resign itself to the sway of vanity, and she is already as irredeemably lost as if she trod the red-hot tesselations of the Vulcanian regions. No " Eden-born motives,"' no noble surroundings, no lofty altitudes, can h'er soul harbor or appreciate. Thenceforth she is a creature whose debasing passions will cast her from any exalted position she may occupy, or may have striven to attain. And of all errors into which she may fall, this love of flirtation, this contemptible vanity which would gratify itself at the cost of the purest and most ennobling emotions of which the heart is capable, is most defamatory to her character as a wife, a mother, or a woman. She makes herself the puppet for a mock- ing multitude ; she blights and degrades herself by a contemptible assumption of affection which she does not in reality entertain ; she pollutes the altars of love and friendship with the ashes of a dead heart ; she sets an example of evil to the sweet, fresh natures about her, which will doubtless beguile many into a like commission of folly — which, after all, terminates in morti- fication, chagrin, repentance, and regret. Yet at this shrine of pollution Mrs. Evesham bowed herself down an humble votary, and the sin of her beguile- ment reared its serpent crest above her. FLORENCE ANDERSON, Of Glen Ada, near Harrodsburg, Ky. WE subjoin the following brief sketch of one, who, from the un- eventful and subjective character of her life, protests that she is not a theme for the biographer. Florence Anderson is a Virginian by birth, a Kentuckian by adop- tion. Descended from families which for many generations had com- bined the highest attributes of scholar, soldier, and gentleman, men who from the dawn of our country's history had counted it no loss to peril all sa^e honor in defence of that country's liberties, Miss An- derson inherited, as her birthright, a love of learning, of honor and true glory. She had no teacher but her father. Her infant steps were steadied by him, as his hand guided her onward and upward to the fair temple of Knowledge. Deeply imbued as his own mind was with the love of classic lore, it was not strange that he should teach his docile and am- bitious pupil a deep sympathy with his tastes. Before a dozen sum- mers had blossomed over her, she had read Virgil and Horace ; had felt her heart thrill at the recital of the mighty deeds of heroes, had wept o'er Hector slain, and fallen Troy. In "Zenaida," Miss Ander- son's earliest work, the frequent, familiar allusions to classic subjects, and the use of words of classic derivation in preference to the more rugged and vigorous Saxon, were noted as defects in her style by more than one kindly critic. The book* was written as a contribution to a little paper, edited by a sister and herself to enliven the winter evenings, in a quiet country home. Read aloud by that sister's voice of music, now mute forever, the imperfections of "Zenaida" were overlooked by its too partial judges, and the book was published before the more chastened and corrected taste of the writer had had time to prune its too great lux- uriance. Its flattering reception by an indulgent public would, doubt- less, have stimulated the young authoress to renewed exertion in the field of romance, had not the war absorbed her sympathies, and paled the light of the unreal by the glare of the actual. In Miss Anderson's ideal of true development, the artist is ever subordinate to the woman, the woman to the Christian. She turns from the profound speculations and beautiful theories of philosophers and sages with more confiding * " Zenaida," published by J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia, 1859. 53 54 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. faith in the Christ, the True Light ; recognizing Him as the Saviour of all mankind, but preeminently the Friend of woman. Believing as she does that the aim of life should be rather to make the whole life a poem, divine in its beautiful harmony, than to write poetry, her poems are to be judged more as the spontaneous expression of an emotional condition of the mind than as the labored effort of her muse. She has sung as the birds sing, because the song in her heart demanded a voice. The following personal description is from the graceful pen of a sister-poet, Mrs. Mary K. T. McAboy, of Paris, Ky. FLOEENCE ANDEESON, THE POET. Thro' the fair summer-time she came to me As bright birds flit to grace a crumbling shrine, Or like a blossomed vine with graceful twine, That drapes with young, fresh life a leafless tree, — She came, like Undine rising from the sea, Yet so ethereal, in the soft sunshine, She seemed to me half mortal, half divine, So fair she was in maiden purity. I* clasped her small white hand; she read to me From Poet, rapt to his divinest theme, And still she shone, as in a golden dream, The while she shared his nectared ecstasy. And then I said, her heart is like the snow, That reddens in the sunset's reddest glow. Roseheath, Ky., April 16, 1866. M. R. M. THE WOELD OF THE IDEAL. [Das Ideal ist das einzige Paradies aus welchem wir nicht getrieben werden konnen.] On spirit world ! by thy golden streams, I sit in a trance of delicious dreams; A magical flush in the air doth rest, Soft as the tint on the sea-shell's breast. The summer ne'er fades in thy shady bowers, And long, bright branches of clustering flowers FLORENCE ANDERSON. 55 Trail thick over paths by the river's side, Wooed, wooed by the murmurs of the tide. There is no sun in the blue above, And yet a glow, like the light of love, Diffuses its radiance over all, And binds the spirit in magic thrall. The air is stirred by a faint, soft breeze, There's a sound like the humming of myriad bees, ^..nd oft to the listening ear doth float The exquisite swell of a song-bird's note. No friendship ever may enter there That would feel a taint in the soft pure air; No lover intrude on the hallowed spot, Whose vows are unheeded and forgot. No votary kneel on thy holy sod, Whose soul is traitor to his God ; Nothing unholy, nothing untrue, Can dwell 'neath that arch of stainless blue. But friends, whose tender and loving smile Can all remembrance of grief beguile, Walk with the spirit, and share its joy, Unmixed with envy's base alloy. And poets tune their mystic lyres Where slumber sacred, hidden fires, And, skilled in music's subtlest lore, Unfathomed depths of the soul explore. To the fair aurora-tinted heights Of the world beyond they wing their flights And stand and beckon from their bands The angels of the immortal lands. They sing of beauty, of love, of youth, The value of life, the power of truth, Of all things holy, of all things pure, Which shall eternally endure. Such bowers of rest do the angels plan For the earth-worn, weary soul of man; And none have the power to disinherit From its world of dreams the Ideal spirit. MRS. CHAPMAN COLEMAN AND DAUGHTERS. MRS. COLEMAN is more widely known as a woman of society, and as the daughter of the late John J. Crittenden, of Kentucky, than as an author. She was born at Frankfort, the capital of the State. Her educational advantages in early life were not such as are now enjoyed by the young ladies of the present day; but they were the best that Kentucky at that time afforded. At her father's house she met with the most distinguished men of the State, and grew up among the thinkers and talkers of the day. In 1830, Miss Crittenden married Mr. Chapman Coleman, of Louis- ville, and resided in that city, the centre of a gay and brilliant circle, until her husband's death, in 1850. Mrs. Coleman is a most brilliant conversationalist. A friend, who has been intimate with her for over thirty-seven years, says : " She has always been ambitious of attaining to distinction and the highest degree of excellence in everything she attempted. Her duties as a daughter, a wife, a mother, a sister, a friend, have always been performed in the most conscientious and admirable manner." Mrs. Coleman has been the mother of seven children, and from their birth she ever devoted herself to their education. After her husband's death she went to Europe, and lived in Germany for the purpose of educating her children. She studied with them, and mastered the French and German languages, with what success, the clever transla- tions from both languages, given to the world by herself and daugh- ters, best testify. Eugenia, Judith, and Sallie Coleman assisted the mother in these translations, of which the series of romances of Mrs. Miihlbach, relating to " Frederick the Great," are best known. The Misses Coleman are lovely, refined, and charming young ladies, full of grace and culture; how could the daughters of such a mother fail of being otherwise ? Mrs. Coleman's knowledge of literature is extensive and accurate. She has a prompt and bright judgment, and her industry and energy are invincible. Could she be induced to give her own thoughts to the world of readers, they could not but be delighted with their original- ity, cleverness, and her piquant style. Since her return from Europe, Mrs. Coleman has resided princi- pally in Baltimore. She was one of the select committee sent from Baltimore to petition President Johnson in behalf of Mr. Jefferson Davis, then in prison. 56 S. ROCHESTER FORD. 57 Mrs. Coleman has published recently a Life and Times of her father, the Hon. J. J. Crittenden, (J. B. Lippincott & Co., Publishers, Phila- delphia, 1871,) one of the distinguished men of the country — as she is, and has always been, regarded as one of the most distinguished among the brilliant women of Kentucky. 1S69. E. L. S. ROCHESTER FORD. MRS. FORD, w 7 hose maiden name was Rochester, was born at Rochester Springs, Boyle county, Kentucky, in 1828. She was the eldest of three daughters, and only in her fourth year when her mother died. "This loss was providentially supplied by the judicious supervision of her maternal grandmother, a woman of great mental and physical vigor, who devoted herself to her grandchildren with true motherly interest. Accustomed herself to out-door exercise, the management of a farm, and the superintendence of a large family, and being withal a woman of highly religious character, she appre- ciated and enforced the kind of training which is now apparent in the strong characteristics of our writer." * From the same authority we get the following : " Her advantages for acquiring Biblical knowledge were rather unusual, She was a lover of books and a close student. Her uncle, Rev. J. R. Pitts, occupied an adjacent farm, and gave her free access to his library and coun- sel. She cultivated the acquaintance of clergymen, especially those of her own denomination, and took an intelligent and deep interest in the study of the distinguishing principles of their theology. In this way she laid the foundation of the skill with which she has since defended the faith of her people." She married the Rev. S. H. Ford in 1855, who was at that time pastor of a Baptist church in Louisville, Ky. A short time after his marriage, Rev. Mr. Ford became proprietor of a religious monthly, called the "Christian Repository," which he conducted with success until the "w T ar-cloud burst." Mrs. Ford Commenced her literary life by contributing to this magazine, in the pages of which first appeared "Grace Truman ; or, Love and Principle." This work was published in 1857, by Sheldon & Co., of New York, and gracefully dedicated to "Elizabeth T. Pitts, my loved and ven- erated grandmother, who, beneath the weight of eighty years, still # « Women of the South," by Mary Forrest. 58 LIVING FEMALE WHITE RS OF THE SOUTH. cherishes, with clear conception and unabated zeal, those principles which, in orphan childhood, I learned from her lips." This book had a very large sale. In 1860, through the same publishers, appeared Mrs. Ford's second book, — " Mary Bunyan, the Dreamer's Blind Daughter," — a tale of religious persecution. Says the New York Evangelist : " The simple incidents of Bunyan's life, his protracted imprisonment, his heroic endurance and lofty faith, are of themselves full of the deepest and most thrilling interest. It needed only the picture of his blind daughter, Mary, in her gentleness and patience under sore misfortune, to give com- pleteness to the tragic yet noble scenes in which Bunyan figures, so modestly yet grandly conspicuous. The author of the volume before us has carefully gathered up such historical facts — and they are, fortunately, numerous and well authenticated — as could throw light upon her subject, and has em- ployed them with great sagacity and effect in the construction of her story." During the war, Mrs. Ford was a refugee in "Dixie." For some time, in the later part of the war, Rev. Mr. Ford was stationed in Mobile. " The Raids and Romance of Morgan and his Men," * which appeared serially in a weekly paper, was published by S. H. Gcetzel, Mobile, in 1864, on dingy paper, with "wall paper" covers, but had a large sale, and was read and re-read by camp-fires and firesides. Mrs. Ford is now residing in Memphis, where her husband is editing the "Southern Repository," a monthly journal. March, 1868. AUXT PEGGY'S DEATH-BED. Wasted by disease, worn out with the strife of life, a calm, patient sufferer lies upon the bed of death. She knows her hours are almost ended, and as she feels the shadow of death stealing gently over her, her countenance be- comes more and more radiant with the light of heaven. 'Tis a little cottage room, — neat, yet very plain; its whitewashed walls, and snowy window-curtains, and nicely dusted chests, and old-fashioned bu- reau with its bright brass knobs, all attest the hand of care. In the right-hand corner, near the fireplace, stands a low bed, with its clean pillows and blue yarn coverlet, and on that bed lies a resigned sufferer, * An edition was published by Sheldon k Co., Xew York, 1S66. S. ROCHESTER FOE D. 59 breathing out her mortal life. She is sleeping now ; for the anodynes have done their work of mercy, and all pain is for the time entirely lulled. Beside the bed are two watchers, silent, lest the slightest noise might dis- turb the sleeper. One holds the old attenuated hand in hers, and gently notes the ebb and flow of the wellnigh spent life-current. The other is seated by her side, watching with anxiety every changing expression of the earnest face. The sleeper wakens, opens her eyes, and looks intently round the room, as if in search of some one whom she had been long expecting. Not finding the object of her lengthened gaze, she asked, in a low, feeble voice : "Hain't he come yit?" " No, Aunt Peggy, not yet." " An' won't he come dis mornin', Miss Gracey, don't you think ? I wants so much to see him." " Yes, Aunt Peggy, I am looking for him every minute." " I hopes he will ; for I wants to talk wid him once more afore I goes. He '11 surely come by-'m-by ; he never misses a day." "Yes, Aunt Peggy, I know he will come," she answered, bending over her, and giving her a cup of cold water. " He will be here, I am sure, in a few minutes ; Mr. Holmes has gone to town for some medicine for you, and he will come with him." "Med'cin's no more use for me, Miss Gracey. I'se almos' done wid dis airth, bless de Lord ; my time is come to go and be at rest. I tink before de sun sets dis day, I shall be far away from here in my Massa's house." "Do you feel any pain now, Aunt Peggy?" said Fanny, approaching nearer and taking the wasted hand in hers. She looked up as if she did not understand the question. " Does anything hurt you now, Aunt Peggy? " she repeated, bending over her, and speaking in a louder tone. " No, no, Fanny dear. I feels no more pain now ; it 's all gone, an' I think I '11 never have any more on this airth ; an' I 'se sure I '11 not have any in heben." As the old woman uttered these words of hope and resignation, they both felt her words were true; that soon the spirit which was now so faintly ani- mating that sinking frame would be released from its clay prison-house, to be forever at rest in the paradise of God. " Can I do anything for you, Aunt Peggy ? " she asked, as she saw the old servant direct her eye to the little table at the foot of the bed. " Jest a leetle drop of water, dear ; I feels so hot here," and she laid her hand on her breast ; " an' raise dis ole head a leetle higher, chile, dat I may see him when he comes. An', Miss Gracey, draw dat curtin a bit to one side, to let de light in, for my eyes is a-growin' dim. I wishes he 'd come." Her requests were attended to. She was raised, and supported by pillows in the bed, so as to have a full view of the door. \ 60 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. " Dat will do, Fanny dear ; I kin see him now, if he comes afore my sight is gone." Fanny turned aside to hide her grief as the old servant spoke of the unmistakable signs of approaching death. Aunt Peggy had been to her a friend since the day she had first seen the light of earth. She had watched over her as if she had been her own child ; and often had her kind hands supplied her childish wants, and her kind words consoled her childish sor- rows. And in after-years, too, she had given her aid and comfort when her heart was sorely stricken ; had pointed out, in her own homely way, the path to those joys that fade not — that possession which is "undefiled, and that passeth not away." Mrs. Holmes, who had every day come to see the faithful old servant, entered the room. As soon as she caught a glimpse of her face, she read therein the evidences of approaching dissolution. Going to the bedside, and taking up the wan hand, she leaned down and asked her how she felt. " I 'se aimos' home, Miss Jane," and a faint smile for a moment parted her parched lips. "And are you happy, Aunt Peggy, in the prospect of so soon standing in the presence of your great Judge ? " "Yes, yes, Miss Jane, I 'se very happy. I has nothin' to fear. My Saviour will ans'er for me when I 'se called to give my account. He has died for me, and his death has took away all my sins." She stopped short for want of breath. Her respiration was becoming gradually more and more difficult. She folded her hands, and, closing her eyes, remained perfectly still for several minutes. Then looking anxiously up at her mistress, who was still by the bedside, she said, feebly : " I wishes he would come." " She speaks of Edwin, I suppose," said Mrs. Holmes, addressing herself to Grace. "Yes ; she has several times expressed a desire to see him." Just then footsteps were heard through the half-open door. The old woman, her hearing apparently rendered more acute by the great anxiety of her mind, seemed to catch the sound instantly, and turning her head on the pillow, said in a strong, clear voice : " He 's comin' now ! I hear his step," and her eye lighted up with an expression of earnest expectancy. "An' so you's come at last," she said, looking up into his face as he stood by her bedside, and making an effort to extend her hand to him. He per- ceived her intention, and immediately, with the gentleness of a woman, took her wasted hand, and pressed it within his own. "And how do you feel now, Aunt Peggy? " " I 'se very happy now, Massa Ed. I 'se so glad you 's come. I thought 1 should n't see you agin, maybe, for I 'se almos' gone. I 've jes been tellin' Fanny here, dat before de sun goes down I shall be in my Massa's house." S. ROCHESTER FORD. 61 Mr. Lewis felt her words were true. He saw that the spirit could not much longer linger in its frail tenement. Mr. Holmes mixed the medicine he had brought from Dr. Denny, and offered it to her. She shook her head slowly. " It 's no use now, Massa John ; it won't do no good." " But take it, A .nt Peggy ; it will keep you from suffering." She reached out her hand in the direction of the cup, but she had not strength to take it. Mr. Holmes elevated her head, and she swallowed about half of the mixture ; and then, as if exhausted by the effort, she fell back upon the pillows. The frill of her cap was thrown back from her forehead, reveal- ing her gray hair ; her gown was opened about the throat, and her bosom was partially bared, for she had complained of a great burning within, which nothing they could give her would allay. One hand rested on her breast, the other lay extended by her side. Not a muscle moved ; her breath- ing became low and lengthened ; and as they looked upon her, they felt it must be death. She had remained some time in this state of stupor, while every breath was thought to be her last, when, suddenly arising, she unclosed her eyes,' and fixing her gaze upon Mr. Lewis, who stood next her, she motioned for him to come nearer. He leaned over to catch her words. She seemed to be waiting for him to speak. He put his lips close to her ear, and said: " Do you feel that His rod and staff comfort you, Aunt Peggy ? " Gathering up her whole energy, as if for the final struggle, she answered, in a voice which was understood by all present : " Yes, yes ; I fear no evil, bless de Lord. De grave has no terrors for me ; and the sting of death is took away! I can say wid de 'postle, 'I has fought a good fight; I has kept de faith/ and I know dare is a crown laid up for me in heben, which my Saviour will soon place on dis poor ole head." " Your trust in the Lord Jesus Christ is sure and steadfast, Aunt Peggy ; no clouds to hide his face from you." " No, no ; my Saviour is wid me, an' his smile fills me wid joy. Christ died for poor sinners like me, an' he is willin' and able to save all dat comes unto him." Her voice failed her, so that she could not proceed further, and she remained motionless, with her eyes fixed upon Mr. Lewis, as if desirous of saying something more to him. At length she continued : " Go on, Massa Ed, to preach the gospel of Christ to sinners ; never give it up. Try to build up de little church, and God will help you." Her eyes passed from one to another, and rested at last upon Mr. Holmes. " Go on, Massa John, in de way you has set out ; you, and Fanny, and Miss Gracey. You has all been kind to me, and I 'se sorry to leave you ; but; I'se going home, and you'll all come arter me soon. Den we shall never part no more. I bid you all farewell," and she moved her powerless hand 62 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. slightly toward them. Each one approached the bedside, and clasped the death-cold hand, while tears bedewed their cheeks. " Good-bye," she murmured to each pressure. They watched her as her breath grew fainter and yet more faint ; a slight shudder passed through her frame, a gasp, and all was still ! Her spirit had gone up to dwell on high. For some moments not a word was spoken. Each one stood gazing on the lifeless form before them with sorrowful heart ; for she who lay there, wrapped in the mantle of death, had been a friend to each — to all. 3^?C MRS. MARIE T. DAVIESS. MRS. DAVIESS is of pure Revolutionary stock. Her two grand- sires, Capt. George Robards and Col. John Thompson, hav- ing fought through the war for Independence, married fair and excel- lent daughters of the Old Dominion, of which all parties were natives, and soon after removed to Kentucky, settling on adjoining plantations. Drawn together by the common memories of their service in the field, their acquaintance ripened into warm intimacy, which had the not uncommon result of an alliance by marriage between the two families. In 1807, Miss Robards and John B. Thompson were united in mar- riage, and, after a short residence on their farm, removed to Harrods- burg, where they ever after resided, Mr. Thompson practising success- fully his profession — the law, — occasionally serving in the Legislature of his State. He was a member of the Senate when the cholera swept over the land in 1833, taking him among its victims. The death of Mr. Thompson, in the prime of life and usefulness, seriously contracted the horizon of his family's future ; but a proud and energetic mother did all within her power to keep this sad reverse from interfering with their substantial good. She gave her four sons liberal educations, and her daughters such opportunities as the village school afforded, which was then, and is now, among the best in the West. The sons were all educated in their father's profession, and the eldest, John B. Thomp- son, the only one that entered into public life, was for many years a representative of Kentucky in Congress, and, while Lieut.-Governor of the State, was elected, at the death of Henry Clay, to fill his seat MARIE T. DAVIESS. 63 in the Senate of the United States, Mrs. Daviess's opportunities for the acquirement of social distinction were of the finest. Residing in Harrodsburg, which every summer for many years was a resort of fashion and gayety, she was brought in constant contact with the elite of Southern ana Western society that for six months of the year thronged this " Saratoga of the West." Doubtless, in the scattered homes of this smitten region, when their now sobered tenants dwell on the happy days of "lang syne," Miss Marie Thompson has ever a place in the revived tableaux. In 1839, Miss Thompson was married to William Daviess, son of Capt. Samuel Daviess, and nephew of Col. Joseph Hamilton Daviess, a gentleman of worth, of fine address and remarkable colloquial powers. He was educated for a lawyer, but never practised. He entered upon a public career with great zest and promise of reward to his ambition, but, falling into wretched health, resigned his place in the State Senate, and has since contented himself with rural pursuits ; and seldom does a roof-tree shelter a more hospitable home or a more agreeable family circle than does the one of Hayfields. Mrs. Daviess's writings, especially poetry, were not, as now is fre- quently the case, the result of her training in belles-lettres, but simply the overflow of feeling and fancy that would not be repressed. Her coming before the public was not with the intention of ever writing professionally, nor the pursuit of the ignis fatuus, fame. A bridal compliment to a friend was so kindly received, that, by request from one and another editor, Mrs. Daviess threw out many waifs of beauty on the passing current of journalism, seldom under her own name, but signed by such name as the passing fancy suggested. Her effusions were extensively copied, and complimented for their smooth flow of rhyme and almost redundant beauty of expression. "The Nun" was the most elaborate poem she ever published. Most of Mrs. Daviess's MSS. and copies of her published articles were de- stroyed by an accident, and we have but few poetical specimens to choose from. " A Harvest Hymn " breathes a spirit of gratitude to Him who sends his seedtime and harvest alike upon the just and the unjust, and which we should all feel, whether we abide on the moun- tain-tops of prosperity or in the valley of humility. For some years after her marriage, if the fountain of Mrs. Daviess's pen flowed at all, it was like some of those strange streams that sink beneath the earth's surface, and wind on their way unseen, yet gather- 64 LIVING FEMALE WK ITERS OF THE SOUTH. ing strength and purity to reappear in and fertilize fresh fields. The first fruit of Mrs. Daviess's revived authorship which I met were "Roger Sherman — A Tale of '76," and "Woman's Love," both very well conceived and sustained stories. But her strong conviction that the plain, practical duties of life should command, if necessary, the whole of every woman's time, seems to have tinged the very holiday hours she secured by extra exertion for the exercise of her taste ; and ' of late her writings seem to have been a kind of photograph of her every-day life. She received from the Kentucky State Agricultural Society a premium for the essay on the " Cultivation and Uses of Chinese Sugar-Cane," a product she was the first to introduce into the State, prophesying it would, as it has, become a staple of the West. Subsequently, she was awarded a diploma for an essay upon some lit- erary theme by the National Fair, held in St. Louis a few years ago. For some time she has been special contributor to several leading agricultural papers. Among them, Column's "Rural World," of St. Louis, and "Cultivator and Country Gentleman," Albany, N. Y. Her letters in these journals are among their most charming features, and the most useful exercises of a fluent pen. Viewed from one standpoint, all literature can be divided into two classes, the writers of Art, and the writers of Nature. In one, the composer is admired as a master-architect, who has ingeniously fettered together base, shaft? and cornice ; where thoughts stand like pillars carefully hewn, and whose figures adorn them, as curiously-wrought carving these columns. In the other class, we look upon the author as a friend, who, with absorbing conversation, beguiles us into a walk, and all the while points out to us the charms of the landscape spread out before us ; showing us the mist-enveloped truths that rise like blue hills in the distance, but lingering on the familiar things that surround us ; descanting with as much grace on the usefulness of the herb as the beauty of the flower ; commenting with equal interest on the value to commerce of the distant river which bears on its waters the produce of our own and foreign lands, and the meanderings of the babbling brook that, fretting over the rocky ledges, descends into the peaceful valley on foamy wings. Mrs. Daviess belongs to the latter class, and can please her readers as well with explanation of the useful as descriptions of the beautiful, often blending the two together in a manner we think quite her own. Mrs. Daviess is a living refutation of the world-wide charge of the M A EI E T. DAVIESS. 65 incompatibility of literary and housewifely tastes. You might sur- prise many of her neighbors with the information that she "wrote for publication." She has always seemed to mingle literary habits so easily with the overwhelming cares of a large family, that we hope that genius as well as water will find its level, and that she will some day find leisure for a free exercise of her pen, and we see her take a prominent place among the " Southland Writers." 1868. HAEVEST HYMN. " And ye shall eat neither bread, nor parched corn, nor green ears, until the selfsame day that ye have brought an offering unto your God : it shall be a statute for ever throughout your generations." — Ley. xxiii. 14. The Hebrew reapers on their blades leaned and gazed o'er the plain Wet with the toil-drops from their brow as from a summer's rain ; Then, tho' upon their dreary minds the vision clear arose Of home, and all its smiling group, and evening's sweet repose, They gathered of their harvest fruits, and ere the trump that woke From every hill and grassy glade its wild thanksgivings spoke, They from ten thousand altar-fires sent to the bending skies The incense of their grateful hearts in harvest sacrifice. And smiled the eye of heaven more bright on ancient Palestine, Than it is wont in summer hours on our fair land to shine — Did genial rains fall freer there, or the fresh, lifeful breeze Come with more stirring hopes to them from wide commercial seas Than unto us — or had they hearts more glad, or arms more strong, Than has our free land's sturdy race — that we have not a song, Or altar-fire, or trumpet-note, at harvest home, to call Forgetful hearts to thankfulness to Him who giveth all ? Come ! if the temple hath no voice that claims that task of love, Come round the household altar now, and yield to Him above Thanks for the treasure garnered in ; ask for the strength again To reap where'er His kindness spreads the golden harvest plain ; And pray thy nation may not prove ungrateful as that race, That Heaven may never make thy home a bare and blighted place ; That, tho' a conq'ror tramples now o'er Judea's courts and plains, No tyrant step shall stain our land or scar her sons with chains. QQ LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. VALUE OF PERMANENCE IN HOME AND VOCATION. (extract.) Another fruitful cause of discontent lies in what phrenologists term locality. Coupled with that, and almost as pernicious in its influence upon our characters, is the want of a feeling of permanence in our vocations. It was a great day for human progress when the revolutionary axe was laid to the law of primogeniture, that bitter root whence sprang all the un- just and baneful usages of aristocracy ; yet it was a pity that with the genea- logical tree should perish the many fair virtues that clustered in its shade, as love of home, pride of name, and fealty to kindred blood. It is an animating thought to the spirited younger brother, that he has an equal interest in the honors and name of his sire ; and that, when the sire has been gathered to his rest, law will give him an equal interest in his heritable goods. Yet it is a shame because no law entails the homestead on the name — that the place which a father's pride and mother's taste have combined to render a paradise, should have none but a salable value in their children's eyes. So with our callings. It is a proud thing to feel we are not born serfs to any soil or con- dition — that, by virtue of our own good deeds, and in the strength of our own will, we may rise to any station in our country's scale of honor ; and yet it is sad to feel that almost all our homes, and talents, and vocations are, like Chinese junks, ever floating, and that all we have and are can be had at a price. Ay, there is purity, and should be strength, in the tie that binds us to the homestead. The family that realizes its present to be its future home for all time to come, will not be drones or idlers, dreamers or speculators., in the many El Dorados that lure the sanguine to ruin. The trembling grandsire will plant, because he knows his fair young grandchild shall gambol in the shade of his cherished tree ; the young will sow, because they shall reap ; and thus, planting and tending together, make strong the bonds that hold, by happy associations, all to the old hearth-stone. In a like manner, a faith in the permanence of our vocations conduces to skill and proficiency, and generates an honorable emulation to excel in that craft with which we know our name and memory shall ever be identified. And this feeling of permanence in our homes and vocations gives higher tone to our moral nature. Knowing that upon the acquaintances of to-day we are to depend for the courtesies and kindness that must sweeten our even- ing hours of life, we allow our hearts to throw out their tendrils freely, nor fear they shall be rudely broken. Cordiality and benevolence take, in our intercourse with our kind, the place of formality and selfishness ; and, instead VIRGINIA PENNY. 67 of a restless desire to find how we can make all we meet subserve our inter- ests, we know no higher pleasure than basking in the sunshine of gratitude which our own unselfish service of our kind has caused to light and glow around us. Living under these influences, the homes that are now so often profaned by the reckless steps of vice and the hideous voice of discord would become what they should be, the highest, purest type a Christian knows of heavenly rest. Then should we understand that feeling which makes it unsafe to give voice to the songs of Switzerland in the ears of her exiled soldiery ; the sentiment that makes the stricken foreigner beg his way back to his *' Vaterland ; " the unquenched desire that sends the outcast Jew in his death-hour to lay his bones in the desolate land of his faith. >>e^c VIRGINIA PENNY. MISS PENNY was born at Louisville, Kentucky, 1826. She is a graduate of the Female Seminary at Steuben ville, Ohio. Her published works are as follows : 1st. Employments of Women. A Cyclopedia of Women's Work. Boston. 12mo. 1863. 2d. Five Hundred Employments adapted to Women. Philadelphia : J. E. Potter & Co., publishers. 12mo. 1868. 3d. Think and Act. A Series of Articles on Men and Women, Work and Wages. Philadelphia: Claxton, Remsen & HafFelfinger. 12mo. 1869. 4th. How Women can Make Money, Married or Single, in all Branches, of the Arts and Sciences, Professions, Trades, Agricultural and Mechanical Pursuits. Cr. 8vo, pp. 500. Springfield, Mass., 1871. The subject-matter of these volumes is the same. " Miss Penny has earned the sober gratitude of women, and men interested in the lot of women, by the labors of many years in the hardest and least remunerative fields of service. She is no orator, politician, or manager, but a delving, drudging worker. With a patience that only the most profound faith could have sustained, and an industry that only a deep enthusiasm could have kept from flagging, she has devoted herself to the task of collect- ing and assorting facts bearing on the subject of woman's work and wages. What work women did or could do ; the amount of training demanded for it; the number of hours daily that must be devoted to it; the conditions 68 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. and circumstances attending on its performance; its effect on health, spirits, and disposition ; the average amount of its remuneration ; the prospect it opened ; in short, every particular that was interesting or important in a practical point of view, she endeavored to ascertain. . . . Miss Penny's style is not especially brilliant or attractive, but is interesting; and, better than all, her essays are sober, wise, and important." — Nation, November ISth, 1869. March, 1871. SALLIE J. H. BATTEY. MRS. SALLIE J. HANCOCK BATTEY was born at Evanside, Kentucky, about fourteen miles from the city of Louisville, at an old homestead which has been. the property of her family since the State was a wilderness. She was married at an early age to Mr. Hancock, and was a widow a few years afterward, and for ten years devoted herself to the education of her daughter, and the profession of literature. As an author Mrs. Hancock was industrious, and won laurels and friends. She has written considerable in prose and verse, under the name of "Latona," for the Louisville journals, and maga- zines North and South. For some time she edited a magazine. Has published three books, namely, two novels, and one volume of poems. 1st. Etna Vandemir. A Romance of Kentucky and " The Great Uprising." New York. 1863. 2d. The Mojitanas; or, Under the Stars. New York, 1867. 3d. Rayon d' Amour. Poems. Philadelphia, 1869. Mrs. Hancock has been called the " Minstrel of the West." A poet, in an address to her, thus alludes to her poems : "Not thine to sing the sage's lore, Nor yet- to hymn polemic creed : Thy song supplies a nobler need, And touches chords untouched before." In 1870, Mrs. Hancock was married to Mr. Manfred C. Battey, for- merly of Buffalo, N. Y., now of Washington, D. C. Her address is Evanside, near JefFersontown, Ky. March, 1871. SALLIE J. H. BATTEY. 69 DREAM; " We are such stuff As dreams are made of, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep." Shakspeare. Golden ripples on the wall, Linger while the shadows fall : Eden visions trailing far, Through the sunset gates ajar; Diamond anchors on Time's strand, Tracery of the Almighty hand ; Death and sleep its counterpart, Mutely crossing hand and heart: Things that are, and things that seem, Through the pearly gates of dream, Strangely blent by God's decree In a dual mystery. Thus, when sorrow's night has shed Blight for living, pall for dead, Fairer forms of light are born ; Suns cross o'er the dark to morn ; Dreams are mirrored life to be, Heaven in an earthly sea: Stars at play, amid the sand, Chime in chorus deep and grand ; Spirit symbols here and there, Tell us God is evervwhere. ALICE McCLUKE GBIFFIN. . POEMS, by Alice McClure Griffin — Cincinnati, O., Bickey & Carroll, 1864, — was the simple title of a 12mo volume of 126 pages. This volume is composed principally of verses that have appeared in the columns of papers and magazines, over the signature of "Muni Tell" and " Addie Glenmore." In a preface the reader is informed that "the entire book was written when the author was between fourteen and twenty years of age." Alice McClure was born in Boone County, Kentucky — the only daughter of Dr. Virgil McClure, also a native of Kentucky. Her mother is a descendant of Burns, the poet, and the author of several novels. Alice McClure graduated at the Wesleyan Female College, Cincinnati, at the age of sixteen. Her father at this time removed to Newport, Ky., where Miss McClure was married, on the last day of 1861, to Mr. G. W. Griffin, author of "Studies in Literature" —a revised edition published by Claxton, Bemsen & Haffelfinger, Phila- delphia, 1871. Since their marriage, they have resided in Louisville. Mrs. Griffin writes occasionally for various periodicals. The following poem w T as thought to be very beautiful by the late George D. Prentice. SPIRIT LANDSCAPES. Not those bright scenes that charm the human eye With rich material beauty, glowing forth In bold relief of landscape — beauty drawn Of earthly hills and towering mountains high, Or tangled vales, or native murmuring streams, Whose rippling music echoes from the cliffs And high ascents that hedge their waters in; Nor yet the flowery fields, nor meadows rare, Where, 'mid the perfumed shades and grassy slopes, The ruminating herds seek sweet repose, Or gambol sportively in frolic free ! 70 SI. W. MERIWETHER BELL. 71 Not those, ah, no ! though e'er so fair and bright, Can fill the spirit's ken with full delight ; No earthly scenes, though e'er so finely wrought, Can charm the vision of exalted thought. Imagination dreams of realms refined, Of scenes of beauty charted on the mind, Where, in unrivalled loveliness, appears The spirit landscape of the inner spheres ; — Where poesy sheds upon the fields of sense Sweet ideal flowers of wit and eloquence ; And mountain thought looks up to genius, high Enthroned upon the clouds of virtue's sky ; — Where, softly as a summer rainbow, seems The blending colors of affection's beams ; And, bright as stars that gem the brow of night, Resplendent aspiration sheds her light ; — And love, and truth, and holy, high resolve, Within their orbits gracefully revolve ; And through the system of religion roll Around their centre the inspired soul. These are the scenes that charm the spirit's eye, More than terrestrial views of richest dye ; And lovelier far than earth and sea combined Is the bright spirit-landscape of the mind ! March, 1S69. M. W. MERIWETHER BELL. MISS MERIWETHER is a native of Albemarle County, Virginia. She was born in that wild, beautiful spot, called the North Garden, and from childhood drew inspiration from its lovely mountains, and sang to the ripple of its streams., She is the second daughter of Dr. Charles Hunter Meriwether, and is descended maternally from old Virginian families. She is a genius, and "lisped in numbers" from earliest childhood. When only nine years of age, some of her verses were sent to a Vir- 72 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. ginia paper, as specimens of precocious rhymes, and were published, puffed, and copied into various papers. After the death of her father, occurring when the subject of this notice was twelve years old, the family removed to Kentucky. In 1858, Miss Meriwether married Captain Darwin Bell, and from the time of her marriage has resided in Christian County, Kentucky. Post-office, Garrettsburg. Mrs. Bell has been termed the "Poetess of the Flowers." She writes quaint and suggestive prose. March, 1871. THE VALLEY LILY'S MESSAGE. valley lily, pure and pale, King out a silver chime From all your pearly bells, and lend Your music to my rhyme. With odorous sighs and tears of dew, Peal out the tender tale ; And tell him all I whispered you Down in the mossy vale. Tell him the royal rose is bright, The stately lily fair ; The tulip wears a robe of light, The jasmine scents the air. But on their beauty if he looks, Oh, tell him, then, of this : The rose her inmost leaves unfolds To the wanton zephyr's kiss. And the white lily, saintly fair, Like Danae of old, Spreads out her snowy lap to catch The yellow sunbeam's gold. The gaudy tulip boldly woes The butterfly and bee, And the jasmine flings her twining arms Hound every shrub and tree. M. W. MERIWETHER BELL. 73 But the valley lily hides away In places cool and dim; Under the shadowy leaves, and keeps Her sweetness all for him. Thus tell him, sweetest messenger ; Ring o'er the silver chime: His heart must listen if you lend Your music to my rhyme. 10 LOUISIANA. SAEAH A. DOESEY. I N alluding to the " Recollections of Henry W. Allen," an intimate friend of Mrs. Dorsey thus speaks of her : " To comprehend the organization that gave being to this book, one must have known the author — a woman highly strung, and yet calm ; nervous, and yet courageous ; sensitive, and yet not susceptible ; and strongly practical and considerate of the common usages of life. For one of such poetic taste, such ardent fancy, and withal devoted in no ordinary degree and with no common fidelity to her duties, her friends, her country, and her God, she possesses in an extraordinary degree the faculty of friendship, so to speak — that pure disinterestedness of soul which enables its possessor to put aside all selfish considerations in behalf of its objects of regard, and to separate from any warmer or more sentimental feeling the affection that may so legitimately exist between the sexes. "She had known Governor Allen from her childhood, is twenty years his junior, and was actuated in his service not only by friendship and zeal, but a sort of hero-worship, which our late disastrous struggle was well calcu- lated to arouse in the Southern breast." Sarah Anne Ellis was born on her father's plantation, just below Natchez. Her parents also had a residence in the suburbs of that city, where she was brought up. Her parents were both young and very wealthy, belonging to the oldest and most influential families in Mississippi and Louisiana. Her mother was Mary Routh ; her father, Thomas George Percy Ellis. She was the eldest child, born before her mother was sixteen; therefore, being rather an earnest, grave sort of a child, her mother always declared "Sarah w T as much older than she was." Her parents were both gay, and much beloved in society. Her mother was a very lovely woman, and her father was very gifted and brilliant. He died very suddenly at an early age. Sarah was his idol, being the only daughter with two sons, until a girl was born three weeks before his death. She adored her father; his death made a deep and ineffaceable impression on her, even at the early age of nine years. 74 SARAH A. DORSE Y. 75 The dim outlines of the groundwork of "Agnes Graham's" family story were Mrs. Dorsey's own. Her great-grandfather, grandmother, and aunts suffered in that terribly mysterious dispensation of God. The earliest recollection of Mrs. Dorsey recalls her grandmother, a beautiful, stately woman, with exquisite hands and moulded form, an inmate of her father's house, hopelessly melancholy, possessing every- thing that the prestige of birth, and rank, and wealth could give; but the "skeleton in the closet" was always there, and for years this dreadful thought pursued her, even from childhood, as it had all of her family (her gifted aunts as well), making their inner lives deeper and more thoughtful than the life of most people. Her mother married Gen. Charles G. Dahlgren, afterward of the C. S. A., brother to the now Federal Admiral. Sarah was passionately fond of books, and was most carefully educated by her mother and stepfather. She had every advantage that money could procure. Her youth was very gay at Natchez, noted as the "society town" of the South. We are told that Mrs. Dahlgren entertained charmingly, in true, open-hearted Southern manner. She died of disease of the heart, in 1858. In 1853, Miss Sarah Ellis was married to Samuel W. Dorsey, of Tensas Parish, La. From earliest youth, in common with most thinking Southerners, she has been deeply interested in the laboring class, and can say honestly, in the face of Heaven, she has devoted every faculty she possesses to their improvement, so far as she could, while she owned them. This she did as a matter of duty. She now does what she can for them as a matter of humanity. Every Sunday, in her plantation-home in Tensas Parish, she has a class of from fifty to sixty scholars of negroes. She teaches them to read and write, and religion. She is an Episcopa- lian, and believes a full ritual the only way to interest or reach these masses. Her husband lost nearly a quarter of a million of dollars by the war. They took their negroes to Texas during the " struggle for Confederate independence." Some of the experiences of Louise Peyrault (in "Lucia Dare") were real. Indeed, most of the Southern incidents in this book are true, most of the characters from life. The scenes in Natchez are merely idealized ; any old resident can locate them. /6 LIVING FEMALE WE ITERS OF THE SOUTH. Mrs. Dorsey began to write for the press by accident, — a lucky one was it for the public. Writing on business to the New York Churchman, she ventured to answer a question propounded in that paper concerning the use of the choral service and full ritualism for negroes. She had adopted the full ritual, and had herself adapted the American liturgy to some of the cathedral services and music of the Anglican Church, and wrote her experience of five years' use of this musical science to the Churchman. The editor published her letter, and, in a subsequent number, another, signing the articles " Filia Ecclesise," daughter of the church. She liked the name and has ever since retained it. Mrs. Dorsey has lived almost equally at Natchez and on Lake St. Joseph, where her family have had their plantations since the first settlement of the State. All of Mrs. Dorsey's writings are Southern in tone and character, and have nationality, and are valuable, inasmuch as they are true pictures of that phase of Southern existence which is over and will soon be forgotten in the misery into which our unhappy country is plunged. Mrs. Dorsey is passionately fond of study, but has necessarily been a woman of society and of the world, all her life. The friend, once before quoted, speaking of her memory of what she read, as illustrated in her " Kecollections of Governor Allen," remarks : " The writer of this booh has so ( encyclopedic a mind/ so to speak, that her daily conversation is quite as much strewn with the result of her reading as are the pages here recorded. I have sometimes, when in her society, been reminded of Sidney Smith's remark about memory — when he termed it a wondrous engine of social oppression. Yet is she frank, eager, and artless as a child." Her married life has been smooth and unruffled. She recognizes all of God's goodness to her, having had more than " the fourteen happy days of the Moorish monarch." During the war, Mrs. Dorsey spent two years in Texas. While there, she aided in nursing in a Confederate hospital, and did such work for the church as she could. She travelled twice from Texas to the Mississippi River by land, once with her husband, two overseers, and several hundred negroes. The measles broke out among them ; they had a very distressing time, and buried the poor creatures all along the road. They were frequently compelled to encamp for days and weeks at a time. She had a tent made of a piece of carpet, but S AE A H A. DORSE Y. 77 it did not always protect them, as it was not water-tight. Mr. Dorsey had to leave her to go after some negroes in the northern part of the State, and she was alone with the overseers and negroes for ten days in the immense pine forests of Winn Parish. In 1860, Mrs. Dorsey sent to New York, to be published for gratu- itous distribution, the choral services she had arranged and used so successfully among her negroes for years. The now Bishop of Florida had charge of this for her, but the intended publisher failed, and the war came, and the service remained unpublished. She is an enthusi- astic Episcopalian, and was a dear friend of the lamented Bishop- General Leonidas Polk. She is very much interested in the establish- ment of an order of deaconesses, connected with the church in New Orleans, which was her reason for making Agnes Graham (in the novel heretofore alluded to) end as one. This effort she desires to make in obedience to a promise exacted from her by Bishop Polk, on his last visit to her, in 1860, " that she should do everything in her power, as long as she lived, toward the establishment of a Sisterhood of Mercy in New Orleans." The bishop considered this a matter of primary importance to the Church and Protestantism. During the war, Mrs. Dorsey's house was burned in a skirmish, and several men killed in her flower-gardens. She is a highly accomplished lady, reading six languages, though by no means a pedant — a musician, performing on the harp with the same exquisite taste as "Agnes Graham" is described as doing. We quote the passage : " The young lady, after passing her fingers lightly over the strings of the harp, took her seat and played a brilliant, merry polka. . . . Striking a few modulations upon the strings, the music changed from the gay polka move- ment to a slow, plaintive measure. The red lips parted, and breathed most touchingly the exquisite melancholy strain of Schubert's ' Wanderer.' The song ended, the chords swelled on the air. She sang the scena and aria from Der Freischlitz, ' Wie nahte mir der Schlummer bevor ich ihn gesehn.' It is a gem of music, and it was sung to perfection. The joyous allegro movement at the close, ' Allmeine Pulse schlagen,' was admirably rendered.-" She uses her pencil like a born artist ! And yet Mrs. Dorsey is by no means a " literary lady," as that term is often used, priding her- self much upon her domestic qualities, being a capital nurse for the 78 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. sick, a good teacher, an excellent housekeeper, and, when it is neces- sary, a superb cook. In 1866, Mrs. Dorsey published, through M. Doolady, New York, " Kecollections of Henry Watkins Allen, Brigadier-General Confeder- ate States Army, Ex-Governor of Louisiana," of which volume the private secretary and friend of Governor Allen thus speaks : " It is the most faithful and thorough portrait of him that could be drawn, the best word-likeness that has been produced this century. It is accurate in point of fact ; it is full in materials ; it is tasteful in arrangement. The coldest critic cannot deny it the merit of sincerity and strict adherence to truth. The most exacting literary critic would stultify himself if he were to say that he found no beauties in the style, no pathos." Reading a copy of this volume after a friend of the author has read and wept over it, we find many passages " pencilled," with re- marks made on the same. Speaking of the burial of a brother of Henry Allen on the prairie of Texas, the author says (pp. 26 & 27) : "It is a pleasant resting-place, — one of those Texan prairies, — they are so thick with bloom and verdure. In that dry atmosphere the wild flowers seem peculiarly fragrant. Bulbs abound — hibiscus, glowing crimson; nar- cissi, a sort of blue narcissus with a golden centre ; ornithigalliums of fine- rayed corollas double as daisies, white, with chalices of tender lilac bordered with green, so delicate they droop in the plucking ; crimson poppy mallows, hanging their heads heavily, as Clyte did hers in the Greek sculptor's thought, on their long, slender, hairy footstalks ; purple iris, small, Tyrian- dyed, flecked with white and gold dots ; larkspurs, pink, and white, and blue ; pale, flesh-colored prairie-pinks ; long, full racemes of straw-colored cassias ; great bunches of light papilionaceous blossoms, set in ovate leaves of light olive-green; starry heleniums; coreopsis too, yellow, eight-cleft, darkening into brown-red disk florets; foxgloves,' white and violet-spotted; pink and purple campanaulas, cymes of golden bloom, like English wall- flowers ; paniales of downy, azure, four-petalled blossoms, like Swiss forget- me-nots ; bull-nettles, with prickly runcinate leaf, guarding a tender, snow- white, soft bloom, which rivals the Indian jasmine in its exquisite fragrance and graceful beauty. All sorts of salvias, verbenas, mints, and wild balms grow profusely on those prairies, mingled with the delicate, fine-leaved, close- creeping vines of the lemon-colored and pink-blossomed, vanilla-scented sen- sitive plants (mimosas), and the rich green of the musquite and gamma grasses, making a lovely covering even over graves. And above all this blossoming earth stretches out a vast dome of clear blue sky, vast as the ho-izon on the ' wide, open sea.' " SAEAH A. DOESEY. 79 To which the friend pencils : " She writes con amore here. There is not a flower among all of those mentioned that she has not painted to the life." In 1867, "Lucia Dare," a novel, was published in New York. This is in part a war novel. The pictures of Southern life are well drawn, and some of the characters interesting and vividly portrayed. Annie Laurie especially is a very lovely creation, and Grace Sharpe a strongly drawn one. A great fault in this novel is too many characters. A novel should have three or four prominent characters around which the interest of the narrative should centre — they must be brought prominently forward, and made the chief actors. From the opening of this novel, I thought Lucia Dare was to be the chief actor, and her brother's fate to remain a mystery until the close of the volume ; but the story is wrought out differently, and with much interest too, although the reader recognizes Lucia's brother (Gerald) as soon as he appears. A revised edition of "Lucia Dare," with omitted chapters of much interest, may possibly be shortly published. In 1869, Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger, Philadelphia, published "Agnes Graham." This is a revision of "Agnes" — a novel which was published serially in the " Southern Literary Messenger," 1864, and was reviewed in the New York " Round Table " thus : " This is a story of our own day, a genuine presentation of life — under circumstances, however, which may be considered a little exceptional. The scenes are laid principally in the South, and there is a warmth of imagination about some of the descriptions which lead one to think that they are colored and sometimes magnified beyond the measure of nature. But the characters are admirably drawn : there is scarcely one which does not seem to have a living counterpart ; they are all consistent with truth, and in harmony with each other. Every woman who has been to school has seen one such girl as Agnes Graham ; and her conduct during the scene in the playground — which is very well described — plainly betokens the power, self-control, and rigid sense of right which distinguish the noble girl through life. Left an orphan, she passes her vacations with her Aunt Eleanor, to whom she is devotedly attached. This aunt is a gentle, pure, good woman, suffering under the weight of a sorrow which no human aid can mitigate or remove ; and between her son Robert and Agnes Graham a strong affection springs up, to which the outer world sees no objection. Robert goes to Germany to study medicine, and returns about the time that Agnes finishes her education, to claim his bride. But, before giving her consent to their marriage, Aunt Eleanor deems it necessary to impart to each of the young people a terrible 80 LIVING FEMALE WEITERS OP THE SOUTH. family secret, which might forever preclude the possibility of their being united. Eobert determines to make Agnes his wife at all hazards, and the whole weight of the inevitable sacrifice falls upon her. The finger of God had placed an impassable barrier between them, and she had no alternative but to part from him. An opportunity occurs for Agnes to accompany some other relatives to Italy, where a life of trial and intense mental anguish awaits her Her whole conduct and bearing through life, her struggles with sorrow which knows no healing and spreads like a pall over her whole existence, are depicted in a manner which shows that the author has an appreciation of genuine pathos which appeals at once to the heart of her readers ' Filia ' possesses many of the most important qualifications for a good novelist, and her faults are only those of immaturity." Mrs. Dorsey has recently written a novel that will, we think, attract great attention from the reading world and the " critics." It will be entitled " A Southern Villegiatura." REFUGEEING. On our way to Texas, Louise and her little ones, all the slaves, and I. . . . We lead the strangest life, cousin, and — ' camp out/ as they call it, every night, take our meals, gipsy-fashion, by the roadside. We have tents — Louise and I ; but the negroes threw away their tents as too cumbrous, and they content themselves with bowers, or lairs, built up of pine branches. It is very picturesque. We stop for the night, usually at sunset, near a stream of water. The wagons are drawn up in rows ; children, old women, and bed- clothes emptied out of them, and then such a motley scene of confusion you could not imagine — everybody so busy ; our tents hoisted while Louise and I sit on a log or fallen tree-trunk, and survey the excited multitude of ne- groes building up their green booths, shaking out their blankets, rattling skillets and frying-pans over the numerous fires which spring up as if by magic. Louise showed me the ' fire-horn ' of the negroes, a small end of cow's-horn filled with half-burned cotton lint, and a jack-knife and a piece of common flint. The children race about like mad things, joyful to escape from the confinement of the wagon. Louise's little ones play with the tiny darkies ; she does not pretend to keep them asunder. ' The little negroes are not wicked,' she says, in answer to my remarks on this point. ' They are very good to my children, and I like my little ones to love these little slaves. Why, / love the poor creatures, Lucia.' And so she does. Every evening she goes about among her slaves, seeing after the sickly and delicate ones. S AEAH A. DOESE Y. 81 GOVERNOR ALLEN. " Allen was singularly earnest in nature. His intellect was very quick and bright. If a jest or an amusing anecdote was repeated to him, he would seize the point instantly, and his merry laugh would ring out with all the enjoyment of a child. But he had himself no innate sense of humor, no appreciation of what Mr. Kuskin calls ' the grotesque.' The simplicity of his nature, on this point, was amusing, and produced, sometimes in those who loved him most, a sort of tender, wondering, smiling pity ; because, from the lack of this inherent consciousness of the ludicrous, he was some- times betrayed into the assumption of positions that in other men would have been ridiculous. The incongruity, however, never striking him, he would do and say peculiar things, that would make people smile, with such entire bonhommie, such singleness of purpose, honesty of heart, and open warmth of expression, as Sir William Hamilton expresses it, 'such outness' of truth, and goodness, such high ideal perception of romantic sentiment, and so much clever, shrewd, practical, intellectual ability shining through everything, that, while he was often peculiar, frequently amusing, he never was absurd or frivolous ! Though sometimes he seemed vain, he was never affected. He was honest even in his foibles. If he had had any sense of humor, he would not have seemed vain. People that are gifted with a quick perception of wit and humor, instinctively avoid placing themselves in what they fancy might be ' a ridiculous position.'' Their vanity is deep, perhaps, but it is hidden. It is a sensitive nerve, that warns them, and preserves them from peculiarity. They are sensitive to ridicule, and fear being 'laughed at.' Allen never had that fear; he never for an instant supposed anybody would laugh at him. He liked the badinage and railleries of a friend ; they amused him, even at his own expense. Allen never saw anything amusing in his making a desperate charge at Shiloh, with his head bound up in white cotton ! He considered it all en regie. It was the best to be done, under the circum- stances ! " THE LAURIES AT HOME. (From " Lucia Dare.") "The 'Charmer,' for so was fancifully named the boat that had transported Lucian up the broad river, reached Natchez just at sunset. Lucian found a carriage and servants of Mr. Laurie's waiting for him at the landing ' under the hill.' When the carriage — it was an open brette (the fashionable afternoon carriage for driving at Natchez) — reached the top of the long hill. at least five hundred feet in height, round which the road wound on an inclined plane up to Natchez 'on the hill,' Lucian, chancing to look behind him, could 11 82 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. not refrain from uttering an exclamation at the beauty of the view. The coachman, thinking that Lucian spoke to him, checked his horses. Lucian stood up in the carriage and looked down to the river, rolling its vast volume of waters at the foot of the bluffs. The village of Natchez, under the hill, was clustered close to the water's edge ; the bluffs rose precipitously, garnished with pine-trees, and locusts, and tufted grasses ; the vista here terminated in Brown's beautiful gardens, gay with flower-beds and closely clipped hedges. Far away over the river stretched the broad emerald plain of Louisiana, level with the stream, extending for many, many miles, its champaign chequered with groups of white plantation-houses, spotted with groves of trees, rich in autumnal beauty, glowing with crimson, gold, and green, softened by veils of long gray moss. This plain was dotted with lovely lakes, whose waters shone in the slanting rays of the declining sun like so many great rubies in a setting of smaragdus. The sun went down quickly, as he does at sea, a round, red fire-ball, while light splendid clouds of purple, pink, lilac, and gray on the blue, blue heavens refracted the ascending, slender, quivering rays of the disappearing orb, the type of Deity in all natural religions, the Totem of the Natchez Indians. "The 'Charmer' was moving off, under full head of steam, up the river, and a number of skiffs and small boats were plying about over the broad Mississippi. Lucian gazed with delight on all this beauty ; then seeing the night coming on fast, he bade the coachman drive on. They had some dis- tance to go — nearly two miles out of the suburbs — before they could reach their destination. They drove rapidly up the streets of the village, for the town itself was scarcely more than through the suburbs, of handsome resi- dences, whose gardens, all adjoining and dovetailed into each other, almost realized the descriptions of Damascus, that queen of the desert, with its triple chain of gardens, its necklaces of 'paradises.' Lucian was confused and excited by the rapid motion of the carriage, rushing on through acres of bloom, perfume, foliage, and verdure ; passing here and there the glimmering white pillars of stately houses, in most of which lamps began already to burn and glow, and throw out long, narrow shafts of penetrating light on the darkness, glittering through the glossy shining leaves of the evergreen lauri-mundi, the native almond-laurel, and casting a cheering radiance over the wayfarer as he passed along. Notes of music, and singing of sweet voices, and the gay laughter of little children, sounded on his ear and died into silence instantaneously as the carriage rolled by. " Beloved city — bright city of 'the Sun!' — how often have I paced with child's feet the road that Lucian was now travelling over, and listened, as he did, but more lingeringly, to the sounds of gentle human life stirring within thy peaceful homes ! How often have I thanked God for my beautiful child- hood's home — for my precious Southern land — for its sunshine, its verdure, its forests, its flowers, its perfume ; but, oh ! above all, for the loving, refined, intelligent, gentle race of people it was my great, my priceless privilege to SAEAH A. DORSEY. 83 be born among — a people worthy to live with — yes, icorthij to die for. The stern besom of war has swept over you, beloved Natchez. Your fairest homes have been desolated, your lovely gardens are now only remembrances. Your family circles are broken up ; your bravest sons are sleeping in the dust of death, or weeping tears of bitterness in exile ; your daughters, bowed down with penury and grief, are mourning beside their darkened firesides ; your joyous households transferred to other and kindlier lands ; the forms of my kindred faded into phantoms of the past; strangers sit now in the place that once was mine ; but yet thou art lovely, still lovely in thy ruin, in thy desolation. City of my heart — city of my love — city of my childish joy. Oh, city of my dead ! " The carriage stopped suddenly at a gate, the footman swung it open, the two leaves flew back with a clang, the carriage proceeded at a slower pace through an avenue, or rather wound through ' a piece of woods ' that an Englishman would call a park. It was almost a hundred acres of primeval forest-trees, under which the red-man had often danced, consisting for the most part of oaks, — white, red, and water oaks, — with mixture of hickory, gum, maples, magnolias, and the cucumber-tree, with its umbrella-like top, its immense leaf, and the enormous white vase seated in the centre of radi- ating foliage like a huge chalice of perfume, handsomer even than its sister, the magnolia grandiflora. " Natchez is in the temperate, not the tropical zone ; so there is exaggeration in the fanciful descriptions of its climate and productions, as given by Cha- teaubriand and Lady Georgiana Fullerton ; but it is a warm, bright, sun- shiny place, with marked and changeful, though not extreme transitions of temperature and seasons. Its pleasant, gently rolling hills and dells are laughing and gay with blossoming trees and shrubs ; the old earth breathes forth flowers from every rough pore — not heavy, stupefying, deeply-colored tropical bloom — but great luxuriance of fresh, delicately tinted blossoms of all hues and forms, spreading successively their capricious, flaunting beauty, mantling the old mother anew with every morning's light. The wild flowers there are worthy of being the subject of Adelbert Dietrich's delicate pencil, or of Miss Prescott's glowing word-painting. One need only describe faith- fully what exists, not attempting to heighten or exaggerate with human imagination or invention what God has made so lovely, to paint attractive pictures of those ' magnolia ' hills and of the park through which Lucian was now being driven. " When the carriage entered the smaller circle of fencing that enclosed the house and gardens, the noise of the wheels grating on the gravel of the drive caused the heavy doors of the portal to fly open, and Margaret and Jenny, forestalling the decorous servant, emerged from the gloom and advanced to welcome the traveller. Margaret looked like a fairy standing in the moon- light, her red-brown hair clouded about her; and Jenny, who was as usual all dusk, except the curd-like teeth and shining eyes, might have passed very 84 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. well for her attendant dwarf. Jenny was small of her age and had elfish ways. Her peculiarities .of appearance were heightened on this occasion by costume : she sported a large white apron with a wide ruffle, much too long for her, really borrowed from Betsy for the purpose of adornment ; a white handkerchief tied on her head, turban-fashion, tall as a dervish's cap, a long strand of blue glass beads around her neck, a pair of immense gold ear-rings, and her broadest and widest grins. " ' This way, Lucian, this way/ said Margaret ; ' not up the staircase ; ' leading him, as she spoke, beneath the flight of stairway which led up into the gallery of the first story. Margaret led him then through a hali level with the ground, paved with black and white marble, which ran under the arch of the stairways. " ' Here they all are, in here. You know this is such a queer old Spanish house ! You '11 soon find out all about it, though it is puzzling at first.' "The newly arrived guest was kindly received by Mr. Laurie and Annie, who were sitting alone near a blazing wood fire in the family parlor. The nights were too chilly for the blind man, even for that early period of the fall. " ' Come to the fire, Lucian,' he said ; ' one gets cool riding, and this old house of Guyoso's is damp as a basement, almost.' "Lucian looked around with some curiosity at the rather old-fashioned, quaint furnishing of the apartment they were sitting in it. It was hand- some, but not new. On the wall just opposite hung the portrait of a man in full armor — a dark, oval face, handsome and swarthy. Annie saw his glance. ' That,' she said, taking up a lamp and holding it so that the light could fall on the picture, — ' that is a portrait of Bienville, by Champagne. Bienville was a relative of my family. Here is another of Guyoso, the Span- ish Governor of Mississippi.' " ' Has n't he got a long nose ? ' interrupted Margaret, disrespectfully. " ' Here 's another of Stephen Minor, who was second in command under Spanish domination.' " ' Do you like his uniform, Lucian ? ' asked Margaret. " ' It is all red, with yellow facings, and see the big star on his breast ! ' " ' Here is some gold plate belonging to Yidal, that he brought from Spain to the colony. His whole dinner-service was gold — is gold, I should say; his descendants, our neighbors, still use it on grand occasions.' " ' And who is this ? ' asked Lucian, as he examined a small miniature hanging below the portrait of Bienville. "'That,' said Annie, 'is a likeness of our grand-uncle, Philip Noland, who disappeared in 1807, and was never heard of again. He was a lieuten- ant in the navy of the United States ; his wife lost her reason from grief at his prolonged absence. She had just been married — was barely more than a child in years at the time she eloped with and married Philip against the will of her family. We have some of his letters still extant. He seems to have been an intellectual, but not a good man, from all I can learn. His MARIE BUSH NELL WILLIAMS. 85 wife still survives ; she is over sixty years old now, and has been harmlessly insane since she was sixteen. She lives here, Lucian, in one wing of the house. You may probably see her. Though she is constantly attended by a faithful nurse, and can rarely be persuaded to quit her room, or even her couch, sometimes she becomes restless and wanders over the house : her mind is usually in a mazed state. We do not confine her at all ; it has never been necessary ; we only watch her ; she goes where she likes usually. Patty is always with her, but Aunt Jane is so old she does not want to go about much ; she dislikes strangers. It is one never-ceasing cry from her lips after her husband. No matter what she may be talking about, in a little while she begins to moan for Philip and ask where he is — to wonder that he does not come. " Philip stays so long ! he never used to," is her constant cry. To think that has been going on for fifty years ! The love of the woman has survived everything — youth, beauty, reason. Human hearts are fearful things to play or trifle with.' " M : MRS. MARIE BUSHNELL WILLIAMS. RS. M. B. WILLIAMS is a native of Baton Rouge, La. Her father, Judge Charles Bushnell, came to this State from Massa- chusetts within the first decade after the purchase of Louisiana had been accomplished, and in due time married into a Creole family of substantial endowments and high repute. Judge Bushnell was well and favorably known at the bar of Louisiana. He was a gentleman of great legal erudition ; but, though devoted to his profession, he found time to cultivate the general branches of literature, and to par- ticipate in their elegant enjoyments. His favorite daughter, Marie, early manifested a studious disposi- tion. She was a fair, bright-eyed, spiritual girl, of more than ordi- nary promise. Though slight in figure, she was compactly formed. Her features were cast in nature's finest mould, and her clear dark eye and smooth fair brow were radiant with intellectual light. When this description would apply to Miss Bushnell, she became the deve of Alexander Dimitry, whose fame as a scholar has since become world-wide. The management of a pupil so richly dowered with God's best gifts was a pleasing task to the professor, and he soon imparted to her not only the fresh instruction which she required, but a deep and profound reverence for learning akin to that which he felt himself. This relation of teacher and scholar continued for several years, and was not severed till Miss Bushnell became a complete mistress of 86 LIVING FEMALE WHITE RS OF THE. SOUTH. all the principal modern languages. Indeed, the range of her studies was quite extended, and we hazard very little in saying that she was, when they were completed, the most learned woman in America. At length, when she had rounded into perfect womanhood, physi- cally as well as mentally, the honor of an alliance with her was sought by many of the proudest and wealthiest gentlemen of Louisiana. The successful suitor proved to be Josiah P. Williams, a planter of Rapides, and from the date of her marriage, in 1843, she resided near Alexan- dria, on Red River, with the exception of a brief experience o£ refugee- life in Texas when the war was at its height, until 1869, when she removed to Opelousas, La. As a wife, and the mother of an interesting family of children, Mrs. Williams performed her whole duty. But though the domestic vir- tues found in her a true exponent, they by no means lessened her interest in literary pursuits. For her own amusement and that of a choice coterie of literary friends — her constant visitors — she was accustomed to weave together legends of Louisiana, both in prose and verse, which soon established her reputation among those who were admitted into the charmed circle. She, however, had no fancy for the plaudits of the world. For years she refused to appear in print, but when at length a few of her articles found their way into literary journals, she was at once admitted to an assured position among judges as a singer and a teacher. With a vast fund of acquired knowl- edge; a mind original, philosophic, and sympathetic; a fancy at once brilliant and beautifully simple, added to a mastery of language when force of style was found necessary, and an easy, happy facility in all the lighter phases of literary effort, — Mrs. M. B. Williams will yet, when the world knows her merits and does her justice, take her place among- the first of the distinguished women of America. We have not before us any complete list of the productions of her pen, nor shall we attempt any critical analysis of those specimens which are to follow this article. They shall be left to the good taste and judgment of our readers, with a full confidence that they cannot fail to please. We shall merely say, in conclusion, that Mrs. Williams suffered severely by the reverses which marked the latter years of the "lost cause." The death of her husband was her first great sorrow: the destruction of her beautiful residence, "The Oaks," by the vandal fol- lowers of Banks in his Red River raid; the wounding of one son; the untimely death of another ; the material misfortunes which reduced MARIE BUSHNELL WILLIAMS. 87 her from affluence to poverty, — all followed in such disheartening succession, that few indeed could have borne up under such a series of calamities. But her faith was strong. She could look religiously through the storms of the present into the calm and glory of that peace which is to come. Few have ever met reverses with greater fortitude, or fought the battle of life more bravely. For years past she has been a constant and valued contributor to the New Orleans "Sunday Times," and while her writings have proved her a brilliant thinker, they show no traces of egotistic grief. The sorrows by which she has been surrounded are mourned by her only as sorrows common to the whole desolated South. Mrs. Williams has in preparation, to be published in a volume, " Tales and Legends of Louisiana," in a lyrical poem — a poem which we hope will introduce tier talents to the whole country, making her name familiar as a " household word." As a translator from the French, German, and Spanish, Mrs. Wil- liams is deservedly successful, her translations from the German lan- guage being very felicitous and faithful. 1868. Mark F. Bigney. PLEASANT HILL. Eoll my chair in the sunlight, Ninetta, Just here near the slope of the hill, Where the red bud its soft purple clusters Droops down to the swift-flowing rill. See the golden-hued wreaths of the jasmine, Like stars, through yon coppice of pine, While the fringe-tree its white floating banners Waves out from the blossoming vine. How the notes of the mocking-bird, ringing From hillside and woodland and vale, Greet the earliest flush of the morning With trills of their happy love-tale ! Ah ! beauty and music and gladness, Ye follow the footsteps of spring ; The breeze, in its pure balmy freshness, Seems fanned from some bright angel's wing. LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. Look yonder and see, little daughter, Where locust-trees scatter their bloom, Have the pansies, in velvet- eyed sadness, Peeped yet through the turf near the tomb? Nay, then, turn not aside, my Ninetta ; The grave of our Walter should gleam In the earliest flush of the spring-time — The glow of the autumn's last beam. For he loved them, the flowers and sunshine, The birds, and all beautiful things ; But he loved best the dim purple pansy That over his resting-place springs. Ah ! just there, where that laurel is glancing, Just there, in that sink of the dell, Came a surge of the deadliest combat, Sweeping on in its terrible swell. And I saw him, my darling, my treasure, My boy with the sunlighted hair ; I could see the proud sweep of his banner, And the smile that his lip used to wear! Ah ! he led them, how bravely, Ninetfca ! His voice, with its silver tones, pealed Through the hurtling storm of the battle. As it swept o'er the blood-streaming field. I watched a strange wavering movement, I watched from yon low cottage-door, Till a riderless horse bounded upward — ■ Then I lay with my face to the floor. There he lies now, my sunny-haired darling, My boy with the frank, fearless eyes ! And I fancy to-day that they watched me From the depths of the shadowless skies. Ah! watching his sorrowful mother, , And watching this sorrowful land, That his heart's crimson life-tide had moistened For the tread of a fanatic band. MARIE BUSHNELL WILLIAMS. 89 What ! in tears ? Ah ! my gentle Ninetta, Your mother has mourned for her child With none of that womanly weakness That softens an anguish too wild. But I look at his grave in the sunlight, And my heart in its radiance grows strong, For he died in the flush of his triumph, And not in this tempest of wrong. Yes, he fell in the heat of the battle, Nor dreamed of the thraldom and shame Which have blasted this fair Southern valley With breath of their ravening flame. And his grave, oh ! thank God, is a freeman's ! Ay, freely the flowers may wave ; No foeman those garlands of honor May tear from the sleep of the brave. Ah ! take me within, my Ninetta ; My gallant young soldier sleeps well; And ere the first glow of the summer, I too must lay down in the dell. [THE LEGEND OF DON RODERICK. In the ancient annals of Spain, Don Roderick, "ultimo Buy de los Godos" occupies a conspicuous position. The royal city of Toledo was his abode, and strange indeed are the marvels told of it by the old monkish chroniclers. In this city were the necromantic tower of "Pleasure's Pain" and the won- drous "Cave of Hercules," the latter of which extended from the centre of the city beneath the bed of the Tagus and for three leagues beyond. Toledo is declared to have been founded by Tubal, the son of Japhet and grandson of Noah ; but whether this be so or not, its existence certainly runs back to a very remote period, and its history is full of marvels. Around it are curious vaults and subterraneous habitations, supposed to have been the retreat of the inhabitants in case of invasion or through fear of floods. "Such a pre- caution," says the worthy Don Pedro de Roxas, in his History of Toledo, " was natural enough to the first Toledans, seeing that they founded their city shortly after the deluge, while the memory of it was still fresh in their minds." In the posthumous works of Washington Irving, published by his relative, 12 90 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. Pierre M. Irving, the curiosities of Toledo are treated of at considerable length, connected as they are with the legend of Don Roderick. The place had always a necromantic tendency, the diabolical mysteries of magic having been taught there for many centuries. This was indeed so much the case, that the neighboring nations defined magic as the Arte Toledana. Irving gleans from the venerable Agapida many mysteries relative to the Magic Tower of Toledo, which he relates with great unction. The tower, he says, " was round, and of great height and grandeur, erected upon a lofty rock, and surrounded by crags and precipices. The foundation was sup- ported by four brazen lions, each taller than a cavalier on horseback. The walls were built of small pieces of jasper and various colored marbles, not larger than a man's hand, so subtly jointed, however, that but for their different hues they might have been taken for one entire stone. They were arranged with marvellous cunning, so as to represent battles and warlike deeds of times and heroes long passed away; and the whole surface was so admirably polished that the stones were as lustrous as glass, and re- flected the rays of the sun with such resplendent brightness as to dazzle all beholders." We have written the foregoing as an appropriate introduction to a poem, entitled "The Enchanted Tower of Toledo," written by Mrs. M. B. Williams, one of the very best of the female writers of America. This poem was writ- ten at "The Oaks," a beautiful place in Rapides Parish, near Alexandria, in June, 1861. Since then, The Oaks, and the delightful home to which they gave their name, have been swept away by the storm of war that passed over our beloved land, and nothing remains of them now save sad and desolate reminders of the past. Soon after a notice appeared in this journal of "Irving's Spanish Papers and other Miscellanies," Mrs. Williams wrote to us as follows: "By the way, what is that legend of Don Roderick, mentioned in the late collection of Irving's fugitive pieces ? I hope he has not anticipated me, for in 1861 I wrote a poem (never yet published) on one of the adventures of that monarch, which I found in some musty old Spanish legends, never translated in this country." With a modesty as creditable to her as her genius, Mrs. "Williams adds : " If the great master has anticipated me, my work will lose its only merit, originality." On this point we feel inclined to take issue with the writer. Her poem loses nothing by comparison with the felicitous prose description by him whom she has reverently termed "the great master." Indeed, the stately march of her rhythmic periods brings the romance of the old legend into far bolder relief than it could possibly be presented by the best of prose. — Editor N. 0. Times.] MARIE BUSHNELL WILLIAMS. 91 THE ENCHANTED TOWER OF TOLEDO. "En este torre los Reyes Cada uno hecho un canado, Porque lo ordinare ansi Hercules el afamado, Que gano primero a Espana De Gerion gran tirano." {Romances neuvamento sacados Lorenco de Sepulveda.) " Here we meet thee, King Rodrigo ! outside of the city's wall, For the words my lips must utter on no other ear can fall ; Thou descendant of the Godos, crowned and sceptred King of Spain, Thou must listen to the warders of the Tower called Pleasure's Pain. "In the first days of this kingdom, when Alcmena's godlike son From Geryon's bloody thraldom all this pleasant land had won, Midst Toledo's orange-bowers he by strong enchantment's might Raised this tower from base to summit in one single summer's night ! " Earthly hammers were not sounded, but a passing rush of wings, And the sword of bright Orion down its starry scabbard flings ; Men grew pale, and women fainted, for the midnight air was filled With such sounds that earthly daring in each mortal breast was stilled. " But the dewy moon dawned brightly, and the giant's task was done ; Pale he looked and sighed right sadly in that golden summer sun : ' I have locked the Tower of Magic — bid each future king of Spain Bolt and bar the dreadful secret, lest he win a bitter pain.' "There no human foot must wander — there no human eye must scan, Till the tower and secret perish from the memory of man ; Fate may send some daring spirit : let him pause and ponder long Ere he does his name and country such a deadly, grievous wrong. "King Rodrigo, we have spoken ! never did we speak in vain, For each king has left his token on the Tower of Pleasure's Pain ; Twelve good locks are on the portal ; thine will make the fateful one. Sire ! thy royal hand must place it ere the setting of the sun." Laugheth loud the King Rodrigo — " Certes, thou hast care for me ; But these marvels, gentle warder, I am strangely pressed to see ; Never spell of darkest danger but some Christian knight's devoir Was to break the curst enchantment, tho' 'twere locked in magic bar." 92 LIVING FEMALE WEITEKS OF THE SOUTH. Looketh round the King Eodrigo : " Knights, ye fight for love and laAvs, And ye deal your blows right stoutly for the sake of Holy Cross ; But to-day we war with magic in the Tower of Pleasure's Pain ; He whose heart beats scant measure, let him shun the coward's shame." Looketh up the King Eodrigo ; still his haughty crest of pride Sought not aid from earth or heaven, but the fears of both defied ; And his bright eye laughed right gayly, and his lips curled scornfully, As he marked his comrades shudder, and their heads droop mournfully. "Woe unto thee, King Eodrigo ! woe to all the Spanish land, When the sacred guard is broken by a monarch's impious hand ! " And the hoary warder kneeleth, with his gray head in the dust : " Woe to him whose path of power lieth o'er a trampled trust ! " " King, we crave thee pause and hearken." Loud the stately footstep rung, Louder still the scornful laughter — " We must work ere set of sun ; And we pray thee, pious warder, tho' thou lend'st no helping hand, Not with idle fears of dotage thus to daunt my gallant band." On the brazen lions couchant rose the /tower like a dream ; Jasper walls and diamond turrets lave the sunset's latest beam ; Twelve good locks are on the portal, and, though struck with might and main, Morning's sun rose on the workers ere the inner court they gain. There unrolls the strangest vision : pictured walls surround a dome, Anadyomene smiles downward from her shell upon the foam, And the builder's twelve great labors all in precious stones are wrought, Every figure on the fabric with a weird-like motion fraught. On a couch of Indian iv'ry rests a giant's marble form, And upon its lifeless bosom, lo ! a lettered scroll is borne, Golden-lettered, and it readeth to the king's astonished eyes : " Woe to thee, O reckless monarch ! thou hast gained the couch of sighs. " Thou, O traitor ! thou art fated for this kingdom's overthrow ; Thou, whose impious hand would conquer secrets which no man should know, Eead thy fate in yonder casket ; let the magic web unfold ; Man, thy kingly state must nerve thee till the dreadful tale is told." From a casket, gem-enwoven, floated forth a web of white, And upon its snowy surface, lo ! a pictured summer night ; Sweepeth broad the silvery Tagus, and the shadows of the trees Eest upon the starlit waters, rippled by the evening breeze. MAEIE B U S H N E L L WILLIAMS. 93 And 'neath orange-boughs, dew-laden, drooping to the water's side, Stands a maiden idly dreaming, casting flowers o'er the tide ; Seeking in the stars above her, in the river at her feet, Symbols of that first dear fancy whose divine unrest is sweet. Scarce a child, and scarce a woman, yet a woman's stately grace Lent pride to the broad, white forehead ; though, on the enchanting face Lingered still the smile of childhood, that she learned before her speech, When her visions were as sinless as the blossoms in her reach. But a moment — and the thicket parts before a heavy tread ; Shrinks the maiden, and her features quiver with a mortal dread ; Mail-clad knight now stands before her, with his barred visor down, But above his head appeareth semblance of a golden crown. Oh, the pantomime of terror which the magic canvas gave ! How the mail-clad knight low pleaded ! how the maiden seemed to rave ! Till, with gesture of defiance, like a hawk upon its prey, In his grasp he seized the maiden, and the picture passed away. " By God's truth," cried King Rodrigo, and his anger, like a flame, Reddened, and he clenched his gauntlet — "By God's truth, 'tis bitter shame! Who the traitor knight that ventures thus to do this deadly wrong ? "Would to heaven he stood before me ; knightly spurs were his too long." Woe ! woe ! for the lost Florinda ; ye have read her piteous tale ; Woe for the dishonored maiden ! woe for the dishonored knight ! Spain ! O Spain ! thy days are numbered ! sinks thy fame in endless night ! " Traitor ! ravisher ! Rodrigo — read thy kingdom's blasted fate ! " Then the web again unrolleth — lo ! the Moors are at the gate, And the Christian tocsin soundeth, but the Paynim horde pour in ; Holy cross and knightly helmet sinking with the battle's din. Shrill the Tecbir's war-cry ringeth, kettle-drum and atabal But above the din of battle rose a woman's frenzied call : " Curses on thee, King Rodrigo ! to revenge my deadly wrong, I have called the Paynim army, and the Crescent waxeth strong. "King Rodrigo ! King Rodrigo ! on thy soul the curse be laid Of a Christian maiden ruined, of a Christian land betrayed. God will judge between us, monarch, for the closing day draws near, And before His throne of justice,, lo ! I bid thee, king, appear ! " 94 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. Then, with wild, unearthly laughter, down the magic web was sent ; Sounds of forms of nightmare terror through the dim court came and went ; Standeth firm the King Rodrigo — on their knees his knightly band — Yet his mortal terror speaketh in blanched brow and trembling hand. " Ha, good knights ! ye seem too fearful ; yet, if magic web speaks truth, Here stand I a traitor monarch, faithless knight, and lost to ruth. St. Iago ! but the mummers played their part with right good will, For I hear the Moorish cymbals, and the woman's shriek rings still ! " And his trusty sword he lifted : " While this brand my arm can wield, I can conquer all these omens in the first good battle-field ! " Loud then scoffed the King Rodrigo : "Book of Fate shall ne'er enclose Such a page of shame and sorrow — not for me such train of woes." Forth from the enchanted tower quickly passed the knightly train, Crashed the iron doors behind them, and the locks sprung on again ; With a torch within its talons, sweeping round in circling flight, Lo ! a golden eagle lighteth on the tower's topmost height. With its wings it fanned the fire, till the rushing flames burst forth, And a jet of burning crimson sprang up to the farthest north ; Quick replies the lightning flashes — loud the answering thunder rolls ; Downward sink the couchant lions — like a scroll the tower unfolds. Deep within its burning centre, lo ! a funeral banner stood, And upon its midnight surface naught save one great wave of blood ; But the wave surged up and downward, till a crimson, fiery flash Swept the tower from base to summit, and it sank with heavy crash. Years of pride, of shame, of anguish o'er the Spanish land have passed, And in yonder field of battle Christian rule hath struck its last. By the Guadalete's waters, discrowned, dying, and alone, Roderick lies, his bitter anguish far too deep for tear or moan. O'er his dying vision floateth all that wondrous web of fate — Falsest knight, dishonored monarch sueth Heaven's grace too late, For above the din of battle rose that summons high and clear : "God shall judge between us, traitor ! — at His throne, O King, appear ! " The Oaks, June 19, 1861. MARIE BUSH NELL WILLIAMS. 95 THE LAST WILD FLOWER. Down in sheltered hollows, or by hillsides, blooms, from November to the first severe cold of December, the last wild flower of our Louisiana forest — the saponaria or gentian. There can be nothing more exquisite than the clear sapphire of these fairy bells, rising from the sombre brown of dead grass and faded leaves. So bright, so intense in hue, that it needs little stretch of imagination to fancy them flakes of the clear blue sky fallen on earth. We have seen them, when the winter has been early, rising from snow-drifts, their tender, delicate corolla peering above the wintry shroud, a very eye of hope, shining with brighter and purer lustre through the chill and gloom of earth. Flowers sometimes read us a lesson that needs no headings to make it comprehensible to our hearts, for its text was written in the garden of Eden; but in the flush of spring, the plenty and gorgeousness of summer, this lesson is incomplete. Its highest moral reaches us through the storms and dark- ness of winter, when we shrink and shiver in cutting blasts, which seem to give fresh vitality to some of the frailest and most delicate creations on God's earth. The idea of an Omnipresent protection, adjusting itself to every need, somehow presents itself to the mind, and we shelter and nestle under the very thought. The gentian, too, always a favorite, is now to us a reminiscence of an event which, two winters ago, made us very sad. In journeying to and fro across the Sabine, one cold day in December, we met on its banks, at Burr's Ferry, a refugee train, which, like ourself, was detained on the Louisiana side until some repairs had been made on the ferry-boat, to enable us to make the "traverse" with safety in that tempest- uous weather. Any one who has ever crossed the Sabine in wind and storm knows well what a dreary, desolate, dangerous crossing it is. Primitive enough, too, with its ropes stretched from bank to bank, by which the ferry- man steadies his boat and shapes its course. Should it break, down would sweep the frail craft into the wild reaches of the river, and, nine chances to ten, either upset or sink there. A common danger establishes an immediate sympathy between utter strangers, and by the time the leaky ferry-boat was ready for its first load we knew the names, the hopes, the fears of the whole party, and even their destination. We entered, too, with the liveliest interest into the solicitude of an aged couple for the comfort of their invalid daughter — an only child. She was a beautiful girl of about seventeen or eighteen, and one glance at her pallid, sharpened features, told us that she was nearer the end of her last journey than her devoted parents seemed to realize. We had heard of her before, — "the Lily of A ," as she was called, — heard of her beauty, 96 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. accomplishments, and wealth, and we listened with profound compassion to the tale told by one of her friends — a tale which showed how little all the rich gifts of nature or fortune had availed to shield her from that common lot of humanity — sorrow. We have no time or space to dwell on particulars. Like many others in Louisiana, where the war was carried on in the very yards or parks of the planters, she had seen her lover, the gallant Captain F , fall in a skir- mish not ten paces from her door. The shock, coming upon a constitution more than delicate, had hastened its decay, and the Lily of A faded slowly beneath one of those inscrutable maladies that have hitherto perplexed and baffled all medical skill. More from the restless fancy of an invalid than from any fear of an invad- ing army, she had persuaded her parents to join the refugees from the neigh- borhood, and they were now en route for Mexico. She was made as comfortable on the leaky boat as circumstances would admit, but the waves dashed over the low sides and saturated her wrappings. In moving her hand restlessly over the side of the boat, a handsome emerald ring dropped into the river. She held up her hand with a faint smile. "All," she said; "I might have made this sacrifice to destiny with a better grace some years ago. It was exceeding happiness that always sought to propitiate fate; but I gave up my treasures long since." And she shivered and complained of the piercing cold as a wave, larger than the rest, swept over the boat, almost swamping it. With difficulty we reached the other side, and warming ourselves by a large fire built by some German emigrants who were camped on the bank, we then made preparations to pass the night in an uninhabited hut by the roadside. A large fire was kindled on the hearth, blankets hung against the walls to keep out the wind, and every means in our power used to shield the invalid at least from exposure. But she insisted on lying near the open door, gazing across the swollen, turbid stream at the gloomy pine-forest on the Louisiana side. Her large, sad eyes filled by degrees with tears, but by a strong effort she kept them back, and gently but firmly resisted ail her parents' entreaties to be moved from her exposed situation. "Let me look a little longer," she pleaded; "remember, I may never see it again. Do you know, I understand now those Polish exiles near A , who had brought a little piece of their native soil to lay over their hearts when they died. Pour avoir encore des reves de la patrie, they said. Dear Louisiana, I never knew before how I loved you." And she lay back ex- hausted for some moments. Suddenly her eyes were attracted by a flower growing on the sloping bank near the water's edge. " Get it for me," she cried, eagerly. We plucked it, a long, beautiful spray of gentian, and laid it in her hand. " How beautiful J how more than beautiful !" she murmured ; "so trium- phant over blight, decay, and even death itself; so redolent of hope and pro- MARIE BUSHNELL WILLIAMS. 97 mise; so full, too, of the old happy time." And she pressed it passionately to her lips with low, indistinct murmurs. "Mamma" — turning to her mother — " do you remember the little tuft of gentian near the summer-house at Bienvenue, how it blossomed through the frost ; and when a heavy fall of snow at last destroyed it, the blue of the petals was as bright, its texture as silky as if living and growing? Beautiful Bienvenue ! I almost wish I had not left it. Do you think the orange-tree at my window is dead to-day, for this is a piercing wind? " Her mother turned aside, almost unable to answer. " Thank you," she said to us, " for the gentian. Flowers are my passion, and this one, coming to me to-day, amid all this dreariness, seems to have brought back the blue sky, hidden by those heavy storm-clouds." As night came on, shiverings, and at last delirium, seemed to point to a speedy termination of the young life that was now visibly ebbing fast away in that lonely log hut on the Sabine. Dumb and paralyzed by their crush- ing grief, the parents sat beside her, while pitying friends employed them- selves in kind offices. The dying girl seemed unconscious of all her sur- roundings ; she was once more in her Louisiana home, babbling of the flow- ers she had loved and tended, and of the little gentian by the summer-house. No sad or troubled memory seemed to intrude on her peaceful, happy visions. The dead might have been with her, but they were once more living and loving. From the tents of the German emigrants near, at times swelled up some song or chant, which seemed to harmonize with the sick girl's dreams, for she would smile faintly and listen. The deep, mellow voices at last struck into that saddest of all sad melodies — " Die langen, langen Tag." Some memory must have been evoked from the profound depths of that wail of a breaking heart, for she moved restlessly, and whispered, " My lone watch-keeping." But in a second the peaceful look came back, and half raising the gentian she still held convulsively in her hand, the broken Lily of A was among the fadeless flowers of the Eternal River. Thence comes it that the gentian, to us; is full of hope and memory. 13 ANNA PEYRE DINNIES. THIS accomplished daughter of the South, known so long as a poet by the sweet, wild title of " Moina," * was born in Georgetown, South Carolina. Her father, W. F. Shackelford, an eminent lawyer of that State, removed, with his youthful daughter, from that city to Charleston, where he placed her under the care of the Misses Ramsay, daughters of the celebrated Dr. D. Ramsay. Inheriting from her father a talent for poetry and a delicacy of taste, she also received from him the en- couragement of her youthful genius, and the development of her refined and graceful word-painting. At the early age of fourteen, her young heart was given to J. C. Dinnies, a gentleman of New York, but then settled in St. Louis, Mo., and, preferring the white flowers of true affection and manly worth to the lonely laurel crown, " Moina " encircled her fair brow with an orange wreath, and her young life with a true, devoted love. Though married to one capable of monopolizing all her thoughts and worthy of all her young heart's devotion,still, in her hours of leisure, Mrs. Dinnies found a delight in expressing in words the deep feelings of happiness that welled up from her poetic soul ; and sweet as the notes of a happy bird were the songs which issued from the serene and quiet home of the youthful poet-wife. Many of her published pieces were written before her marriage, though they still hold a high and honored place in American litera- ture. The history of the " Charnel Ship " has been read and admired by youthful hearts and sober heads ; yet few dreamed that a child had penned those thrilling words ■" which filled each heart with fear." A number of Mrs. Dinnies's most valuable manuscripts were de- stroyed by fire in St. Louis — among them a long poem, nearly finished, in six cantos, and several tales ready for publication ; but too happy to write for fame, and only caring to speak in song when feeling prompted * Mrs. Dinnies adopted the signature of " Moina " when quite young. Since the close of the war, Reverend Father Ryan, author of " The Conquered Banner," and other poems, has used the same pseudonym. 98 ANNA PEYEE DONIE8. 99 imagination or suggested subjects worthy of her pen, " Moina " sought not to retrieve the loss. In November, 1846, Mr. Dinnies removed to New Orleans, and it was during their residence in the Crescent City that there fell upon the heart and home of the poetess a shadow which, as yet, neither time nor friendship has ever brightened. To her had been given the sweet task of watching the opening mind of a lovely gifted daughter — one who inherited all her parents' nobleness and worth, and who, had she been spared, might well have shared her mother's laurels. But this bright young creature, this idol of a mother's heart, this fair reality of a poet's dream, was called in her earliest girlhood from earth to heaven. Over this broken flower, " Moina " bowed her head in an- guish ; but engraving upon her daughter's tombstone the sacred, con- soling words, " Sursum Corda" she wrote the same upon her heart. And in the sweet sad songs of " Kachel," we have seen and felt that, though a mother's heart be crushed, a poet's " soul is lifted upward " on the wings of grief and resignation. Mrs. Dinnies's poetry, like everything connected with this gifted woman, breathes of refinement and imagination, mirroring forth the purity of her heart and the high culture of her poetic nature. Always sweet and melodious, it rings at times with martial tones and thrilling eloquence, capable of arousing the soldier's enthusiasm for his country, or the fond devotion of woman for all that is good and holy. She does not deal in a profusion of words — for it seems to be her peculiar talent to find the fittest ex- pression for her beautiful ideas — thus allowing them to shine forth in all their native strength, through their graceful coloring of language. But it is at home that Mrs. Dinnies realizes her own beautiful illus- tration of the white chrysanthemum ; or rather it is in that charmed setting that the gifted poetess appears as the " peerless picture of a modest wife," beaming with love and tenderness upon her husband's home and heart, and shedding upon all who enter the circle of her influence the charms of intellect and the blessings of woman's kindly heart. In 1847 appeared the only volume Mrs. Dinnies has published. " The Floral Year," in the style of an annual, was published in Bos- ton. The volume is entirely original. Its design is novel and happy. It consists of one hundred poems, arranged in twelve collections. Each one of these illustrates a bouquet of flowers, such as may generally be culled in the garden or the green-house during its appropriate month ; 100 LIVING FEMALE WEITERS OF THE SOUTH. and the flowers in each bouquet are illustrated individually and collec- tively. Thus the charm of unity is added to the beautiful fancies and pure sentiments that are thus thrown upon the waters like a garland from the garden of the Muses. One reviewer said: "'The Floral Year' may be justly considered as a work of art throughout. By its design, the flower is adapted to the sentiment, and the sentiment to the poem. When the one is of a character that rises to passion, the other is distinguished by power of thought, feeling, and expression. But when the sentiment is of a gentle or negative sort, the poem is remarkable for its simplicity, beauty, and melody." While residing in St. Louis, in 1845, Mrs. Dinnies edited a news- paper, " The Chaplet of Mercy," for a Fair for the benefit of orphans. The contents of this paper were entirely original, and some of the most distinguished writers of the country contributed. After re- moving to New Orleans, several years elapsed without her publishing anything, except a few fugitive pieces in the newspapers. In 1854, she contributed a series of didactic articles, under the head of " Rachel's What-Not," to the " Catholic Standard," a weekly journal edited by her husband ; and also a series of " Random Readings," consisting of short extracts from various authors, with comments or reflections by herself. Just before the war, Mrs. Dinnies commenced calling in the stray children of her brain, intending to place them in some kind of order, and perhaps publish them in one or more volumes. She had revised and transcribed about twenty tales, when New Orleans was captured, and the arrest of Mr. 'Dinnies and imprisonment, by order of Gen. B. F. Butler, caused her to put aside her design for more "prosperous times. Mr. Dinnies's health — first broken during his imprisonment at Forts Jackson and Pickens — continued to decline until he became a confirmed invalid ; and her heart and thoughts were so occupied by the condition of his health, that she lost all interest in everything save the means of restoring his constitution. In a poem, written when she was little more than a child, she seemed to have a prevision of her fate. " These lines have much sweetness, and flow from a deep fountain of earnest feeling." " I could have stemmed misfortune's tide, And borne the rich one's sneer; ANNA PEYRE DINNIES. 101 Have braved the haughty glance of pride, Nor shed a single tear ; I could have smiled on every blow From Life's full quiver thrown, While I might gaze on thee, and know I should not be 'alone/' " I could — I think I could have brooked, E'en for a time, that thou Upon my fading face hadst looked With less of love than now ; For then I should at least have felt The sweet hope still my own, To win thee back, and, whilst thou dwelt On earth, not been ' alone / ' "But thus to see from day to day Thy brightening eye and cheek, And watch thy life-sands waste away, Unnumbered, slow, and meek; To meet thy look of tenderness, And catch the feeble tone Of kindness, ever breathed to bless, And feel I'll be 'alone/'— 11 To mark thy strength each hour decay, And yet thy hopes grow stronger, As filled with heavenward trust, they say, ' Earth may not claim thee longer : ' — Nay, dearest ! 'tis too much ; this heart Must break when thou art gone; It must not be — we may not part — I could not live 'alone/'" Mrs. Dinnies is a resident of the Crescent City, where she is beloved and revered by her friends. " There are few American writers whose productions have met with more uniform approbation than the poems of Anna Peyre Dinnies. Entirely free from affectation, they never offend the critic by the inflated or the meretri- cious. On the contrary, they are distinguished by the correct elegance that is the characteristic of some minds in letters, as it is the trait of high breed- ing in society. Nor does it in her appear to be the result of study or of art, but it sits gracefully upon her, as if it sprung naturally from intuition," says a writer in the " Southern Literary Messenger." 102 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. A poet, in noticing her poems, says : " They are full of feeling, expression, melody, and their words fall upon the heart like distant music, awakening the startled memories of all life's pleasant things, and flinging over the soul its fine net of captivating sounds. Her images are clear, her expression free, as if the heart itself were touched by the contemplation of its own bright and fanciful creations." The writer quoted above says : " We would style her writings the poetry of the affections. Not deficient in imagination, but abounding more in the every-day emotions of life than those which depend upon unusual events to call them into play, the heart, especially the female heart, is the instrument upon which she delights to show her skill, and its chords vibrate to her touch as freely and truly as the harp gives forth its melody to the master's prac- tised hand. "The thoughtful Shelley defines poetry to be 'the expression of the imag- ination.' To the feeling Mo'ina, it is the language of the heart. She utters its syllables in tones of sweetness, frames its sentences with the nice percep- tions of art, and speaks with the energy of deep emotion. Her style is seldom diffuse, and rarely redundant in tropes and figures. Who cannot recall to his mind the bright days of his early youth, when the keen and refined per- ceptions of the soul, with all the freshness of a vernal morn, were first awak- ened to the glories and the beauties of nature; when the universe was a great volume, every page of which was eloquent with a deep and mysterious lore, filling the whole soul with astonishment and delight; when the heart thrilled to all external influences, as the iEolian strings that are hung amid the trees respond in melody to the soft-breathed wooings of the passing zephyr? And feeling thus, the world of Moina is the heart — the heart is her universe — the heart the great volume whose pages she loves to illustrate. " The strong fountains of passion burst from their hidden depths at her command, and pour forth their floods of tenderness, disdain, or scorn. The gentle streams of sentiment rise at her behest, and flow in gladness and beauty through her strain. ' The cataract of thought ' comes rushing up from the recesses of the soul. The pleasant dreams of fancy awaken at her call. Love, hope, faith, and confidence glow in her songs ; while pride, am- bition, scorn, and despair are admirably portrayed in some of her effusions. The lighter emotions, possessing in themselves less of the poetic, are not often the subjects of her choice. The ludicrous she seems to avoid as undig- nified, and the sarcastic as unfeminine. The wild and mysterious excite her fancy, and lead it to speculations upon primal causes, which result in poems of a highly religious character. The beautiful in nature and art also leads her to the contemplation of the Divine Author of all beauty, and awakens melodies filled at once with hope, devotion, and faith in a brighter world. The flowers fill her with sweet associations and glowing fancies. The winds whisper of danger, and teach her own dependence upon a Higher Power. The stars, the clouds, the moonbeams, all hold strange companionship ANNA PEYEE DINNIES. 103 with her spirit, bearing it afar from earth. Music touches the sealed foun- tains in her bosom, and excites or saddens according to the strain. Deeds of daring, acts of magnanimity, feelings of gratitude, all create the poetic inspiration. These are the materiel from which she culls, combines, and arranges her fancies into verse." 186S. Mrs. S. B. E. THE LOVE-LETTER. The full-orbed moon In regal splendor proudly tracked the sky ; And the fair laughing flowers of early June Slept, fanned by Zephyr as he floated by ; The night was hushed, but beautifully clear, As though enchantment late had wandered there, And left her charm unbroken ; so profound The deep tranquillity that reigned around. Close to an open casement, which o'erhung The quiet scene, there pensively sate one, Who gazed, not on the loneliness thus flung Over the earth beneath, but sad and lone, Held converse w T ith her soul. She was not fair; Beauty had set no impress on her brow, Nor genius shed his heaven-caught lustre there; Yet there was one who loved her, and whose vow Was met with all that tenderness which dwells Only in woman's heart ; those fancy spells That poets dream of. Now within her hand She clasped a letter ; every line was scanned By the pure moonbeams round her brightly thrown ; She murmured half aloud, in love's own tone, His last and dearest w T ords; her warm tears fell Upon that line, and dimmed the name she loved so well ! " Cease not to think of me," yet once again She read — then answered in this heartfelt strain: 104 LIVING FEMALE WKITERS OF THE SOUTH. I could not hush that constant theme Of hope and reverie; For every day and nightly dream, Whose lights across my dark brain gleam, Is filled with thee. I could not bid those visions spring Less frequently, For each wild phantom which they bring, Moving along on fancy's wing, But pictures thee. I could not stem the vital source Of thought, or be - Compelled to check its whelming force, As ever in its onward course It tells of thee. I could not, dearest! thus control My destiny, "Which bids each new sensation roll Pure from its fountain in my soul To life and thee. THE BLUSH. An outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace." Was it unholy? Surely no! The tongue no purer thought can speak, And from the heart no feeling flow More chaste than brightens woman's cheek. How oft we mark the deep-tinged rose Soft mantling where the lily grew ; Nor deem that where such beauty blows A treacherous thorn's concealed from view. That thorn may touch some tender vein, And crimson o'er the wounded part, Unheeded, too, a transient pain Will flush the cheek and thrill the heart. On Beauty's lids the gem-like tear Oft sheds its evanescent ray ; But scarce is seen to sparkle, ere 'T is chased by beaming smiles away. Just so the Blush is formed and flies, Nor owns reflection's calm control ; It comes — it deepens — fades and dies — A gush of feeling from the soul! JULIA PLEASANTS CRESWELL. A WONDERFULLY clever writer ! " exclaimed a critic, one who was well acquainted with her writings. The poetry of Mrs. Creswell is fall of sweetness and gentleness; and, as has been said of Felicia Hemans's poetry, so can we truly say of the verse of the sub- ject of this notice, viz. : "That it is of a soft, subdued enthusiasm, breathing, moreover, throughout such a trusting and affectionate spirit, that it must ever find a welcome and a rest in all true, loving hearts." Mrs. Creswell has a right to expect an inheritance of talent on both sides of her house. Her father belonged to the Pleasants family, of Virginia, which has contributed several distinguished names to the annals of that State. John Hampton Pleasants, of Richmond, who fell in the famous Ritchie duel ; Governor James Pleasants, among the dead; and Hugh R. Pleasants* among the living, are not unknown to fame. The Pleasants are from Norfolk, an old family of England, which I judge, from its recurring in the pages of Macaulay and other historians occasionally, maintained an honorable position centuries back. The first emigrants to this country embraced the tenets of William Penn, and for more than a hundred years his numerous descendants, who have spread all over the United States, preserved that faith. Everything concerning the history of so gifted a woman as Julia Pleasants Creswell is interesting, and the following, relating to her ancestors, is of interest : " John Pleasants," says my Virginia correspondent, "emigrated to this country in the year 1665, the ' animus mirabilis ' of Dryden, and settled in the county of Henrico. He left two sons: the younger inherited the estate called Pickernockie, now owned by Boyd and Edmond, on the Chickahominy. From this his descendants were called ' Pickanockies.' " From this younger branch of the family sprung the names I have mentioned above. The Pleasants blood has been blent with some of the finest old families in Virginia — the Jeffersons, the Randolphs, the Madisons. My correspondent says : " The family have generally been very hon- *Died in 1870. 34 105 106 LIVING FEMALE WEITEKS OF THE SOUTH. est people, and quite remarkable for intelligence ; very few of them, however, have been distinguished in public life, their besetting sins being indolence and diffidence ! " Tarleton Pleasants, Mrs. Creswell's grandfather, was a highly edu- cated and accomplished gentleman, to judge from his finely written letters. He was ninety-four years old when he died. His means were limited, and Mrs. Creswell's father left his home in Hanover county at the age of sixteen to push his own fortunes. He sojourned awhile in the Old Dominion State as printer's boy, and then as sub-editor. The Territory of Alabama was then attracting the Western world, and he went thither, landing at Huntsville, one of the earliest settlers. His popular manners won him golden opinions from all, and he was elected to the office of Secretary of State, Thomas Bibb being at that time Governor of the State. Mr. Pleasants married the second daugh- ter of the Governor. Julia was the second child of the marriage. Soon after his mar- riage, Mr. Pleasants abandoned politics, and engaged in mercantile life. Ex-Governor Bibb owned immense estates, and Julia was, so to speak, reared in the lap of luxury. Mr. Pleasants wrote with ease and facility, having a fondness for the pursuit. From childhood Julia was fond of fashioning her thoughts in rhyme, and her father fostered the inclination. He was especially solicitous to secure to his children all the advantages of which, in some measure, his own youth had been deprived, and Julia was indeed fortunate in having for eight years the instruction of a very superior woman. With pleasure I give the meed of praise to one of the many teachers with whom "teaching" is a noble employment, not mere drudgery, who deserve a great reward for their well-doing, albeit they seldom receive it in this life. Miss Swift (from Middleton, Vermont) was a remarkable woman — one who always acted on the broad ground that learning is dear for itself alone ; and in her admirable school no prizes were held out to cause heart-burnings and deception — no dreadful punishments to intimidate the fearful and appall the wicked. The consciousness of having done well was the only reward, and the sweet satisfaction of knowledge gained the happiness. Miss Swift was selected by Governor Slade, of New York, to take charge of a Normal school, designed for the edu- cation of teachers for Oregon. Says Charles Lanman, in his "Adven- tures in the Wilds of America " — 2 vols. 1854 — alluding to the sub- ject of this sketch : JULIA PLEASANTS CRESWELL. 107 " But of all the impressions made upon me during my visit to Huntsville, the most agreeable by far was made by Julia Pleasants, the young and accom- plished poetess. She is as great a favorite in the entire South, as she is in this, her native town, and is destined to be wherever the thoughts of genius can be appreciated. She commenced her literary career by contributing an occasional poem to the ' Louisville Journal.' Born and bred in the lap of luxury, it is a wonder that the intellect of Miss Pleasants should have been so well disciplined, as its fruits, in spite of their unripeness, would leave one to suppose it had been. But death having recently made her an orphan, and taken from her side a much-loved sister, she has been schooled in the ways of Providence, as well as of the world, and now, when she strikes the lyre, it responds chiefly in those tones which find a resting-place in her sor- rowing heart. Like Mrs. Hemans, Miss Pleasants is a thinker and writer of high order, and her mission upon earth cannot but be both beautiful and profitable." Miss Pleasants' cousin, Thomas Bibb Bradley, a gifted, ambitious, ardent, and aspiring young poet, who died at an early age, (" a bril- liant bud of promise was cut off in him,") first drew her poems from their obscurity, and startled her timid bashfulness by launching them upon the " sea of publicity." The generous spirit of George D. Pren- tice found kind and tender things to say of her timid fledglings of the imagination. Mr. T. B. Bradley gathered up some of his own and his cousin's poems, and brought out a joint volume in 1854. Mrs. Creswell says, in alluding to this volume : " The book was not creditable to me, and still less so to my cousin. My own poems were disfigured by misprints, and only one in the book is a fair sample of my cousin's brilliant powers. He was younger than myself, and at that age when a writer falls readily into the style of the last author he has been reading There is one poem in the book — ' My Sister ' — giving the full sweep of his wing, which the lovers of true music will not willingly let die. I have no hesitation in saying that it challenges criticism, and is, with- out doubt, one of the most perfect poems in our language." Miss Pleasants was left an orphan by the simultaneous death of her parents, after which she resided several years with her grandmo- ther, Mrs. Bibb. Here she lost her sister Addie, about whom she sang her sweetest songs. In 1854, she was married to Judge David 108 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. Creswell, a man of talents, and a native of South Carolina. Judge Creswell was a wealthy planter near Shreveport, La., but lost his wealth by the war, and has resumed the practice of the law. Mrs. Creswell has a volume of poems ready for publication. Clax- ton, Remsen and Haffelfinger, of Philadelphia, in 1868, published a novel written by her, entitled Callamura. " Greenwood," the home of Mrs. Creswell, is near Shreveport, La. ' Here she is the centre of a happy circle, surrounded by a quartette of children, of whom the only daughter, named Adrienne, (the nom de plume under which Mrs. Creswell first published,) having inherited the poetic temperament, at the early age of ten dabbles in " rhymes." * 1S68. THE MINSTEEL PILOT. On the bosom of a river Where the sun unloosed its quiver, Or the starlight streamed forever, Sailed a vessel light and free: Morning dewdrops hung, like manna, On the bright folds of her banner, While the zephyr rose to fan her Softly to the radiant sea. At her prow a pilot, beaming In the hues of youth, stood dreaming, And he was in glorious seeming, Like an angel from above : Through his hair the breezes sported ; And as down the wave he floated, Oft that pilot, angel-throated, Warbled lays of hope and love. Through those locks, so brightly flowing, Buds of laurel-bloom were blowing, And his hands, anon, were throwing Music from a lyre of gold : JULIA PLEASANTS CEESWELL. 109 Swiftly down the stream he glided, Soft the purple waves divided, And a rainbow arch abided On his canvas' snowy fold. Anxious hearts, with fond emotion, Watched him sailing to the ocean, Praying that no wild commotion 'Midst the elements might rise: And he seemed some young Apollo, Charming summer winds to follow, While the water-flag's corolla Trembled to his music sighs. But those purple waves, enchanted, Boiled beside a city haunted By an awful spell, which daunted Every comer to her shore : Nightshades rank the air encumbered, And pale marble statues numbered Lotus-eaters, where they slumbered, And awoke to life no morel Then there rushed with lightning quickness O'er his face a mortal sickness, While the dews in fearful thickness Gathered o'er his temples fair; And there rolled a mournful murmur Through the lovely Southern summer, As that beauteous Pilot-comer Perished by that city there. Still rolls on that radiant river, And the sun unbinds his quiver, On the starlit streams forever, On its bosom as before; But that vessel's rainbow banner Greets no more the gay savanna, And that Pilot's lute drops manna On the purple waves no more! M. SOPHIE HOMES. ("Millie Mayfieia.") THE subject of the present sketch, Mrs. Mary Sophie Shaw Homes, was born in Frederick City, Maryland ; but having resided in Louisiana nearly all her life, she claims it as the State of her adoption. She is the daughter of Thomas Shaw, of Annapolis, Md., who for over twenty years filled with honor the situation of cashier of the Frederick County Branch Bank of Maryland, and was a man beloved and highly respected by all who knew him. On her mother's side, her ancestors were good old Maryland Revolutionary stock, two of her great-uncles having fallen, in defence of their rights as freemen, at the battle of Germantown. After her father's death, which happened when she was quite a child, her mother removed with her family to New Orleans, where Mrs. Homes has since resided. She has been twice married: her first husband, Mr. Norman Rogers, dying in the second year of their union, she was left a widow at a very early age, and her life has been one of strange vicissitudes ; but by nature she is energetic, resolute, and determined, and although not hopeful, is very enduring ; and, as a friend once said of her, "possesses the rare qualification of content- ment in an humble position, with capacities for a most elevated one." She appeared before the literary world of New Orleans under the nom deplume of "Millie Mayfield," in 1857, as a newspaper contri- butor of essays, sketches, and poems, which (to quote from one of the leading journals of New Orleans, the "Daily Crescent") "could not fail of attracting attention from the unmistakable evidences of genius they displayed, the poetry being far above mediocrity, and the sketches spirited and entertaining ; " so that when, in the same year, her first published volume in prose, entitled " Carrie Harrington ; or, Scenes in New Orleans," made its appearance, the public was prepared to give it a most favorable reception. Of this book, Mrs. L. Virginia French thus wrote: "This is a most agreeable and readable book The style is easy, natural, and unostentatious There is a vein of genial humor running through the whole book." 110 M. SOPHIE HOMES. Ill A writer in the "New Orleans Crescent" reviews " Carrie Harring- ton ; or, Scenes in New Orleans : " "This is a new and charming work by a Southern lady — the maiden effort, I may say, in novelistic literature, by one who is already favorably known to our State as a sweet poetess; for few are they who have read and not been pleased with the truthful emanations in harmonious numbers from the accomplished pen of ' Millie Mayfield.' "Having just risen from a careful perusal of it, I can honestly pronounce it a work replete with refreshing thoughts, expressed with a flowing happiness of diction, supplying, at this season of the year particularly, a great deside- ratum, as all can't-get-aways and even run-aways across the lake will admit. " This the writer is constrained to confess, despite his predisposition to be hypercritical, — he had almost said unfriendly to it, because, perhaps, of its being the production of a petticoat, — an institution spreading, as all the world knows, pretty considerably nowadays, — when he sat down to glance at its contents. Agreeably surprised, he was taught a lesson of the supreme folly of preconceived impressions, which he will not easily forget. The authoress of Carrie Harrington has in this novelette — if I may so term it, being in one volume, and yet as suggestive of thought and promotive of reflection, if not as well calculated to enchain attention and challenge admi- ration as many three-volumed novels written by established favorites of the reading public, and which, for the most part, answer to a charm Pollok's description of one, viz., ' A novel was a book three-volumed and once read, and oft crammed full of poisonous error, blackening every page, and oftener still of old deceased, putrid thought, and miserable incident, at war with nature, with itself and truth at war ; yet charming still the greedy reader on, till, done, he tried to recollect his thoughts, and nothing found but dream- ing emptiness,' — in this little work, I say, she has given an earnest of the possession of talent of a very high order in this branch of light literature. There is nothing labored about it — a great blessing to readers ; for elabora- tion, when apparent, is generally painful, at least to me. The characters spring into existence in rapid succession — take and keep their places, while the individuality of each is maintained with tolerable integrity, and seem- ingly drawn from life by one who has diligently exercised the faculty for observation. I would not, however, be understood to say that in their por- trayal there are no inequalities — no inelegancies — no infelicities — no redundances ; or that she is au fait in their introduction : better marshal- ling there might have been, which accomplishment can only be attained by practice, for there is no royal road to perfection, even for women, gifted as they are with intuition. ' "Many of the scenes, though far from being faultless, sparkle with talent, and talent is something ; but here and there she betrays a want of tact, and that, while not absolutely talent, is everything in every undertaking; for, as 112 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. somebody has somewhere said, sententiously, 'talent is power — tact, skill; talent is weight — tact, momentum; talent knows what to do — tact, how to do it ; it is the eye of discrimination, the right hand of intellect,' — and so it is slipping into one's good graces as a billiard-ball insinuates itself into the pocket. The story is pleasingly simple and purely domestic — opening not in the hackneyed style to which so many of our novelists are notoriously addicted; such as a 'solitary horseman' was approaching a wood in time to rescue some beauty in distress, etc. ; or, as a ' handsome stranger/ apparently on the shady side of thirty, leg-weary and foot-sore, arriving about sunset at a village inn, just in season to play the eavesdropper to a conversation, in which he learns wonders regarding himself, etc. "The hall-door bell of Judge Loring's aristocratic mansion being vigorously rung, announces a visitor whose business would seem not to brook delay— and so it proves ; for in waddles the pussy, fussy, garrulous, go-a-headative Mrs. Percival, with her everlasting exclamation of ' Lawful sakes alive ! ' to the great dismay and disgust of the haughty beauty, Isabelle Loring, who happens at home alone, with her hair in paper against an entertainment to be given in the evening, at which she fondly anticipates the conquest of Horace Nelson's heart. In no very amiable mood, but with many an unfriendly wish, does the proud girl hastily brush herself into presentable- ness, and descends to the parlor, where, with a smile that would rival that of a seraph in glory — though with sorrow be it observed, expressly got up for the occasion by hypocrisy — she greets her visitor, who is all impatience to declare her mission. "Unromantic, plain, matter-of-fact, coarsely spoken is Mrs. Percival — blunt to rudeness, and generous to a fault ; and while indulging a vulgarity indigenous to her nature, and peculiarly offensive to * ears polite,' display- ing a heart as large as creation — so that we cannot help loving her, and owning that 'even her failings lean to virtue's side.' In speech — and she is flippant enough in all conscience — she is a second edition of Mrs. Malaprop, constantly mispronouncing and misapprehending words ; for example : she talks complacently of her ' morey-antic,' (moire antique;) says 'swarry' when she would say soiree; ' infermation ' for inflammation; ' portfully ' for port- folio, and so forth. Isabelle Loring has received a liberal education — con- tracted grand ideas of upper-tendom, and being surpassingly beautiful, womanlike, requires no ghost from the grave to tell her so. Devoted to dress, magnificent in foreign airs, and inordinately fond of admiration, reminding us, in the matter of pride, and in that only, of Pauline Deschap- pelles, for there the likeness ends — as Pauline is not without redeeming points — and, when crossed in desire, in some respects,* of Lady Sneerwell. I have been thus particular, as these personages — the very antipodes of each other — play respectively important parts in the story. "Mrs. Percival blurts out her errand in her accustomed manner, which is one of mercy, and is referred to mamma, who is at Aunt Langdon's, whither M. SOPHIE HOMES. 113 Mrs. Percival directs her hurried steps, and in her haste almost runs foul of Miss Letty at the street-door — a malicious piece of dry-goods, unworthy of the institution of calico, and rejoicing in the twofold occupation of dress- maker and scandal-monger. Miss Letty, in giving vent to her envy, bristles up and talks waspishly of Mrs. Percival's low origin, much to the edification of Isabelle, who is jealous of the exceeding loveliness of Mrs. Percival's only daughter and child, Ella. Ella, the pure-minded, the devoted, whom we could have wished had been made the heroine instead of Carrie, all beauti- ful and dutiful as she is, as we have often wished, when reading the ' Ivan- hoe ' of Scott, that the high-souled Eebecca had been preferred to the less interesting Rowena. " Ella, like Isabelle, is enamored of Horace Nelson, but widely different are their loves ; the one modestly conceals, the other coquettishly displays. At a party where they all meet, they discover that they are rivals, and, as it would seem to Ella, without hope of success on her part. The effect of this discov- ery is the loss of the roses from her cheek, which her mother observing and mistaking the cause, talks funnily enough of dosing the love-stricken girl with salts ! Not a bad idea, by-the-by ; we have faith in salts and senna, even for the correction of the malady of love. A heavenly creature is Ella, notwithstanding that she is the child of vulgar parents of mushroom growth into opulence ! Horace Nelson is a fine young fellow, the scion of a family amply endowed with pride of birth, and dependent on a rich, gouty old uncle, who, in his bitter hostility to parvenuism, insists on his nephew marrying a full-blooded aristocrat on pain of disinheritance. Hard as is the alternative, the noble youth declares his love to Ella and his independence of the uncle, goes to woo the fickle goddess in the auriferous fields of California and Aus- tralia, returns with a pocket full of rocks, and marries the ever-faithful Ella. " Carrie Harrington and her brother Eobert are left unexpectedly in a de- plorable state of orphanage, when the good Mrs. P. opportunely appears, takes the distracted Carrie home with her, intending to adopt her, where, thanks to the excellent nursing of Ella, the health of the bereaved one is in due time re-established. The brother goes to sea. No sooner is Carrie herself again than she is afflicted with conscientious scruples as to eating the bread of idleness, and, after a scene, resolves to seek a public-school teachership, which, by the aid *of Mr. Percival, she obtains, and makes acquaintance at the same time with a highly' mercurial lady (Katy), who makes merry at the expense of the school-board with a wickedness of elegance richly meriting castigation. This, it is needless to add, refers to days of yore ; for, as the Frenchman would say, nous avons change tout cele maintenant. Out of this acquaintance there grows a warm and lasting friendship between Carrie and Katy. The gouty old uncle, disgusted with the plebeianism of his nephew's amatory proclivities, proposes marriage to Isabelle, who, out of sheer spite to the same individual, accepts. "They cross the lake, and meet at one of the watering-places, the Perc.ivals, 15 114 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. Carrie, and Katy, and there marvel on marvel occurs. Edward Loring owns the soft impeachment to Carrie, who, nothing loth, frankly reciprocates. Is- abelle heartlessly neglects her lord, who is hopelessly confined to his bed — suffers some French count to make illicit love to her, and elopes with him to find a watery grave. The shock of this elopement accelerates the death of the old uncle, who, before dying, recognizes in Carrie his grandchild. A por- tion of his vast wealth she of course inherits, and becomes the loved wife of the happy Edward Loring. Robert returns from a prosperous voyage, sees and straightway falls in love with Katy, who, like a sensible widow that she is, and none the worse for being ' second-hand,' takes compassion upon him after the most approved fashion, and ' all goes merry as a marriage-bell.' "Such is an outline of the story. In conclusion, I cannot help expressing my admiration of Katy ; she is the very ' broth ' of a woman, brimful of fun, talks like a book, dealing extensively in refined irony, and often dropping remarks which fall and blister like drops of burning sealing-wax. Sometimes, however, her drollery outstrips her discretion and overleaps the boundary of propriety, acquiring a broadness hardly blameless, as in the quotation some- what profanely applied, the hoop-fashion being the subject of conversation : ' Though their beginning was small, yet their latter end should greatly in- crease.' The scenes and passages I would especially commend for truthful- ness and raciness, are those of love between Carrie and Edward ; of bathing, when one of the girls roguishly cries out, ' A shark I ' and Mrs. P. innocently sits on the emplatre of a French woman ; and of the bal masque, at which the count, who, like Esau, ' is a hairy man,' is caught toying with the bejew- elled finger of Isabelle. "The work, as I have already intimated, though not without blemishes, evidently bears the marks of genius, a little too freakish, at times, it is true ; and if, as I understand, it was written for amusement, rather than with a view to publication, it is a highly creditable effort, and bespeaks a talent whose cultivation it would be a pity, if not a crime, to neglect." In 1860, she published a volume in verse, in defence of the South, entitled " Progression ; or, The South Defended," " which was a most remarkable production for a female ; evincing deep research and strong analytical and logical reasoning capacities — besides breathing the very soul of patriotism and devotion to her native land." That she loves her native South with the whole strength of her poetic temperament, a short quotation from one of her poems will show : " O Fairy-land ! Dream-land ! land of the South, What nectar awaits but the kiss of thy mouth — Balm-breathing, soul-sweet'ning, as fancy distils The perfume thy golden-rimmed chalice that fills ! M. SOPHIE HOMES. 115 There are many that sing of the land of the vine, And chant the wild legends of myth-peopled Khine, — That catch from the bine waves of Arno a tone, Or hymn the low dirges of foam-crested Khone, — That join in the ' Marseillaise ' war-cry of France, Or blow forth a blast of the days of the lance And the tournament — then breathe a tender love-strain Of troubadour tinkling his heart's secret pain On the answering strings of a well-thrumm'd guitar : But grander, yet sweeter and holier far Are the cadences floating o'er thee, happy clime ! To sound through the far-reaching arches of Time, Dear land of the sunbeam, when minstrels shall bring Forth the melody slumb'ring upon thy gold string ! Oh, waken thee, harpists ! and tell all the worth That lies hushed on the sweetly-toned lyre of the South ! " Her fugitive poems and sketches, scattered broadcast and with a lavish hand, would, if collected, fill several volumes. Some news- paper critic, in speaking of her poetry, says : "We might select some single lines from many of the fugitive pieces of this sweet singer of the South that the painter's pencil could not make more perfect ; and others that, in singular beauty of thought, will compare favorably with anything found in the language." She was — besides writing for many other papers at home and else- where — a constant contributor, for over two years, to the Xew Orleans " True Delta," whose literary editor,* himself a poet and critic of well- known abilities, has pronounced her, " undeniably, the finest female lyrist in the Southwest." Her poetic talent seems to have been inherited from an elder brother of her father's, — Doctor John Shaw, of Annapolis, Md., — whose poems and letters of travel were published after his death for the benefit of his widow, many of the most interesting reminiscences being furnished by his college " chum " and bosom-friend, Francis Scott Key, the author of the " Star-spangled Banner." But, although descended from one of the oldest families in the land, her life has not passed without care, and much time that she would like to devote to literary pursuits has to be more practically employed in fighting the great battle of life. It is a matter of surprise with those who know her, how she ever could have written so much with so many other things to engross her ; but, to quote her own words : *John W. Overall. 116 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. " Life without trials / — who would give The cares that make him wise, To be the useless drone that hives No honey as he flies? Why, Nature in her mighty book This wholesome lesson shows — That e'en the thistle's thorny crook Can blossom as the rose." She was married to Mr. Luther Homes in 1864, and continues to reside in New Orleans. In 1870, a volume of her fugitive poems was published by J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia, entitled "A Wreath of Rhymes." 1S69. THE DBE,AM- ANGEL. And now the Dream- Angel soared once more over sloping roofs, tall chim- neys, spires, domes, and brick-and-mortar cages. Where in the vast city will she first bend her glances ? See, through yon partially raised dormer-win- dow, the full moonlight streaming, falls on the couch of a slumbering youth. It is an humble attic in which he rests ; its walls are bare, its cot meagrely furnished ; but that coarse pillow caresses a head where ideality and lofty thought have imbedded their priceless jewels on the brow's broad surface. Bend lower, spirit; look into that imaginative brain, and deep down into that warm glowing heart. No garret's bounds can crib their longings ; no raftered roof holds down their high desires and lofty aspirations. 'T is Na- ture's child you look upon — and towering mountains, starry heights, singing brooklets and flowery dales, are his inheritance. Oh ! guard well the poet's dream — let not the stains of earth mar its brightness ! Tenderly the Dream- Angel binds o'er his brow a chaplet of the mystic witch-hazel, softly singing through its leaves as she does so : Breathe here " a spell," mysterious plant — Let dreams embody his soul's deep want ! The unplastered walls of the little attic crumble down, and he stands on a wood-crowned upland, which slopes gently away, terminating in a green val- ley and fairy lake. The tinkling bells of browsing cattle, mingling with the ripple of laughing brooklets, float through the golden atmosphere, which no visible sun illumines, but soft, rosy, and purple clouds, with gilded edges and inward glow, like the fire shut up in the opal's heart, wave gentle folds over the burnished blue heaven. The air is sleepy with the odorous breath of flowers, and golden-winged beetles hum a drowsy drone as they rest on the tall silken grasses that wave green banners over the dancing streamlet. A M.SOPHIE HOMES. 117 thick wood, with its interlacing leaves and branches, shuts out this paradise from the noisy world, and fairy shapes flit through the green recesses, or dip their clustering ringlets in the limpid lake ; while starry eyes peep over the rosy hedges, and taper-fingers rain showers of jasmine-buds upon eyelids slumbering on the mossy banks, or in the bowers where clematis and sweet- brier twine their stars and fragrance. No sounds are heard from out the playful host but laughter musical ; they look their love, and speak with flowers their pure thoughts. And now, a band of dimpling, blushing nymphs have twined a wreath of amaranth, and, circling around him in a mazy dance, they place it on his brow ; while soft through the hushed air a dreamy cadence floats, and un- seen harps and voices blend a witching strain : Come ! come ! come ! Come to our bowers of light, O son of the morning-land ! Dreary and dark is the baneful night That shrouds the world's cold strand. 'Tis suspicion, and doubt, and wrong . That engender the earthly cloud; But come to the bowers where faith is strong, And the sorrowing head's ne'er bowed. Come ! come ! come I Come ! come ! come ! Come with a heart of youth — Come with an eye of fire, Drink of the fount of immortal Truth, And quench each gross desire! 'Tis the glow of generous thought That golden lights our sky; And love makes our music — melody wrought By the spirit's harmony ! Come! come! come! Come ! come ! come ! Here, the words you breathe, Here, the thoughts that burn Will spring into living flowers, to wreathe Thy Hope's now mouldering urn ! Lay down thy petty cares ; Cast off thy sin's dark yoke ; And cool thy brow with ambrosial airs, Whose echoes grief never woke ! Come ! come ! come ! 118 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH "Where? where?" exclaimed the youth, starting from his pillow with kindling eye and flushing cheek ; " oh, where will that glorious dream be realized ? " " In heaven ! " softly whispered the Dream- Angel, as she floated out on the moonbeam. ELIZA LOFTON PUGH. ELIZA LOFTON" PUGH, nee Phillips, is a native of Louisiana, though of French and Irish extraction ; and few, who have any acquaintance with her, fail to recognize, both in manner, conversation, and appearance, the prominent characteristics of the races from which she sprang ; few either, who, recalling her father, fail to remember in him the true type of the "Irish gentleman" — a man well and widely known throughout the State, generous, brave, and hospitable, endearing himself to all ranks by his bonhommie of manner, which, united to his talents and energy, made him a successful politician. To fine qualities of mind and heart he united the gifts of a ready narrator, and that talent, not uncommon to his countrymen, of rendering himself the " life of convivial gatherings." To all who knew and loved Colonel Phillips this sketch of his daughter among the literati of the South will not prove uninteresting. Alas ! that an early death snatched from him the gratification of realizing in the woman the fond predictions of the early promise of the child. From her infancy she evinced a constitu- tion so remarkably fragile, that it caused her devoted mother many an hour of sad reflection — particularly sad, as she discovered that as the powers of her mind were being rapidly developed, the inspiration of the soul seemed wearing away the body. She lived in a world of her own creation, surrounded by images of her own fancy. Her conver- sation has ever been remarkable for its originality and freshness, which has rendered her from childhood interesting to persons of all ages. Reared in the almost entire seclusion of home — bereft one by one of its inmates and the companionship of those endeared to her not less by the closest ties of relationship than a warm and earnest sympathy in the passion of her life, — she became prematurely thoughtful as the companion of her widowed mother, in the absence and marriage of an only sister. At the age of ten she wrote a little story, in which the precocity of her inventive genius was apparent. She also evinced great talent in the extreme force of her descriptions, the elevation of her sentiment, and the poetic beauty of her language. ELIZA LOFTON PUGH. 119 After a careful home education, she completed her course under the able direction of Miss Hull, whose seminary at that time had no rival in the confidence of the people of the South. Miss Hull, in speaking of her, said : "She came to me under high encomium from Mrs. M., a friend of mine, who said : ' You will find in her an apt pupil, an eager student, a patient, un- tiring reader. She possesses talent which will do you much credit.' I next day welcomed the pupil thus introduced, into my seminary, and surveyed her with interest, but with some disappointment. In the pale, slender, deli- cate child, with stooping shoulders, and grave, unattractive face, only enliv- ened by a pair of dark, thoughtful eyes, I saw slight indication of the mind, which, however, an early examination into her studies satisfied me was of no ordinary promise." Two years of close application to study, and the advantage of free access to the private library of her preceptress, and to which was added the privilege of unrestrained communication w T ith the finely cultivated mind of her teacher, closed the educational course of Eliza Phillips. She returned home to devote herself to her still secret passion for her pen. Married at the age of seventeen to a son of the Hon. W. TV. Pugh, of Louisiana, she passed the first three years of her married life on her husband's plantation ; where, in its' unbroken solitude, without the solace of her favorite authors, without other companionship than that of her family, she first acquainted her friends with her efforts at authorship. Blelock & Co. published a novel, entitled "Not a Hero," in 1867, which was written by Mrs. Pugh at the beginning of the war, or at the time when the war-cloud was gathering in its wrath. Short sketches, "literary and political," were published in the "New York World," "New Orleans Times," and other journals of less note, under the now, deplume of "Arria." Improved in health and appearance, she now devotes herself to the pursuit which has, from her childhood, taken so strong a hold upon her fancy; but to the exclusion of no single duty, either as daughter, wife, or mother. At the time of the present sketch, Mrs. Pugh is but in the spring season of her womanhood, and, we predict, of her authorship. The quaint, grave child has developed into the gay, sprightly woman, presiding with a graceful hospitality in her unpretending home, endear- ing herself to her old friends, and recommending herself to new ac- quaintances, by an engaging manner, quickness of repartee, and a di 5 *- 120 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. play of many of the happiest qualities of heart, which she inherits in no slight degree from her father, while in manner, gesture, and appear- ance the French extraction unequivocally proclaims itself. Giving all her spare moments to her pen, and to a careful supervision of her only child, she has not permitted her literary life to cast the shadow of an ill-regulated household on those who look to her for their happi- ness, or to cloud for an instant the sunshine of home. She has not sunk the woman in the author, and has unhesitatingly declared her purpose to relinquish the pleasure of her pen should a word of reproach from those she loves warn her of such a probability. Yet to all who know her, that domestic circle proves that a combination of the prac- tical and literary may be gracefully, pleasantly, and harmoniously blended. Mrs. Pugh has a novel now in the press (1871) of Claxton, Remsen & Haffelhnger, Philadelphia. It is entitled " In a Crucible." 1S68. Margaret C. Piggot. ST. PHILIP'S. There was no scenery in or around St. Philip's, at least none so called ; no mountains, around whose summits the rosy mists of morning might gather ; no hills, over whose green slopes the flocks of lazy Southdowns might graze ; no jagged cliffs, against which a heavy rolling sea might thunder its eternal harmonies ; though miles and miles away the arrowy river flowed with deep- ening current into the Mexican Gulf, broadening near its outlet, flattening at its edges, and the sedgy margin running out into great stretches of marshy ground. Higher up, .in and around St. Philip's, it flowed sluggishly through steep banks in the summer-time, swelling angrily with winter floods and tides, and rushing hoarsely along, its current broken here and there into eddies around a clump of stunted willows bedded in the sand, or sweeping out into broad curves, with the sunlight dancing over it, and the comfortable country-houses mirrored in its still, glassy surface just at sunset. The country was not picturesque, but would have delighted the eye of the agriculturist in its rich grain-fields, luxuriant hedges, and well-kept gardens. There were wide, open commons, filled with browsing cattle ; fat pasture lands, where the sleek, thoroughbred stock of the plantations ranged, chew- ing their cuds contentedly under shade-trees under the summer heat, and lowing gently as they followed the narrow pathway, cropping as they went to the milking-pens — evening shadows gathering the while, and the shrill chirp of insects growing clamorous as the sun descended. Yet there was beauty in the asDect of the landscape — a beauty to satisfy even a fastidious ELIZA ELLIOTT HARPER. 121 taste. If there were neither hills nor mountains, there were clouds, that, evening after evening, piled themselves in fantastic masses against the set- ting sun, and whose outlines stood out, bold and clear, against the western light. There were gorgeous strips of coloring too — painted skies, with the sun sinking down like a huge red ball in the midst : sunsets that equalled anything for richness of hue that the human eye ever beheld. There was deep, sombre blue in the evening skies that Poussin had striven vainly to paint ; and a glint in the golden sunlight pouring over river, wood, and field, that Claude could never match ! There was a softness in the air when the October mists rolled over the woodlands, and autumn moonlight silvered the earth, that even the passionate heart of the poet could not breathe, and that hushed the fevered pulse while the planets glowed in the dusky canopy over- head. There were stretches of forest, with giant oaks, and whispering pop- lars turning their silver-lined leaves to the light, — slender sumach, that blushed red under autumn skies, — broad-spreading magnolias, — immortal bays, filling the air with their faint, subtile breath, — hawthorns, powdered in the spring like crusted snow, and flashing scarlet with the first frost that ripened the berries on its stems. Here you sometimes stumbled over sloping mounds, where, underneath the shadows of these great Western forests, the bones of the red men lie bleaching with the centuries that roll over them — dead, indeed, since their rest is undisturbed by the march of civilization, whose gigantic proofs stare us in the face in this latter day. The roadside grew up thickly with purple heather ; and flaunting lilies of scarlet and yel- low, covered flat, marshy plains, while graceful water-lilies hung silent in the summer noon, spreading dark-green, glossy leaves over the water, where tiny fish swam in and out, and where, through the summer nights, the frogs croaked, and ugly, spotted snakes coiled among the reeds. ELIZA ELLIOTT HARPER. MRS. ELIZA ELLIOTT HARPER, a daughter of Colonel John L. Lewis, of Claiborne Parish, La., was born in Jones County, Georgia, in September, 1834, and moved to Louisiana with her parents in 1846, which State has been her home since. Mrs. Harper's life has not been eventful — as she is wont to say, " the lines have fallen to her in pleasant places." At an early age, she married Dr. James D. Harper, and resides at Minden, Claiborne Parish, La. Mrs. Harper's early publications were in the " Louisville Journal," over the signature of " Sindera." 1870. 16 122 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. I'LL COME IN BRIGHT DREAMS. Yes, I '11 come in bright dreams, love, I'll come to thee oft, When the light wing of sleep On thy bosom lies soft : When, wearied with care, love, Thon seekest repose, And with thoughts of the dear one Thy fond bosom glows. When the tear-drops of nature Beam bright on the flower, Reflecting the sky gems, I'll come to thy bower. Yes, I'll come in bright dreams, love, I'll come and we'll stray 'Mid the beauties of dream-land, And 'twill ever be May; For the sound of thy voice Is the coo of the dove, And no gale can be soft As thy whispers of love. Be thy lips the billows, And mine, love, the beach. And thus fondly caressing, The dream-land we reach. Yes, I'll come in bright dreams, love, And oh! if it be That "life's but a dream," I'll dream, love, with thee. Yes, dream 'neath the heaven Of thy dark, beaming eye, Nor e'er from its starlight My spirit would fly. Then I'll come in life's dream, love, And bright will it be ; It cannot know sorrow, If spent, love, with thee. MAKY WALSINGHAM CREAN, WELL known to the Southern muses by the simple nom de plume of "May Rie," was born in Charleston, S. C, but has been from infancy a resident of the Crescent City. Her career as a writer com- menced as a school-girl, and opened with a series of lively, dashing, and piquant articles, prose and verse, communicated to the " Sunday Delta " when under the control of the gifted Joseph Brenan. Much interest prevailed for a time over the gay and graceful incognita. She continued for several years a frequent contributor to the same paper, winning a local popularity seldom attained at the first steps of a literary career. Late political troubles came, the writers of the " Delta " were scat- tered, and " May Rie's " harp remained long silent, or was only struck in secret, to sing of sorrow or of patriotic devotion. The cloud of national strife swept past. The subject of this sketch, like many others, was reduced to a position of need, and again resumed her pen, but no longer as a pastime. She entered upon her career as a paid writer for the New Orleans " Sunday Times," and for two years has been a regular weekly con- tributor to its pages, also appearing occasionally in other journals and magazines. Of mingled English and Irish extraction, Mary Walsingham com- bines in her nature the best characteristics of the two nations of Albion and Erin, tempered by a high degree of American sentiment. In her, a strong though golden chain of solid English sense ever grace- fully reins in those coursers of the sun, Irish wit and passion ; and the real and ideal, whether they ascend alternately, like the celestial twins, or rule together, like Jove and Juno, reign in harmonious duality, each retaining its proper limits, and one ever preserving the other from deficiency or excess. No collection of her writings has yet been made in book-form. Miss Crean is writing a novel of "Life in the Old Third." Year? ago, the lower and oldest part of the city of New Orleans was called the " Third Municipality." It is entirely French — unique and old- fashioned both in build and the manners and customs of its inhabitants — and furnishes as good a scene and material for romance as any of the cities of the Old World. Miss Crean resided in the " Old Third" in her childhood, and an original and highly entertaining 123 124 LIVING FEMALE WEI TEES OF THE SOUTH. book must be her effort. She also has in preparation a volume of criticisms of Southern writers. 1869. SANTA CLAUS. O Santa Claus ! dear Santa Claus ! Long years have waned and things have changed Since o'er the roof-tree's wintry floss With dancing heart my glances ranged, And strained to view thy silver wheel, Or mark thy chariot 'gainst the sky, Or hear thy tiny frosted heel With stealthy step go swiftly by, Along the roof-tree's fringing floss, O Santa Claus ! dear Santa Claus ! Thou elfin friend, of fame benign, And ruddy glow and genial glee! What radiant, fairy hopes were mine That found their central sun in thee! What cavern'd stores of Christmas joys, What thrilling mines of wealth unseen, Thou darnng dream of girls and boys, Went rolling in thy chariot's sheen, Along the roof-tree's glittering floss, Santa Claus ! dear Santa Claus ! How dear the smoke-wreath's misty blue, How bright the ruddy kindling hearth ! How prized the chimney's magic flue Which bore thy cherished form to earth! What sleepless hours — what throbbings wild — What thrilling hopes around us clung, As murmuring breeze, or swallow mild Some echo on the midnight flung From off the roof-tree's fringing floss, O Santa Claus ! dear Santa Claus ! And hark! I hear the merry horn — The merry, clattering, jingling chime MARY WALSIXGHAM CEEAN, 125 That usher'd in the crystal morn, The jovial hours of that sweet time ; The thrilling bursts of laughter clear — The frantic song of joy and mirth — The hearty, ringing Christmas cheer Around the stockings on the hearth, Beneath the roof-tree's waving floss, O Santa Claus ! dear Santa Claus ! I see the forms at rest for years — Our starry household -idols then — Arise from out the mist of tears, To light our mourning hopes again; And sever'd hearts, and sunder'd hands, And perish'd ties, how sweet of old ! And faded hopes, and broken bands, Unite from out oblivion cold, Beneath the roof-tree's fringing floss, O Santa Claus ! dear Santa Claus I But, no ! our dearest hopes and forms Are with thy perish'd glories pale, Thou sweetest charm of childhood's charms, And childhood's brightest fairy-tale! They beat no more in music-bars, The jocund minstrelsy of earth, But softly beam like happy stars Above our lonely Christmas hearth, Beneath the roof-tree's fringing floss, O Santa Claus ! dear Santa Claus ! BRONZE JOHN AND HIS SAFFEON STEED. Came riding forth on a charger bold, From the land of the citron-bloom, A stalwart knight, with a lance of gold, And a dancing yellow plume: His shield was of bronze, and his helmet high ; Of flame was his breath, and of fire his eye ; And swift was the flight of the charger by Of this knight with a yellow plume ! 126 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. Away and away, o'er wood and wold — O'er city and mountain high ! Sharp was the flash of that lance so bold, And the glance of that fiery eye ! Here was a body, and there was a bier; For he fell'd one here, and slew one there : "Away to the feast of death elsewhere!" Sang the knight as he clattered by. Rap, rap, rap ! on the city wall — Eap, rap ! and " What ! ho ! indeed ! Who is there?" quoth the warden tall. "Bronze John and his Saffron Steed." Quoth the warden grim, " And who may you be ? And come you from the North countrie, Or from the pestilent South," quoth he, "Bronze John and your Saffron Steed?" Eap, rap, rap ! on the city gate, And " Open, thou fool, to me ! " Quoth the bold Don John, with his lance in wait : "I come from the South countrie — The challenging knight of the Brazen Shield — And I summon this fortress to quickly yield ! " "First I'd see thee dead!" quoth the warden chield, And grinning, clattered the key. Then back drew the knight on his charger bold, And lifted his javelin keen ; One blow on the, gate with his barb of gold, And where was the warder then? Here was a body, and there was a bier ; The captain was here, and the sentinel there. "A king is Bronze John, and his sceptre's his spear," Sang the knight as he mounted again. And "Hey! for the land of the South," he laughed, " The land of the citron-bloom ! And the potent knight of the yellow shaft, And the floating yellow plume! A king is Bronze John — his steed is Death — Of fire is his eye, and of flame his breath, And his lance is the doom of the foe," he saith, " Bronze John and his saffron plume ! " Neat Orleans, Sept., 1867. MKS, JOSEPHINE E. HOSKINS. HOW true is it that true worth and genius are like the violet, hiding from public gaze, and only discovered by its perfume, that cannot hide itself always! The subject of this article is like a " violet," as modest and unassuming as talented, and on that account not well known, for true merit goes unrewarded, while glitter mounts high on ParDassus, and sits there for a time. Mrs. Hoskins is by birth a New-Yorker, but has resided in the South for over thirty years, and known and loved "Southland" best of all other lands. Her father was a Frenchman, born of Italian parents ; he came to the United States just before the war of 1812, entered the army, and served with some distinction under General Macomb, and after the close of the war was enrolled, by special compliment for ser- vices rendered, in the regular army. Her mother was a native of Philadelphia. . . . Mrs. Hoskins's life has been fraught with many lights and shadows, changes and vicissitudes, interspersed with sorrows that fall more fre- quently to the few. When in her twenty-sixth year, she was obliged to succumb to a disease which she had fought and conquered through mere force of will and natural energy ever since her childhood. By degrees it reduced her to the position of a cripple, confining her to the boundaries of four walls, and giving her a sufficient amount of suffer- ing of various kinds to learn to " possess her soul in patience," as she expresses it. For over twenty years she has been thus afflicted, and during that time she has had trials of a far heavier kind ; and yet the true woman remains, kind, gentle, and uncomplaining, pervaded with that peace which passeth human understanding. Mrs. Hoskins first wrote for publication during the last illness of her husband, in 1858 ; but not knowing the pathway that led to print, and being too timid to ask the way, having no confidence in her own powers, it was not until the publication of the "Southern Monthly," (Mem- phis,) in 1860, shortly after making New Orleans her home, that she found courage to send her articles to that journal. " Love's Stratagem," a novelette, printed in the December number (1861) and succeeding 127 128 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. number of that monthly, was far superior to anything of the kind that appeared in that magazine. It was not so much the plot as the lan- guage, so chaste and beautiful. " Jacqueline," her nom de plume, made a reputation with her first contribution, which was increased by the publication of an essay on the " Life and Writings of Mrs. Jameson," in two articles, which, though it seemed to treat of a criticism likely to be understood but by a favored few in a country where galleries of art are not, yet it was of the literature that creates them. Her timidity caused her to veil her personelle, and who Jacqueline was remained a mystery ! The capture of the city of New Orleans blockaded her avenue to print, and she remained silent and idle during the war, until, shortly after the surrender, John W. Overall started a literary journal in the city of New Orleans, called " The South," to which she contributed under the nom de plume of " Hildegarde," discovering that " Jacqueline " was known to some of her friends. That journal was a " publication of a few days " — I verily believe, " dying of dulness." Writing is very painful as a mechanical effort to her, although, from her graceful sentences and fluent style, one would hardly think so. She has contributed to the " Catholic World," and other magazines. Though going into the " afternoon of life," God has preserved to her in a singular manner the heart-elasticity, in many things, of youth. She says : " My trouble is to realize time, rather than feeling, and to learn how to grow old gracefully." 1869. SUSAN BLANCHARD ELDER IS the daughter of General Albert G, Blanchard, late of the C. S. A. She was born in an extreme Western frontier military post, where her father, then a captain in the United States service, was stationed to watch the border Indians, and her childhood was passed amid scenes and incidents that naturally arise in such a situation. Her mother died while she was yet very young, and for many years hers was the sad experience of an unloved orphan, for she was soon sepa- rated from her father's care. SUSAN BLAN CHARD ELDER. 129 She was educated in the world-noted public schools of the city of New Orleans ; cultivation taught her to appreciate art, and her edu- cation thoroughly developed a mind of no ordinary capacity. While quite young, she became the wife of Charles D. Elder, of New Orleans; and when the changed duties from a daughter's secluded home to a wife's and mother's cares fell to her lot, she met them firmly, and cheerfully fulfilled their requirements. Mr. Elder, when New Orleans was captured by the Federals, went into the Confederacy with his family, and, like many others, sought from place to place a home of safety for his young and helpless family. In Selma, Ala., they remained some time — and their house was almost a hospital for sick and wounded soldiers at one time. Since she was sixteen, she has contributed to the press, at first short poems and little pictures of life to different newspapers. "Babies," "The First Bide," etc., were full of pathos and beauty, while her poems were outpourings of a young, pure heart overflowing with love and an admiration of the beautiful. "Hermine," her nom de plume, always attracted attention to her articles. Much of her patriotic enthusiasm for military distinction must be ascribed to her young days at the West, also her love of the wild and stupendous in Nature. There is great simplicity in her style, and tenderness of feeling in all that she writes. A tinge of melancholy sometimes colors her song ; but may not its source be traced to that poetic temperament so touch- ingly described by L. E. L., and her early want of a mother's tender- ness? She wrote only occasionally, until war came upon our land, when the first battle-cry seemed to renew all her childhood's memories, and her muse poured forth streams of patriotic feeling, appealing to all, and inspiring many hearts. After the "surrender," she returned to New Orleans, and grace- fully conforms to their changed circumstances, devoting much time to the education of her children and those increased household cares to which our Southern matrons have been called since the war. As a woman, she is peculiarly gentle in her manners and refined in her tastes : even in conversation her language is well chosen, and her words harmonious and elegant. She is still quite youthful. Mrs. Elder's most ambitious prose effort is a tale called "Ellen Fitzgerald," embodying some of the events in the life of the late lamented Dr. K. D. Williams, the Irish patriot and poet, who died at her house in 17 130 LIVING FEMALE WKITEES OF THE SOUTH. Thibodeaux, La., before the war, and full of Southern scenes and feel- ings. I am told that it would make a duodecimo volume of over 400 pages. She published a portion of this tale in the " Morning Star," a Catholic weekly, published in the Crescent City. 1868. A. P. D. CLEOPATEA DYING. Glorious victim of my magic ! Ruined by my potent spell, From the world's imperial station Have I dragged thee down to Hell! Fallen chieftain ! unthroned monarch ! Lost through doting love for me! Fast, on shades of night eternal, Wings my soul its flight to thee! Caesar shall not grace his triumph With proud Egypt's captive queen ! Soothed to sleep by aspic kisses, Soon my heart on thine shall lean. Soon my life, like lotus-blossoms, Swift shall glide on Charon's stream; Clasped once more in thy embraces, Love shall prove an endless dream. Iris ! Charmian ! Bind my tresses ! Place the crown above my brow ! Touch these hands and take these kisses - Antony reproves not now! Gods ! my lips breathe poisoned vapors ! They have struck my Charmian dead! Foolish minion ! durst precede me Where my spirit's lord has fled? None shall meet his smile before me, None within his arms repose; Be his heart's impassioned fires Quenched upon my bosom's snows ! None shall share his burning kisses Ere I haste me to his side! Octavia's tears may prove her widowed — Cleopatra's still his bride! SUSAN BLAN CHARD ELDER. 131 See, my courage claims the title ! Closer pressed the aspic fangs — Memories of his quickening touches Sweeten now these deadly pangs ! Honor, manhood, glory's teachings — All he bartered for my smile ! Twined his heart-strings round my fingers, Vibrant to a touch the while; Followed fast my silver rudder, Fled from Caesar's scornful eye, Heeded not his bleeding honor, Glad upon my breast to lie ! Then I snared him in my meshes, Bound him with my wily art, From the head of conquering legions Snatched him captive to my heart. Wild his soul at my caresses ! Weak his sword at my command ! Eome with fury saw her mightiest Bowed beneath a woman's hand! Noblest of the noble Eomans ! Greatest of the Emperors three ! Thou didst fling away a kingdom, Egypt gives herself to thee ! Sweet as balm; most soft and gentle Drains the asp my failing breath ! Antony, my lord ! my lover ! Stretch thy arms to me in death, Guide me through these deepening shadows ! Faint my heart, and weak my knee ! Glorious victim ! ruined hero ! Cleopatra dies for thee ! MRS. M. B. HAY. RS. HAY, well known throughout the South by her poems and prose, which display talent, sometimes lacking in finish and study, was born in New York, but her parents removed to Kentucky during her infancy, and she was raised in the South. She is descended from English and Irish parentage. Her mother's father was Scotch, by name of Wilson, and a relative of the celebrated " Christopher North." She is related, on her father's side, to General Andrew Jackson, to whom she is said to have a strong family and personal resemblance. She was married at the age of sixteen to the Rev. A. L. Hay, and accompanied her husband, who went as mis- sionary to the Indians, among whom she spent eight years. Her life has been spent in arduous duties, and writing has been only an occasional recreation. She has not had the leisure to devote to her pen, to cultivate imagination or indulge in aesthetic taste. She has written many articles of practical or local interest, having been obliged, by circumstances, to lay aside inclinations and taste, and con- sequently has wooed the Muse but occasionally. Mrs. Hay has gained considerable reputation as a teacher of mathe- matics, and has written an arithmetic, which was highly complimented by the professors who examined it. Mrs. Hay is at this time a resident of Shreveport, La. The following sonnet, which appeared in the first number of the " Crescent Monthly," JSTew Orleans, received many merited encomiums. ASPASIA. Aspasia ! fair Miletian, thou art wreathed With all a woman's heart can wish, the dower Of classic beauty fair, illumed with power Of intellect. From thy red lips are breathed Wisdom's deep tones, to woman scarce bequeathed. Fame brings thee brilliant wreaths of jewels rare, To wind with passion-flowers amid thy hair ; With Love's rich wine thy heart's deep thirst relieved. Yet lackest thou the gem whose glorious sheen Would o'er them all a heaven-born splendor roll — 132 GERTRUDE A, CANFIELD. 133 The gem that from Cleomene's pale brow doth gleam — The virgin whiteness of a holy soul. Her crown of pure white lilies shall as diamonds beam : Upon thy brow shall rest shame's darkest scroll. 1869. GERTRUDE A. CANFIELD. MRS. GERTRUDE AUGUSTA CANFIELD is a native of Vicks- burg, Miss. She was born in 1836, and on the second marriage of her mother, removed with her to the Parish of Rapides, La., where she has since resided. In 1859 she married, and her husband, the gal- lant Major Canfield, was killed in leading a desperate charge at the battle of Mansfield, April 8th, 1864. No man in Rapides was more universally liked and respected than Major Canfield, and the tribute of honor to his memory was general and spontaneous throughout the parish where he had resided and practised his profession — the law. Few among our war-stricken people have suffered more deeply than Mrs. Canfield. The loss of husband and children, the utter destruc- tion of all her property, the necessity of providing for the wants of a helpless family, would have utterly overwhelmed a woman of less energy than herself. To this last circumstance (the struggle for sup- port) is owing, in a great measure, the shortness and infrequency of her published writings. The few which have appeared in the " Louisiana Democrat" and New Orleans " Crescent" are marked by a sentiment and sensibility of a true poetic order. They convey the idea of culture, and a fancy which only scatters these slight lyrics from an abundance which will yet mature a work of more depth and pretension. But it is from Mrs. Canfield's unpublished writings that her friends draw the clearest prestige of her future literary success. A novel yet in manuscript (the publication having been delayed for a time) is marked by a force, a pathos, and a purity which must give her a high place among Southern writers. It is a tale which none but a woman could have written, from the insight it gives into a woman's heart and hidden springs of action ; but it is also filled with characters and details masculine in their grasp of thought and treat- ment. When " My Cousin Anne " is published, we feel confident that the author will receive her reward, in part at least. We add purity as the crowning grace, for among the sensational and decollete writings of the present day, her mode of creation comes to us as a new revelation. 134 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. Mrs. Canfield's lyrics are, many of them, spirited and good. They do not appear to be the result of deep thought and careful combina- tion, but spontaneous outbursts which seek rhythmical cadences as the natural music of the song. What she has done already is nothing but an imperfect interpretation of powers, to which we look for more sustained effort and fuller work. 1368. M. B. W. IN THE TRENCHES. It was on a cold sleety night of March, 1865, that in one room of a large tenement-house in Richmond a good fire and bright light were burning — a cir- cumstance worthy to be " made a note on," such luxuries as fire and light not being by any means common in the beleaguered capital, where wood was scarce and dear, coal scarcer and dearer, and money (that would buy anything) scarcest and dearest of all. The lights were " tallow dips," it is true, but they were tolerably numerous, and judiciously disposed to give as much bril- liancy to the scene as possible ; and the red glow of the fire was, on so cold and dark a night, a luxury and beauty of the first order. Nor was this all. The light shone upon a pretty picture of household comfort, such as no one would have expected in a tenement-house in Richmond in 1865 ; that last dreadful year of our dreadful struggle, when the exhausted and undermined Confederacy tottered to its fall ; when want was rife in palaces, and • gaunt famine crouched on fireless hearths where, till then, the cheery blaze and the hospitable feast had never lacked. The building of which we write had not been originally a tenement-house, but the residence of an opulent family whom the chances and changes of war had driven from their home, leaving behind them all the comforts and luxuries to which they had been accustomed ; so that the room was prettily and even elegantly furnished. In the centre of the room was a table, and on that table — oh, sight rare and delectable! — was arranged a supper that would have rejoiced the soul of an epicure even in long past and almost for- gotten " good times." White sugar, heaped in snowy profusion, a rare old china bowl, real coffee — none of your wretched substitutes of rye, potatoes, corn-meal, etc., but the genuine Mocha — shed its grateful aroma through the bright tin spout of the coffee-pot on the hearth ; the white china tea-pot flanked it on the other side, while at the foot of the table stood a juicy ham ; golden butter occupied the centre ; white rolls and biscuits, sweet-cakes and preserves filled up the in- tervals, and fragrant honey shed the odor of summer-flowers on the wintry air. How on earth, I hear my incredulous readers exclaim, did such a num- ber of good things meet together in Richmond, in 1865 ? It happened in this wise : The tenement-house was crowded from attic to cellar with refugees GEETEUDE A. CANFIELD. 135 from all parts of the adjacent country, and each one had contributed her quota to the feast. One had given the sugar, nearly half the small quantity brought from home, and jealously hoarded in case of sickness ; another had spared the coffee from a sick husband's hospital stores ; another had sent the juicy ham smuggled in from the country by a faithful contraband ; and the pickles, preserves, honey, etc., came from similar sources. Kind and generous hearts ! Of their little, each had spared a portion to enhance the young wife's inno- cent festival. Old Virginia ! immortal Old Virginia ! cypress mingles with and overshades her laurels, and her soil sounds hollow with the graves of her noblest sons ; but, at least, she has a glorious record to show ; and beside the red blazonry of her world- famed battle-fields shines the gentler and more tender, yet equally eternal lustre of her heroic women's deeds of love and charity. And the little feast, contributed from a dozen generous sources, is in honor of one of Virginia's brave defenders — one who had spent all the nights of this cold, sleety March in the trenches before Petersburg — who slept, if he slept at all last night, on the cold, wet ground ; but who should press to-night, please God ! a softer, warmer couch. The long-desired, long-solicited furlough is granted at last; and to-night the husband rejoins the wife, not seen for six long months. A few brief days of happiness they will share, even amidst war's universal desolation — forgetting the past, defying the future, they will be happy in the present. No wonder the young wife's eyes glisten, and her cheek flushes, and her breath comes quick and hurried, as she glances now at the clock, now at the table, and anon, with a fonder, more lingering look, at a tiny cradle drawn close to the glowing hearth, in which sleeps a chubby boy of four months old. Four months old, yet never seen by his father ! Oh, what pure delight to show her boy, her first-born, to the author of his being! — to witness the father's proud joy! — to share his rapturous caresses! Tears of exquisite happiness — "the rapture trembling out of woe" — stole down the young wife's cheek as she bent beside her infant's cradle, and breathed her lowly, heart-felt " Thank God ! " At that instant her ear caught the distant sound of approaching wheels — she knew it was near the hour when the last train from Petersburg would be in: doubtless her husband was a passenger in that train — doubtless it was his vehicle now drawing near. Yes ; she is right — the carriage stops before the house — there is a knock at the street- door — it opens, and steps ascend the stairs — nearer — nearer — nearer yet. She starts to her feet, and, with neck outstretched, fixed eye, and ear intent, she stands like a statue of expectation. But when the step pauses before her door, with one bound she is across the room, and, without waiting for a knock, throws the door open, prepared to fling her arms around her husband's neck. A stranger stands before her — he places a small slip of paper in her hand, and turns away. He is a messenger from the telegraph office — it is a tele- graphic dispatch. She opens it — what does she read? "Your husband was killed in the trenches before Petersburg this afternoon at three o'clock." 136 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OP THE SOUTH. No more — no less ! No more was needed to hurl her from a heaven of happiness to a hell of woe — no less could tell the tale! In the trenches ! While she prepared to welcome her long-absent with light, and warmth, and feasting — with tender est caresses, joyous smiles, and the sweet laughter of his unseen child, he lay dead in those cold, dreary trenches ! There slain — there buried ! Never after to be seen by her — never again to have his clay- cold lips pressed by the frenzied warmth of hers — never to lay a blessing on his infant's head ! Dead in the trenches ! While the words of thanksgiving yet trembled on her lips, came the sudden tempest, uprooting her every hope — the stern, relentless answer of inexorable destiny to her prayer. What wonder if, with the wild, piercing shriek of desperate woe that rang through every corner of the startled house, there went out from that darkened soul all hope, all faith, all religion? Draw the curtain in mercy over such a scene ! Into how many desolated homes — could we, Asmodeus-like, have looked during those terrible four years — should we have beheld the same fatal message carry horror and despair -to millions of anguished hearts? And can these things ever be forgotten or forgiven? "Vengeance is mine," saith the Lord ; " I will repay it." " How long, Lord, how long / " ELLEN A. MORIAKTY. WE believe, firmly, that there is much in a name, and are as often attracted by the name of a writer as the title of the article. The name of " Moriarty " is attractive and inviting. Miss Moriarty came to America when very young ; was educated in the North, and, on leaving school, came to the South, and has resided here for nine years, no inconsiderable portion of her life. Miss Eliza Moriarty, well known in the North as a poet of much promise, is a sister to the subject of this article. Miss Ellen Moriarty writes cleverly. Her poems are generally " hasty," but, with some corrections, do very well, and now and then she is brilliant. Her stories are excellent. We think that she is a better prose-writer than a poet ; but as a poet, far above mediocrity. We look forward to seeing Miss Ellen ranking very high among the writers of the country ; and with close application and study, it will not be a great while before her name will be lauded as a " rising star " in the horizon of literature. Her modesty and quiet dignity has kept her from being paraded conspicuously before the world ; but we still hope and expect that good time to come when true merit will not go unrewarded, and "glitter" be given its true place. ELLEN A. MOKIARTY. 137 Miss Ellen Moriarty has contributed to various periodicals, North and South ; recently to Miles O'Reilly's " Citizen," under her own name and various noms deplume — "Evangeline" and "LucyEllice" among others. She is now living near Baton Rouge, La. 1868. AX OLD STORY. Ah! my love, how many a day I have gone down to the ocean-side, And lingered there, till in twilight gray The sunshine sank in the darkening tide. And I'd watch the white sails come and go, And hear from afar the mariner's song; And I'd weep, I'd weep, for I loved you so, My heart was sad, and the days were long. Ah! my love, when the proud ship bore Your true love from the land away; You did not dream, ere the year was o'er, The one you loved would that love betray. But a mother's sighs, and a sire's command, And the yellow gold in the balance hung, And a faithless heart and a faithless hand Were bartered away by a faithless tongue. My love ! my love ! and we met once more 'Mid the light and song and the merry dance; But the hope and the joy of the past were o'er, And I shrank from the gleam of your scornful glance. How I loathed the diamonds that decked my brow, How my soul turned sick in the pomp and glare ; I had won them all with a broken vow — Won them! — to purchase a life's despair! 18 MRS. E. M. KEPLINGER. (" Queen of Hearts.") MRS. E. M. KEPLINGER, whose maiden name was Patterson, is a native of Baltimore, Mel., of German descent by the paternal line. Her parents died when she was so young, she has no recollection of them, and amid the miseries of orphanage she began the life which seems to have ever been shaded by sorrow. Gentle, yielding, and sen- sitive in her nature, she has felt more keenly the harshness of fate ; and there is a sadness in her face which plainly shows she has suffered. At an early age she was married in Mobile to Samuel Keplinger, of Baltimore. Amid all the chilling realities of life, Mrs. Keplinger seems to have lived in the ideal, and through all her sad years she has been wedded to the beautiful in art and literature. Her mind, naturally brilliant, has been well stored with the gems of learning, and the productions of her pen have acquired for her a desirable position among the " writers of the Crescent City." Her first poem, "The Brigand's Bride," written in the eighteenth year of her age, and published some time after in the "Southern Ladies' Book," attracted notice ; and from the time of its publication her effusions have been welcomed for the beauty, feeling, and grace they embody. For many years Mrs. Keplinger has been a teacher in the public schools of New Orleans. Her amiability and warm heart have won for her a large circle of admiring friends, and as she possesses a char- acter noted for firmness, she has the rare ability to retain old friends under all vicissitudes of fortune, while her worth and intelligence are constantly enlarging friendship's shining band. A true Southern woman, during the "reign of Butler "in New- Orleans she resigned her position as teacher, her only means of sup- port, and went to the uncertainty and privations of a life in the Con- federacy. Like an angel of mercy, she labored faithfully in the hos- pitals, and many a dying prayer breathed her name, and many a liv- 138 E. M. KEPLINGER. 139 ing soldier has cause to bless the tenderness of heart that bade her willing feet into those wards of disease and death. After the surrender of the Confederate troops she returned to New Orleans, poor, broken in spirits by the defeat of her hopes, and more saddened with the terrible scenes she had witnessed. Her talents pro- cured her a friend and a patron in the lamented W. H. C. King, who paid her liberally for contributions to his paper, the "Sunday Times." A critic, in noticing her contributions, speaks of " Queen of Hearts " as the "genial, touching, and sweetly natural." Yet "Queen of Hearts" has not written for fame; but for "lucre." Her contributions to the "Sunday Times" were written under many disadvantages, most of them when her energies were exhausted, her brain weary with a day of care in the school-room. Writing for pleasure and writing from necessity are very different ; and Mrs. Keplinger's efforts need polish- ing and pruning. 1869. OVER THE RIVER. 'Twas a beautiful land! It arose in my dream, Verdant, and varied, and flashing in light; Choral with songs of many a stream, That sung itself on to the ocean of night. Ferryman, ferryman, row me across To that beauteous land on the other side : This river ! — it runs like a wave of floss Through the beauteous land mine eye hath descried. O'er the calm waters gliding away, Lightly the rower sways to the oar; Ha! my warm cheek is moist with the spray: Nearer we draw to the beautiful shore ! The glorious land which appeared to my view — Its zephyry clouds like mountains below, Floating far down the ether of blue, Golden, and crimson, and azure, and snow. And the river's still singing e'ermore to the sea, Or sleeping in shade while the bright stars look down, Hushed by the sound of their own melody, Giving back to the night-queen her silvery crown. 140 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. What is this change that comes over my sight? Where are the fields and the forests of pride? Where are the valleys all glowing in light? The beauteous land which mine eye hath descried. Ah, these are pure waters ! No more shall I thirst ! The cooling wavelet, it meeteth my hand; Out from the hill-side the clear drops burst; I stoop ! but it fades in the bedded sand. I must tarry awhile ! We will moor the bark here — Crossing the river at eventide; Far distant those beautiful shores appear, Which seemed but to border the river's side. Well ! I must on. 'T is a desolate way ; Night cometh, too ! Ah I where is the land ? How distant ! how dim ! how it fadeth away ! It seemed by this winding river spanned. Chill comes the north wind ; I falter ! No light ! Still wander I on. No gleaming of day ; The beautiful land fades afar from my sight; Surely those mists must have led me astray ! " Ah ! there 's a river far darker than this — Shrink not ! Its waves bear thee out to the shore Of the beautiful land — to thy vision of bliss ; They who have crossed it return nevermore. " Shudder not, traveller ! No ill doth betide Thy bark on the shores of that perilous sea; High rolls the wave, but sure is the guide Who waits on the banks of that river for thee." Back o'er the waters my vision flits by! False were the meteors that led me astray ; My beautiful land, with its bright gilded sky, I sought it all over life's desolate way. MKS. LOUISE CLACK. THE subject of this sketch, Mrs. Louise Clack, #f New Orleans, is a Northerner by birth ; but having been from her infancy associated with the South by the ties of interest and relationship, she was, in feeling, a Southerner, even before her marriage, at a very early age, with Mr. Clack, of Norfolk, Va., made her in heart and soul indissolubly united to our country and our people. Since her marriage, her con- stant residence at the South, her love for its people, and her devotion to and sufferings for its cause, have made her, to all intents and purposes, a Southerner, and fully entitled to a place among Southern writers. Up to the commencement of the war, the current of her life glided on as smooth and smiling as a summer sea. The wife of a prosperous lawyer in New Orleans, her time was passed in the pursuit of innocent pleasures, in dispensing elegant hospitalities among her numerous friends, and in the delightful cares of wifehood and maternity. It is well said that " the happiest nations have no history ; " and if this be true of nations, it is certainly no less true of individuals. When " halcyon broods over the face of the deep ; " when not a storm disturbs the deep serenity of the soul ; when not a cloud so large as a man's hand glooms on the horizon of the future — what then can the historian or the biographer find to say ? But when calamity comes ; when danger threatens ; when the " times that try men's souls " are upon us, and we see the spirit of a "weak woman" arise in the ma- jesty of its strength to confront disaster and battle single-handed with adverse fortune, what nobler theme could poet or historian desire ? Such is an epitome of the life we would portray ; a life, alas ! too like in its leading features to the lives of thousands more of our unfortu- nate countrywomen during and since the late terrible struggle. When Beauregard's call for aid rang trumpet-like through the length and breadth of our land, Col. Clack raised and equipped a battalion of volunteers, and hastened to join our hard-beset army at Corinth. From that time the subject of our sketch endured what many another anguished heart was at the same time suffering. To know that the one cherished idol of her soul was severed from her side, exposed daily, hourly, to desperate danger ; never to know what moment might bring 141 142 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. the tidings of his death ; to lie down at night with the unspoken but heartfelt prayer that morning might not bring the dreaded tale ; to rise at morning from dreams haunted by visions of battle and slaugh- ter — with the awful thought that night might close over her a widowed mother, and alas ! after hoping, fearing, dreading, praying for three long years, at last came the fatal blow which, as no fears could hasten, so no hopes, no prayers could avert. Col. Clack fell at the battle of Mansfield, in the desperate charge made by Minton's brigade on the enemy's batteries, when many a hero's soul passed from the bloody field to the arms of attending seraphs. When the sad news reached his widow, she was a refugee from New Orleans. To the pangs of her awful bereavement were added those of exile. It was while in this desolate and forlorn condition that her first literary work was produced. Until now, beyond an ardent love for, and a keen appreciation of the beauties of literature, she had no claim to the title of " literary ; " but now an intense longing for " something apart from the sphere of her sorrow" — something that should lift her out of, wrench her away from the ever-present, torturing subject of her re- grets, together with pecuniary necessity, induced her to prepare a volume for the press. " Our Refugee Household " was the result — a book which unites, in a charming manner, the sad experiences of the writer with the loveliest creations of fiction and fancy. It is a string of pearls strung on a golden thread. The varied characters and chang- ing fortunes of the little " Refugee Household ; " the heart-breaking trials and imminent perils to which they were exposed, form a ground- work of intense interest, upon which the lively fancy of the writer has erected a superstructure of fairy-like beauty and elegance. In addi- tion to her first work, Mrs. Clack has also published a Christmas story- book for children, which bears the title of " General Lee and Santa Claus" — a tiny volume, which unites in its limited space sound pa- triotic feeling with the frolic fancies so dear to little folks. And she has, we believe, now in press a much more elaborate work than either of the above ; one which we hope will place her fame on an enduring pedestal for the admiration of posterity. November 5th, 1870, (since the above notice was written,) Mrs. Clack was married to Mr. M. Richardson, of New Orleans. With this brief sketch, we present to our readers the following specimen of her poetical powers, which will, of itself, speak sufficiently in their praise, without the addition of a word from us. LOUISE CLACK. 143 THE GRANDMOTHER'S FADED FLOWER. " Oh, grandmother dear, a masquerade ball ! A ball, I do declare I I'll robe myself rich in costume of old, In a train, and powdered hair." And a beautiful girl of sixteen years Knelt by her grandmother's chest; While that stately dame, in a high-backed chair, Smiled at each timely jest. Brocades, and silks, and satins antique Were strewn in confusion rare Round the fair young girl, while diamond and pearl She wound in her bright brown hair. "What's this? what's this?" she jestingly cried, Holding high a faded flower; " Why treasure it here, my grandmother dear, With relics of bridal dower ? " "My child, it is dearer far to me Than silk, or satin, or pearl ; For it 'minds me well of vanished hours, Of hours when I was a girl. " Ay, well I remember the day, ' lang syne,' When my first love, last love — gone — Came to my side with this then fresh flower ; 'Twas a beautiful spring-like morn, "But he's gone before — yes, many a year! Hush, Flo ! the pearls are thine ; I '11 meet him yet in perennial spring : Don't crush the flower — it's mine." And the fair girl gazed in mute surprise At the tear and flushing cheek ; Kissed the tear away, then her thoughts stray To the ball of the coming week. The ball is o'er — a pure white bud Flo folds to her throbbing breast; She has learned the power of the faded flower She found in her grand-dame's chest. 1869. G. A. C MRS. MARY ASHLY TOWNSEND. THE genius, gracefulness, and spirit which characterized certain contributions published in the " New Orleans Delta," over the nom de plume of " Xariffa," sixteen or seventeen years ago, when that journal was conducted by Judge Alexander Walker, excited much in- terest and curiosity at the time in literary circles, as to the identity of the no less modest than gifted writer. An eager inquiry at last discovered that "Xariffa " was a young lady just passing the threshold of womanhood ; and that though connected by ties of kindred with many of the oldest and best families in Louis- iana, and thoroughly imbued with the taste, sentiments, and ideas of Southern society, she was by birth and education a Northerner. A native of New York, Mrs. Townsend was of the ancient and honor- able stock of the Van Wickles, of New Jersey, and the Van Voorhises, of Duchess County, New York. Her mother, the daughter of Judge J. C. Van Wickle, of Spotswood, New Jersey, is a lady of fine mind herself, and distinguished for her elegance of manner and generous hospitality. She is still living at Lyons, New York, the birthplace of " Xariffa." In the very bloom of her literary fame and promise, Miss Van Voorhis formed a matrimonial alliance with Mr. Gideon Town- send, an energetic and intelligent gentleman, who, though of an active and business character and much absorbed in the struggles of commer- cial life, always manifested a warm sympathy with and high apprecia- tion of the literary tastes and pursuits of his talented wife. The happy and congenial couple now live in New Orleans, sur- rounded by a most interesting family, including a bright little daugh- ter, who is already an authoress at the age of thirteen* and gives pro- mise of unusual brilliancy and vigor of intellect. Since her first ap- pearance in the " Delta," Mrs. Townsend, or rather " Xariffa," as she prefers to be known in her literary relations, has been a regular con- tributor to many of the leading journals and magazines of the day, and a successful essayist in some of our ablest Reviews. In the " Delta," the " Crossbone Papers," which were widely copied and com- mended ; " Quillotypes," a series of short essays, which were attributed, * " Under the Stones," by Cora Townsend. Published in New York, 1867. 144 MARY ASHLY TOWNSEND. 145 on account of their vigor and power, to the pen of one of the opposite sex, excited special attention and admiration. " My Penny Dip," a humorous tale or sketch, was published throughout the country and ascribed to various authors, and, returning at last to New Orleans, re- appeared in the " True Delta " as " My Penny Dip, by Henry Rip," a fit name for so bold an appropriator of the product of another's genius. In 1859, Derby & Jackson, New York, published " The Brother Clerks, a Tale of New Orleans, by ," which was Mrs. Townsend's first book. It was moderately successful. In 1870, J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia, published " Xariffa's Poems " — a collection of one hundred poems. The volume is tenderly inscribed "To my Mother." It was favorably reviewed by many pleased critics. One writer, comparing " Creed " with the poet lau- reate's " Maud," states : " Mrs. Townsend is by no means passionless ; but her passion is not ob- trusive, and, therefore, it never offends the most fastidious taste. She has, what is better and higher than passion — what is a well-spring of truer poetry — an infinite fountain of purely human tenderness and sympathy. She has, too, that divine melancholy ) that sweet suggestive sadness, which Poe declares to be the soul of poetry. As to style, she especially excels in richness and variety of coloring." " Xariffa's " poems, while they are emotional, never degenerate into mere sentimentality. In the volume we have that tenderness, grace, and sweetness, the soft, clear, sunny charm, and the inborn and in- woven harmony, which are latent to the poetic constitution of Mary Ashly Townsend. We cannot, however, in the narrow compass of this sketch, enume- rate the many productions of Mrs. Townsend's pen. Besides prose sketches, she ranks high as a poetess. Her poems evince originality, imagination, taste, and power of harmonious versification. Some specimens of these, which accompany this sketch, will give an idea of her poetic gifts and powers. We confess, however, to a preference for her prose writings. In pleasant sketches of character and scenery, in quiet humor and gentle satire, her smooth, even style and euphonious yet vigorous sentences never fail to enlist interest, to hold the atten- tion of the reader, and to leave a most agreeable impression of the sound sense and pure heart of the accomplished writer. It is much to be regretted that family cares and duties should deprive the public, 19 146 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. and especially her immediate circle of friends and admirers, of the more frequent enjoyment which her pleasant contributions to our peri- odical literature must always afford to those who can appreciate and admire genius, wit, high mental and moral culture, and good taste, so happily blended with all the social and domestic virtues, as they are in the subject of this sketch. 1870. EBB AND FLOW. i. The morn is on the march — her banner flies In blue and golden glory o'er the skies; The songs of wakening birds are on the breeze / The stir of fragrant zephyrs in the trees; Waves leap full-freighted to the sunny shore, Their scrolls of snow and azure written o'er With hope, and joy, and youth, and pleasures new, While surges fast the sands with jewels strew — The tide is in. II. The stars shine down upon a lonely shore; The crested billows sparkle there no more; Poor bits of wreck and tangled sea-weed lie With empty shells beneath the silent sky. Along the shore are perished friendships spread, In Hope's exhausted arms lies Pleasure dead; A life lies stranded on the wreck-strewn beach, The ebbing waves beyond its feeble reach — The tide is out. CEEED. i. I believe, if I should die, And you should kiss my eyelids when I lie Cold, dead, and dumb to all the world contains, The folded orbs would open at thy breath, And from its exile in the Isles of Death Life would come gladly back along my veins. MARY ASHLY TOWNSEND. 147 II. I believe, if I were dead, And you upon my lifeless heart should tread, Not knowing what the poor clod chanced to be, It would find sudden pulse beneath the touch Of him it ever loved in life so much, And throb again warm, tender, true to thee. in. I believe, if on my grave, Hidden in woody deeps or by the wave, Your eyes should drop some warm tears of regret, From every salty seed of your dear grief Some fair, sweet blossom would leap into leaf To prove death could not make my love forget. IV. I believe, if I should fade Into those mystic realms where light is made, And you should long once more my face to see, I would come forth upon the hills of night, And gather stars like fagots, till thy sight, Led by their beacon blaze, fell full on me ! v. I believe my faith in thee, Strong as my life, so nobly placed to be, I would as soon expect to see the sun Fall like a dead king from his height sublime, His glory stricken from the throne of Time, As thee unworth the worship thou hast won. VI. I believe who has not loved Hath half the treasure of his life unproved; Like one who, with the grape within his grasp, Drops it, with all its crimson juice unpressed, And all its luscious sweetness left unguessed, Out from his careless and unheeding clasp. 148 LIVING FEMALE WRITE ES OF THE SOUTH. Vil. I believe love, pure and true, Is to the soul a sweet, immortal dew That gems life's petals in its hours of dusk : The waiting angels see and recognize The rich Crown-Jewel, Love, of Paradise, When life falls from us like a withered husk. MRS. FLORENCE J. WILLAKD IS the authoress of a novel published in London in 1862, and in 1869 republished with the imprint of A. Eyrich, New Orleans — entitled "The Heroism of the Confederacy ; or, Truth and Justice," by Miss Flor- ence J. O'Connor, which was the maiden name of Mrs. Willard. She is a native of Louisiana, and, before the war, contributed to the « Mirror," a paper edited by Mr. Mark F. Bigney, now editor of the "New Orleans Times." She has contributed lengthy poems to the New Orleans " Sunday Times," signed with her initials, (" F. J. W.") In 1869, she published a volume of poems in Canada. She was in Paris during the late siege. A Northern paper thus reviews " her" novel: " The picture she draws of Louisiana society before the war is gorgeous in the extreme. All day long ' in halls of polished marble, with beautifully carved doors, which an inhabitant of the Orient might envy,' women robed in point-lace and diamonds, and more beautiful than an angel's dream, and men of a distingue-ness altogether beyond words, discuss, in language which the benighted Northern mind finds it difficult to comprehend, politics, love, and war, the excellence of slavery, the crimes and insolence and treachery of the black-hearted Yankee, the long-suffering patience and magnanimity of the down-trodden South. Around them, respectfully admiring and drink- ing deep draughts of political wisdom from their sparkling converse, stand eager representatives of the titled aristocracy of Europe, glad to be recog- nized as their social peers — among whom a real French count and an un- doubted English earl are conspicuous by their flashing coronets and their chivalric disregard of grammar. In deference to these distinguished — we beg Miss O'Connor's pardon, distingue — foreigners, much of the conversation is conducted in French of singular impurity and incorrectness ; in fact, it appears to be of that variety known in New Orleans as bumboat French — whereupon the Gallic nobleman shows he can be as resplendently ungram- matical in his own sweet tongue as in the ruder speech of perfidious Albion. FLORENCE J. WILLAED. 149 No one talks for less than half an hour at a time, and it seems to be a point of honor with each to use only the longest words ; and the only pauses in the elo- quent strife are when the doors of the salle a manger (there were no dining- rooms in that favored land) were thrown open, disclosing ' banquets that the most fastidious disciple of Epicurus,' etc. etc. So ' the hours rolled on in revelry' until the war-cloud bursts : the tocsin peals, and so does the Southern hero. The brilliant pageant vanishes, and in its stead we have the hideous apparition of the beast Butler and the monster Farragut." In conclusion, as a sample of Mrs. Willard's verse, we offer the fol- lowing lines on " Rip Van Winkle," written after seeing Mr. McKee Rankin perform that part : RIP VAN WINKLE. More, alas ! than Rip Van Winkle Waken from a sleep of woe, To find all they loved and cherish' d Have forgot them long ago. Not alone in Sleepy Hollow Is this painful scene or change; But o'er all the earth are Derricks — Gertrudes live where women reign. II. Oh! how often has one harsh word Rent asunder human tie, And sent forth a lonely outcast 'Neath the bitter blast to die. Rip Van Winkle is but type of Those who wake from feeling's sleep, Finding all is disappointment Where'er death or change doth creep. Ill, Twenty years ! this surely long is ; I would give my best friends ten : Were I not forgotten wholly, They were not the sons of men. 150 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. All have slept who wake to sorrow; Aching limbs and frosty head Come not with Time's icy imprint But when true affection's dead. IV. Poor Rip found his musket rusty: It fell from his weak grasp down ; But he found e'en hearts decaying When he reach'd his native town; And he found the snows of winter Had not only strew'd his head, But the graves of the departed, Sleeping with the silent dead. Y. Happy they, who, like Van Winkle, Find true hearts with them, and pass In a foaming cup forgiving, Holding to their lips the glass. Though in age and tatter' d garments He quaff'd on unto the end, Hoping "friends live well and prosper," The cup, until the last, his friend. December, 1870. JEANNETTE R. HADERMANN. FORGIVEN AT LAST," a novel, (Philadelphia, 1870,) the first book of Miss Jeannette R. Hadermann, who resides near Lake St. Joseph, Tensas Parish, La. This novel was a " first book," and, it has been stated, was partly autobiographical. It was received with some favor, sufficiently so to invite another effort. Miss Hadermann's con- tributions to the New Orleans " Sunday Times," under the pseudonym of " Ann Atom," are excellent and well-written sketches. Miss Hadermann was born in New Jersey, the younger daughter of an Episcopal clergyman, who removed to Natchez, Miss., while the subject of this notice was a child, where he was for some time a pro- fessor in Jefferson College. February, 1871. CATHARINE F. WINDLE. MRS. CATHARINE FORRESTER WINDLE is the daughter of the Rev. William Ashmead, deceased. At the time of his death, Rev. Mr. Ashmead was pastor of the Second Presbyterian Church of Charleston, S. C, and was eminent as a pulpit orator and litterateur. The reputation and characteristics of this distinguished clergyman are perpetuated in a biographical sketch in Dr. Sprague's " American Pulpit," as well as by a memorial tablet in the church alluded to. The elaborate inscription of the latter is from the pen of the lamented Hugh S. Legare, of South Carolina. A duplicate of this tablet is erected in the First Presbyterian Church of Lancaster, Penn- sylvania, over which congregation Mr. Ashmead at one time presided, and which last-named State was the birthplace of his daughter Catha- rine. Mrs. Ashmead, who was a daughter of Dr. Alexander Forrester, of Wilmington, Delaware, was noted for her literary tastes and talents. The natural heritage, therefore, of the subject of this notice was a fondness for letters. At an early age, Miss C. F. Ashmead commenced her literary publicity at the North, where she was educated, as a con- tributor to " Graham's " and " Sartain's " magazines, then highly pop- ular serials of light literature. Subsequently, she published a volume of poems. In February, 1849, she married Mr. George W. Windle, of Wil- mington, Delaware, and they immediately afterward became residents of New Orleans. From this time until 1861, Mrs. Windle wrote at intervals for the " Delta" and " True Delta." Mr. George W. Windle was a brother of Miss Mary J. Windle favorably known years ago as an author, but who for fifteen years has been a hopeless invalid, residing in Washington, D. C. The experiences of the war (during which four years she aided the cause of the South to the extent of her power), which added to her greater maturity of years and character, seem latterly to have deeply impressed Mrs. Windle with the earnestness of life. The serious religious and social problems of the marvellous age in which we live have attracted her interest, and, in such measure as circumstances have permitted, have instigated of late her efforts both of the pen and otherwise. In 1865, she gave a public lecture in New York and elsewhere, to advance 151 152 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH, a new and peculiar theory, "that woman is deputed by Nature to ac- complish the perfection of the human race." Mrs. Windle is a disciple of Victor Cousin and JoufTroy in phi- losophy, and a student of the writings of Herbert Spencer, Matthew Arnold, Professor Huxley, and Emerson. Mr. Windle died in Shreveport, La., April, 1870. Since her hus- band's death she has resided in New Orleans. The following is a specimen of her earlier poetical compositions : WHY DO I LOVE HIM ? " Why do I love him ? " Search the unfathomed well To find the sources whence its waters swell; Explore the mines, whose richest veins untold Give the first promise of their hidden gold ; Or seek in ocean for its parent stem Whereon once grew the polished coral gem. "Why do I love him?" Ask the evening star To waft its story from the realms afar; Or bid the flower that decorates the earth Kelate the wondrous history of its birth ; Or call departed spirits to return, And bear the tale of their untrodden bourne. "Why do I love him?" Let a mother tell Wherefore it is she loves her child so well; Let awful Deity assign a cause For loving man, a recreant to His laws ; But vainly ask not woman to impart The mystic secret of her plighted heart. NOVELS AND NOVELISTS. . . . The person of real culture beholds in fiction the highest of all arts — that through which not only human character and life may be justly repre- sented, as these have thus far in the progress of the race exhibited themselves in their various phases, but also as the fitting mirror of that sublime philos- ophy which underlies the incidental experience of all the individuals and CATHAKINE F. WINDLE. 153 generations of mankind — linking them as well together in one common brotherhood, as uniting them by the ties of vivid relationship to the stupen- dous universe of Infinite wisdom. In proportion to true mental (or shall I rather say moral ?) advancement, fictitious narrative affords enjoyment solely as it is created in accordance or otherwise with this, its lofty delegation. Its chief capacity of giving pleasure to the highest order of taste consists in its presenting those tenderer and diviner touches of nature by which the whole world is made kin ; nay, by which the whole system of worlds are conjoined with our humanity, ennobling and elevating it from the connection with a scheme of such magnitude and evident completeness. Of such novels we have had but few. Previously to this day of unique de- velopment in which we live, they have never hitherto been produced, nor could they earlier have met with any appreciative readers. They are the growth of a new era of scientific discovery, of religious thought and conviction, and of prophetic promise for mankind. Even now, portions of them — those, perhaps, which constitute in reality their exquisite merit — are overlooked, or sometimes even condemned by persons whose insight has not reached to their grand moral plane : readers not yet permeated with the new spiritual influence of an exalted humanitarianism, of which the suggestion in such fictions appears to them an absurdity, or a heresy, as the case may be, and not, as it truly is, the certain presage of the prevalence ultimately of a divine magnetism of general philanthropy and of reverence of our kind — the destined forces to regenerate our national globe. The novelist himself has undergone the " new birth " who has been able to insert such touches in his pages. And something of the same renovation must have been experienced by his reader before his productions can be properly appreciated. The free- masonry of his labor has its spiritual password, requiring initiation. The subtle depths in the human essence which he hath explored, and the sound- ings whereof he hath wrought in verisimilitude in his creations, only the responsive mind recognizes as faithful copies of latent gems existing in the invaluable mine of our common humanity, that shall one day come to light universally in the race, to glorify and exalt its future generations, and verify its relationship with Deity. Of the many fictions of Dickens, that which is incomparably his greatest production is held in proper estimation by but few. The author himself, however, I believe, would have claimed the " Tale of Two Cities " as his masterpiece, for he must have had a consciousness of its grandeur while writing it, and felt that he was employing his art under an unusual inspira- tion. But among the countless admirers of his novels, how small a number are there who would name this work, if called upon to designate their favorite in the long catalogue of his novels ! And yet, while neither in force nor in vigor, as a whole, has he written anything at all equal to it, the conception of Sidney Carton's self-sacrifice to the guillotine in order to save his successful rival, is the sublimest suggestion in the entire range of fiction. ... It stands 20 154 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. alone among the creations of the novelist, both for the most exquisite pathos worthily (instead of mawkishly) applied, and for the full exhibition of the sublime, as pertaining to our humanity. It indeed deserves the appellation of a new evangel. MRS. A. M. C. MASSENA. MRS. MASSENA has published one book, entitled " Marie's Mis- take," Boston, 1869. This work is presumed to be partly auto- biographical. Mrs. Massena's pseudonym is " Creole," and she has written con- siderable for various papers, and edited a paper in the interior of Louisiana. With her, "writing" is a profession, and she has vim and energy to succeed. She was born in New Orleans, July 4th, 1845, and made her debut as a writer in 1864. She resides in the parish of Plaquemine. 1871. MARY TERESA MALONY. MRS. MALONY is a remarkably ready writer — the mechanical construction of her verse is not always faultless, but nevertheless possesses the true ring of genius. Her frequent contributions to the New Orleans " Times," dated San Jose, CaL, over her full name or initials, have been extensively copied by the newspaper press from Maine to California. Mrs. Malony is a great admirer of the poems of Felicia Hemans, and some of her productions are too much imita- tions of the verse of this gifted lady. Her "stately verse" is very fine, as are her descriptive pieces. On account of the length of these poems, we are unable to quote. Mrs. Malony, whose maiden name was De Lacy, was born in Man- chester, England, in 1839. "While she was an infant her parents removed to New Orleans. The choirs of the Mississippi River, the hush of whose anthem dies on the lips of the Crescent City, were heard MAEY TEKESA MALONY, 155 first after her cradle song. Here was she married ; here were her five children born — (like Mrs. Hemans, she has four sons ;) — and at this time, sojourning in the " Golden Land," San Jose, California, she looks forward longingly to an early return to the "home of lang syne," within sight and hearing of the " Big River." 1871. DEAD IN THE STEEEAGE. Seven years old, and the delicate rays Of shaded Italian skies Faded then out from a dear smiling place — Her childish, beautiful eyes. She was but poor, with the foreign speech Of her parents' kindred land — ■ Strangers, and sorrowful, standing, each Just holding a small dead hand. The engine clanked — they were going slow — The waters grew shallow and green; They made her a grave, when the ship " lay to/ In the Mexican hills between. Her coffin was boards of the roughest pine, Unflowered, untinted of hue, But over and under they did entwine A flag of the starry blue. Into the long-boat lowered it — then The plash of the oars dipped low, Bearing it over the soft waves, when The sun was brightest at glow — When the sun was brightest, at summer glow, That never would set for her; The shoal was broad, like a glad young brow, And the bay- washed shells astir. Like pulses of some child-heart at play With the tides and throbs of life, There's where they made her a grave that day, Far, far from the days of strife. San Jose, Cal. 156 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. A HOME OF LANG SYNE. My father planted the China trees That cover its old roof o'er, And brothers and sisters played in the breeze That wandered by its door. But some are gone far over the seas, And some will play no more; They 're laving their wee tired feet in the waves That wash Eternity's shore. Well I remember the creeping vines, With their blossoms purpling through, And the roses, that laughed to the summer winds, And the violets sweet, that grew Near the little glass door, with its clear white panes, That charmed the sunlight through On the pine floor in shading stains, With many a varying hue. And the dim old loft, with its books " galore," That many an hour beguiled With their pictures of grim old kings of yore, And many a legend wild. And then the charms of the other old loft, All sweet with the new-mown hay, That tempted my wandering feet so oft To find where the hens would lay. And the wild, wild songs we used to sing, Coming from school in the field; Oh ! the joy that in their tones did ring No music on earth will yield. And the old oak-trees that grew in a clump That we were afraid to pass, Where the "ghost" who reigned might be only a stump, And the sounds the waving of grass. Don't you remember, dear L , the night That we had to pass it by — All the prayers we said — and the fright We suffered — you and I — A CRESCENT CITY COTERIE. 157 And how closer together we pressed, Walking as fast as we could? Ah! how happy we were — and blessed, When we were past the wood. How many woods, darker and drear, We meet in the journey of life, With no clasping hand to quiet our fear, But all alone in the strife! But we may remember the prayers we said, And walk straight on to the right, Until we come to the edge of the wood, And enter Eternity's light. >>©<< A CEESCENT CITY COTERIE. INHERE is much literary feeling in the city of New Orleans, and . numerous writers there reside. The literary journals — the " Sun- day Times" and the "Picayune" in particular — have always paid liberally their corps of special contributors. Among these writers, I will make mention of those not otherwise noted, who are prominent as promising litterateurs. MATILDA A. BAILEY. Mrs. Bailey has for over two years been a regular contributor to the " Times." A series of sketches entitled " Heart Histories," by " For- lorn Hope," have been very popular. Notwithstanding the adjective prefixed to the beautiful pseudonym, her articles are the embodiment of " hope." She has also written comic articles under the name of " Sam Waggle," which were attributed to a masculine pen. Mrs. Bailey is a daughter of Dr. F. R. Alpurente, a physician of New Orleans, where she was born. 158 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. FLORENCE BURCKETT. This young lady, yet in the " spring-time of life," writing, under the graceful pen-name of " Edith Lee," prose sketches, made her debut in the " Times " about the same time as Mrs. Bailey and Mrs. Dalsheimer, in 1868. Miss Burckett is the daughter of a merchant of New Orleans — was born in Vicksburg, Miss., and removed to the Crescent City in her childhood. MARY CRESAP. Mrs. Cresap was born in Kentucky. Her maiden name was Annie Mary Marshall. She was early married. For twenty years Mrs. Cresap has lived in New Orleans. Many of her poems have appeared in " Godey's Lady's Book," also in the New Orleans papers. She possesses dramatic talent, and has written several parlor dramas for the amusement of her friends. ALICE DALSHEIMER. Mrs. Dalsheimer is a native of the Crescent City. Her contributions to the "Times," principally poetical, under the name of "Salvia Dale," have elicited encomiums and encouraging predictions of future success. She is a teacher. The following verse is from a poem printed in the " Times " in the summer of 1870. MOTHERHOOD. Two little arms around my neck, In artless, fond caressing; Two little lips upon my own Sweet baby-kisses pressing; Two sparkling eyes that beam with love Which knows no doubt or fearing; A CRESCENT CITY COTEEIE. 159 A cooing voice that whispers soft Some lisping words endearing: These, these the spells that banish care, Life's sweetest solace bringing, And gratefully I clasp the joy From motherhood upspringing. MAEY GKEEN GOODALE. A quiet, almost a hidden life, leaves but little to be told which could possibly interest the public. Six years of incessant ministry in sick- rooms leaves few traces upon a life save those of sorrow or care. Since Miss Goodale first began to write verse — at the age of twelve — every emotion of her soul has found its most natural expression in verse. Under the name of " Edith Alston ," her poems have appeared in the journals of the day. She is a regular contributor to the " Picayune " — is a native of the city of New Orleans — expects to publish a volume of poems. I give two of her recent poems. MEPSISE. There was a spring, to which at dawn of day I went, and quaffs of sweetest coolness drew ; Then walked with firmer feet along the rugged way, Till day had fled, and softly fell the dew. Another draught at evening's quiet hour, Sent pleasant dreams to thread my gentle sleep, Till every weary limb had gained new power To climb the morrow's hills, however steep. One eve, the sun in more than gorgeous flame Had sunk to let the night o'erspread the sky, When I, full languid, to the fountain came — Alas ! its bed, its very source was dry ! ANSWERED. Pray for you? do I not always pray? Why, If it be cold, for you I ask for heat — Or if it should storm, that it may not beat 160 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. Upon you defenceless. I wake and cry At night to God, that His angels may fly Unto you to keep you, finding it sweet To be so near before Him. Spirits may greet When the body is distant. To be nigh, None saying " Nay ! " these hearts would mount so high They could not be reached. God, if it were meet, Could have it thus. When shall we turn our feet Into the same path? Time moves so slowly — And still, it will be yet, before we die — And then our joy will be so full — complete! Ti. But in all these years — through this delay, Will our God forget us, keeping so near As we do ? We say " Thy will," yet just here We sob, before whispering "be done." The way A child looks into mother eyes, to say Her fond heart — so I; that I may see clear Some faint wish arise, some kind thought appear, To teach me what to ask, for you — my stay — My one earth-comfort. How can I repay This love? Must I never show you how dear To me is your footfall — smile — at the mere Shadow of your passing ? Some birds use clay To build their nests : if so, I 'm sure I may Make earth-love lift me to a higher sphere. in. Your letter seemed to me a white-winged dove, And it lies on my breast all night and day. How I wish that I could in my turn say All my heart answers, so perfect in love, So Ml in devotion! How can I prove All these things to you, now you are away — No one else reads my heart — ay, although the fray Of cloth shows its texture, I do not move With their questions. Has not every grove Some glad bird to sing in it? So is the play Of your thoughts on my soul. Will you say, Nay, If I ask you for more — to sound above The world's din and care — all interwove — The sweet, with the bitter — love — when I pray ? A CEESCENT CITY COTEEIE. 161 SARAH C. YEISER. Sarah C. Yeiser, born Smith, is a native of Vermont. She came South in girlhood. In 1847 she married Dr. Philip Yeiser, of Alex- andria, La. Mrs. Yeiser has been a successful teacher in New Orleans for many years. Her contributions to the "Crescent," of New Orleans, were signed " Azelee ; " yet her nom de plume of " Aunt Charity " is more familiar to Southern readers. As a woman of scholastic attainments, Mrs. Yeiser deserves notice. Being a lover of God's grand handiwork, she has made the material world her lifelong study, and her familiarity with the science of nature is equalled by few scholars of either sex. SAMUELLA COWEN. MRS. CO WEN is the posthumous daughter of the Hon. Samuel Wright Mardis, member of Congress from the State of Alabama, and an eminent lawyer. She was born May 6th, 1842. While an infant, her family removed to New Orleans, where Samuella grew up, was educated, and was married. From an early age she evinced a talent for literary composition. Her first novelette was written for the " Mirror," a literary paper con- ducted by Mr. Bigney, the present editor of the New Orleans " Times." During the war, Mrs. Cowen made Richmond her sojourning place, as her husband was in the Virginia army. It w T as here she made her literary talent of monetary value by writing for the " Southern Lite- rary News." A novelette, entitled " Creola," attracted attention, and was reviewed in several newspapers. " As the production of a young, untrained, and inexperienced writer, it evinced more than ordinary talent." While writing for the " Illustrated News," Mrs. Cowen adopted the pseudonym of " Le Clerc," which she has ever since retained. She is a resident of New Orleans. The following was published during the " war : " April, 1871. 21 162 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. FIRST LOYE. Like a tender violet bursting In the early morn of spring, Like the blush of dawn in summer, When the humming-bird takes wing, Is the young heart's first awaking From its calm and peaceful rest, When begins the stir of passion In the warm and throbbing breast. Now the cheek grows rich in blushes, And the eyes, with fitful light, Seem to stray in search of Eden — Seem to seek for something bright. And a thousand mysteries solemn Cling around the gentle soul, Like a rose-bud in the morning Ere its crimson leaves unroll. First love ! ah, who has not felt thee Thrill within their bosom's core, And wept burning tears of passion When its first sweet dream was o'er. Like a streamlet, clear as crystal, With the sunbeams on its breast, While the south wind, wreathing dimples, Shows a gentle heart's unrest. 'Tis a star which rises early, Sinking soon to rise no more; 'Tis the dew-drop on the flower Ere its blooming life is o'er. First love ! ah, we well remember Well, too well, that witching hour When our soul in tender rapture First divined thy magic power; Like a soul enshrined in ocean, Far from beaten track or shore, Thou of tears dost make a treasure, But thy spell returns no more. GEORGIA [autobiography.] l MRS. MARY E. TUCKER. ^yUCrpES! seven cities claimed the honor of being the birthplace of the immortal " Homer " after he was dead. I, who am still living, have the credit of being born in three States, not to speak of countless numbers of cities. Georgia, State of my adoption — the Empire State of the South ! proud would I have been had thy red hills given me birth ; but — I was not born there. New York, because Staten Island had the honor of being the birthplace of my noble father, whose ancestors, the Huguenots, left France because of their devotion to a principle, thinks that I should have been born there : I was not. Providence, Rhode Island, the place of my mother's nativity, intends claiming me upon the plea that I have Yankee ingenuity and perse- verance ; but — I was not born there. Rhode Island is too small a State to claim me. That I was born, is an undeniable fact. My father says that Cahaba, Alabama, is the place of my nativity. Alabama — "Here let us rest!" — the beautiful name which was given my State by the Indian chieftain who, driven by the cruel white man from his native home, sought with his tribe to find peace and rest in the flower-land bordering on the beautiful river which still bears the name of "Alabama." The Indian found no rest — neither did I: in that respect the Indian and I resemble each other. Posterity may wish to know in what year the light of my genius burst upon the world. My enemies pronounce me somewhere near forty years of age ; my friends declare I do not look a day over twenty. Our family Bible was destroyed by the Yankee or negro incendiaries during the late "rebellion" — I use the word "rebellion " sarcastically, for I was a rebel, and I glory to own it — therefore, unless I choose to tell my age, posterity will never be the wiser. The Bible 163 164 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. said, before it was burned: "The 6th day of November, 1838, Mary E. Perine saw the sorrowful light of day." My mother ! Holy influences surround me. No cord of memory thrills at the sacred name of mother : only in dreamland have I seen her. She, the beautiful child of song — loving and beloved, pure as the flowers she cherished — died that I might live. They buried her under the orange-trees, and often, while a tiny child, have 1 sought the jasmine-covered grave, and wept for the love of mother. "Mary Eliza, beloved wife of Edward M. Perine, died in the twen- tieth year of her age. " ' Many daughters have done virtuously, But thou excellest them all.' " That is all. What more can I wish ? It is enough to make me vene- rate anything in the shape of woman who bears the sacred title of mother. My father ! It is said I am especially fond of gentlemen. Why should I not be ? My father was a gentleman ; and, judging all men by him — my standard of a true, honorable, noble image of the Almighty's master-piece — how can I keep, if simply out of respect for my father, from loving his sex? My father! That one word contained my child-world. He was to me all — mother, father, sister, brother, and everything except grandmother ; for I had a grandmother, and my earliest recollection is of a kind of buzzing in my ear as she vainly essayed to rock me to sleep in my little cradle. How could I go to sleep, when she would not hush talking? I remember distinctly that, exasperated to frenzy, I told her that if she did not let me alone I would make Uncle Wiley, our negro carriage-driver, cut her head off and throw her in the river. The power of conversing is a gift greatly to be desired, but I cer- tainly do not wish my children to inherit the fully developed organ of language of their great-grandmother. Perhaps I do wrong to mention the only failing, if the gift of lan- guage can be called a failing, that my grandmother possessed. I could fill volumes with her virtues. I can. never forget her untiring and unselfish devotion to me as a child, and to my own little ones, who, when her cords of memory quavered with age, took my place in the heart of the dear old lady ; and I seemed to her what my dead mother once had been. No — when I want an example of faith, hope, love, and charity, I have only to look upon my grandmother. MARY E. TUCKER. 165 I suppose I must have been a very precocious child, for I know that I read the " Pilgrim's Progress," and the " Arabian Nights' Entertain- ments," and made love to my father's clerks before I was six years old. When I was eight years of age, my father married Miss Fanny E. Hunter, daughter of Judge John Hunter, formerly of Selma, Alabama, who was well known during his life throughout the Southern States. The sister of my step-mother married Col. Robert White Smith, of Mobile. Mrs. Smith was, a few years ago, one of the most beautiful ladies I ever saw, and is still very lovely. After my father's marriage, my grandmother went to Milledgeville, Ga., to take possession of some property which came to her on the death of her brother. I, of course, accompanied her. In Milledgeville, I was chiefly noted for my mass of peculiarly colored hair, which strikingly resembled the tendrils of the love-vine, which grows so plentifully in the marshes of the South, my light-blue pop-eyes, and also for my large feet and hands, which seemed to be forever in my own way, and in the way of everybody else. "They say " that I used to be a rhymist then — perhaps I was. I only know that every time I climbed a tree, or hid my grandmoth- er's spectacles, I was called bad or mischievous. Now, when my olden pranks are alluded to, they are termed the " eccentricities of genius." I was, of course, sent to school. Being considered fearless and ven- turesome, I was selected, together with a young classmate from the botany class, to search in the woods for wild flowers as specimens to be analyzed. We liked botany, but preferred zoology, and returned to the school-house with rare specimens. When the teacher opened the box, what was his astonishment and consternation to find it filled with tiny toads, which jumped out and covered the floor, and also a young owl, for which I had taken pains to climb into a hollow tree, to the detriment of my dress ! Poor old Doctor Cotting ! he was blessed with a deal of patience, but the frogs proved too much for him, and I was sent home with a message that nothing but the grace of God could do anything with me. As Topsy says, " I growed up," until I became a fair and goodly tree, as far as size was concerned. My father came to see me, and con- cluded that I, his eldest hopeful, needed pruning and training. For that purpose he brought me to New York. During my journey, I characterized myself, much to the mortification of my father and step- mother, by drinking lemonade from my finger-bowl, calling nut-crack- ers pinchers, and blanc-mange pudding — all owing to the want of 166 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. proper training. I am glad now that my early years were spent with a poor grandmother instead of a wealthy father, for the economy prac- tised in her household gave me habits of frugality which I would not otherwise have possessed, and which proved invaluable to me during the war. My father placed me in a boarding-school in New York, where I remained one year only ; for I was fond of the creature comforts, and as I only received the flow of the soul, I left in disgust. My indul- gent parent then placed me in the "polishing mill " of Mrs. Leverett, who still has her school in Eighteenth Street; and to that establishment I am indebted for the elegance of manners for which I am so justly noted. Here let me mention that Mrs. Leverett was all to me that a tender, gentle mother could have been. She praised my talents, which she, even then, although I could not realize it, seemed to think I possessed; reproved me for my faults, and gently strove to correct or eradicate them. Mrs. Leverett's daughters were also very kind to me, and I remember with gratitude how they seemed to take the ignorant, rough Southern girl into their hearts. At last I was sent home accomplished. I was young, rich, and as for looks, why, I could pass in a crowd of ugly girls. ^ Of course I fell in love. What fool does not ? I did not marry the object of my adoration. I fell in love again : this time I married, after first saying to my intended : " No, thou art not my first love : I had loved before we met ; And the^music of that summer-dream Still lingers round me yet. But thou, thou art my last love, My dearest, and my best ; My heart but shed its outer leaves To give thee all the rest " — Cabbage. After my marriage, my husband took me to his home in Milledgeville, Ga., where we lived with his mother for one year. They were all kind to me, and I loved them, but I was glad when my husband said that I should preside over a home of my own. The next year a little birdling came to cheer our nest, " My Gentle MARY E. TUCKER. 167 Annie," my dark-haired child, whose deep-blue eyes and sad glances seem ever before me. Then came "Little Mary," the one the preachers call an " imp of mischief " — a white-haired fairy foundling, so loving, and so full of fun. Perhaps I was happy then : I do not know, but I think I was ; any way, we lived peacefully until the war commenced. It brought sor- row to all our land ; and I need not speak of its consequences to me, one of the million sufferers. When the struggle ended, my father and my husband said they had lost all. It is said, that to become a Christian, one must be born again : poets and Christians resemble each other, for "Poeta nascitur non fit;" and I know that the suffering I endured during, and after the close of the war, must have been the pangs of my second birth, which created a poetic nature I am sure I did not before possess. Leaving my home and little ones, with the full, free consent of my husband, and the approbation of my father, I came to New York, (I cannot speak of the sorrowful parting from my babies,) to seek my fortune as a journalist, and also to procure a publisher for a volume of poems which I had written at various times. It would be useless to tell how I struggled with poverty, but never lost my precious hope and faith ; and how, in time, I found and made friends by scores, Republicans and Democrats, who Completely ig- nored the political question, and gave me not only encouragement, but work, for which they paid me well. Say what you will about the cold, heartless nature of the true-born Northerner, I knoiv by sweet ex- perience, that, beneath the crust of snow, deep hidden in their hearts there blooms the fragrant flower of sympathy, whose perfume gladdens the heart of the homeless, when the outward ice is thawed by the knowledge that one is worthy, industrious, and not totally devoid of brains. Need I say that I succeeded ? and that those who advised me to remain at home and cook and wash dishes, (two kinds of work I could never endure,) and turned their heads the other way when they saw me, now greet me with smiles and say, " I always knew you would succeed, you were so persevering. " True, I am still away from my home and those I love, but soon, very soon, I hope to be with my dear 168 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. ones, never to leave them again until the Great Master calls me to join my mother in that glorious land where all is love. I have given you a brief outline of my eventful life, in which I have stated the leading facts only. Hundreds of pages could I fill with my journeyings over the United States, and incidents which I am sure would prove interesting ; but you remember the old adage, that " shoe- makers' children always have to go without shoes ; " so I, who am con- stantly employed in writing the lives of others, cannot spare time to elaborate my own history. So I will only add, that if ever I become famous, it will be owing to the blessing, not the curse — necessity. 1868. In 1867, M. Doolady, ISew York, published Mrs. Tucker's first vol- ume — "Poems." The "New York Tribune" says of this volume: "A volume of Poems, by Mary E. Tucker, published by M. Doolady, is apparently of Southern origin, and derives a certain interest from its expres- sion of Southern feelings during the war, and its allusions to the sufferings of the South since the restoration of peace. At the same time, it is not intended to exert a sectional influence, much less to nourish the sentiment of contempt and hate for the lovers of the Union. Nor is there any consider- able portion of its contents devoted to themes of local interest; but, on the contrary, they are drawn from the general experience of life, and depict the emotions which arise from its vicissitudes in a mind of more than ordinary sensitiveness. The poems are the effusions of an excitable nature with an ear attuned to the melodies of rhythm, and an experience familiar with the gradations of joy and sorrow. They do not pretend to be the exponents of deep thought, or to have been prompted by the highest impulses of the imagination. With their modest claims, they need not be brought to the test of an austere judgment ; and their frequent sweetness of versification, and their pleasant, if not brilliant fancies, entitle them to a respectable place in the poetry of feeling and aspiration." "Miles O'Reilly's" paper, "The Citizen," welcomes this volume thus : "Mrs. Tucker has prefaced this dainty little volume with her own portrait, and on first opening the book we wondered why she had published either the portrait or the poems. But between the two there is a striking resem- blance. After looking at the face for a little, you grow to like it for its kind, pleasing, truthful, womanly expression. And so, too, the verses, though they are not, strictly speaking, beautiful, improve vastly upon acquaintance. They are true and sincere in sentiment, and sufficiently smooth in versifica- tion. There is no affectation, no unhealthv sentimentality about them; but MAEY E. TUCKEE. 169 many of them possess a simple, touching pathos that is infinitely above the simulated sorrow so dear to the school-girl mind." Says Professor A. B. Stark, of Tennessee, in a notice of this volume : "In the poems we find ample evidence of the poet's Southern origin and sympathies. But before reading the poems, we look at the preface — it is rude to skip the preface, the little, private, confidential foretalk the author wishes to have with the reader — and find it modest, naive, and winning, disarming one of the power of harsh criticism. Hear her : " ' Out of a simple woman's heart these rivulets of rhyme have run. They may not be great, nor broad, nor deep. She trusts they are pure. She wrote these verses often in sorrow, perplexity, and distress. . . . She will feel rewarded if, though these buds and flowers be not very beautiful, they give to any soul the perfume of simple truthfulness and genuine feeling.' "Well, her poems are neither broad, nor deep, nor brilliant. If you look into her volume for new ideas, philosophic thought, glowing imagery, deep insight into passions and motives, or an intense love of nature, you will be disappointed. But they are pure, simple, natural — the outgushings of a true woman's heart, sympathetic, kind, loving, truthful. "While reading them, you feel that you are in communication with an innocent, noble- hearted, Christian woman. There is no cant, no twaddle, no morbid senti- mentality — a negative merit, always appreciated by a healthful reader. Her volume belongs to that respectable class of books which afford pleasure, comfort, and recreation ; in their brief life doing some good, but no harm ; cheering some lonely, heart-sick wanderer ; sending out into the darkness a single ray of heavenly light, which may guide some poor, benighted soul amid the pitfalls of sin ; adding one sweet note to the grand symphony of joy and praise and thanksgiving swelling up from the hearts of all that are glad, and pure, and innocent on earth." "Loew's Bridge, a Broadway Idyl," a brief poem, was published by the same publisher, and attracted a great deal of attention. The poet views the moving throng on Broadway from Loew's Bridge,* a large aerial structure at the intersection of Broadway and Fulton Street, where the thoroughfare is continually thronged with vehicles of all kinds, rendering it almost impossible for pedestrians to pass. Mrs. Tucker has been a most industrious writer, contributing regu- larly to "The Leader," "Ledger," and other New York papers. Her latest ambitious effort was a "Life of Mark M. Pomeroy, Editor of the La Crosse Democrat, a Representative Young Man of America " — Carleton, publisher, New York, 1869. 1S69. * This bridge has been recently taken down. 170 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. HUGGING THE SHOKE. : Do you think you will hug the shore, captain, to-day ? ! Asked a saucy young flirt, with a smile ; With a crimson flush was dyed her cheek, And over her brow swept the roseate hue, While her eyes revealed in their dancing blue All the lips declined to speak. The captain glanced at the distant shore, And then at the maid awhile : The shore was distant, and she was near, ' And the rose-tint deepened, as he said, " Dear, I '11 neglect the shore to-day ! " And around her waist crept the captain's hand — It was so much better than hugging dry land ! And he said, glancing over the vessel's bow, " The ship is hugging Cape Hatteras now, But I '11 hug the Cape of May." KINDNESS. One single word of heart-felt kindness Oft is worth a mine of gold; Yet how oft we, in our blindness, The most precious wealth withhold. Like soft dews on thirsting flowers, It revives the drooping heart; And its magical, blest showers Is the soul's best healing art. Oh! however sad and lonely Life's dark, sterile path may be, One, one single kind word only Causeth all its gloom to flee. How can we know of the troubles That must rack another's soul! All must know that empty bubbles Of life's cares o'er all heads roll. Then, forgiving and forgetting, Let for aye the kind word fall; MARGIE P. SWAIN. 171 Only our own sins regretting With a charity for all. Then this life will be a pleasure, When we all speak words of love; For we know our earthly measure Will be more than filled above. MISS MARGIE P. SWAIN.* THIS young writer is a native of Taliaferro County, in the State of Georgia ; but in early life she became a resident of Alabama. Her home is with her adopted parents, Mr. and Mrs. E. J. Swain, of Talladega County, The great civil war, at its inception in 1861, found Miss Swain, then scarcely entered on her teens, a pupil of White Chapel Female Semi- nary, near Talladega. At a period of life when most young girls are busying themselves with lessons in geography or algebra, her daring mind actually planned and executed " Lochlin," a regular " romaunt of the war," in iambic verse. It was completed, and put through the press at Selma, Alabama, at an age younger than that at which a vast majority of the poets have made their way into the publication vestibule of the temple of fame. The first edition of this poem abounded with typographical and other errors, resulting in great part from the manifold difficulties experienced by publishers as results of the war. In this first edition, the poem was entitled " Mara," for which the young authoress has substituted " Lochlin " in a new edition about to be published. Since the publication referred to in 1864, Miss Swain has spent a portion of her time at school ; has mastered an extensive course of literary and historical reading, and has written many other poems, soon likewise to be given by her publishers to the world. The most considerable of these is " Constantius," an historical drama of the times of the immediate successors of Constantine the Great. We venture the prediction that Miss Swain's " Constantius " will prove a decided triumph in the difficult art of dramatic composition, and a faithful portraiture of Roman life in the fourth century. Her minor poems, *Miss Swain was married at Rome, Ga., January 15th, 1S71, to Mr. Mosely, editor and proprietor of the Rome " Daily." 172 LIVING FEMALE WRITEKS OF THE SOUTH. sufficient of themselves to form a respectable volume in point of size, display great versatility of powers, range of information, rhythmical aptitude, and rare poetic beauty. And yet all these works of her genius have been produced while she has so constantly been seen in the school-room, or the gay circle of thoughtless companions, that it is wonder to those who know her best how or when they were written. This fact is of itself a high commen- tary on the force of her genius, and creates higher hopes for her future great and lasting eminence in literature. A manifest improvement in her later productions is visible ; and as she has before her all of that period of life when the full maturity of her intellectual powers may be expected to be realized, other works, surpassing those already pro- duced, may be confidently expected. In January, 1871, Miss Swain was literary editress of the Rome (Ga.) "Gazette." In person, Miss Swain is about the medium height, of fair complex- ion, handsome spirited features, and hazel eyes, that, when interested in conversation, glow with singular brilliancy. In conversation, she seldom attempts to display those powers which she seeks to wield through her pen ; but when occasionally interested by a congenial companion, her conversation is peculiarly instructive and fascinating. If she can happily steer clear of the maelstrom of matrimony, and life and health be spared to her in the pursuit of literary renown, we con- fidently predict for her an eminence in the world of letters not excelled by that of any of her countrywomen — and we even hope that she may surpass them all. 1869# ■ — - w. GL McAdo. VANITAS. Ah, vainly we sigh for the summer That dwells in the land of fair flowers ; And vainly we strive for the pleasures And the bliss of happier hours ! For joy is a flower that bloometh At morning, and fadeth at night; The mem'ry thereof is outblotted By thoughts which each day brings to light. Care roots up the planting of pleasure; The heart is the seat of all woe; The worst of all pains is its throbbings, Those pains that kill life as they go. MARGIE P. SWAIN. 173 Love rises, entrances, and leaves us, And hopes drift like leaves before wind; All bright things and sweet take their leavings, But sorrow remaineth behind. How vain are the dreams which we cherish — Those dreams in the dark future's mines ; They melt as the foam of the ocean, And die like the music of rhymes! When all things we have that are given, Satiety is but the crown; And while in the chase of strange visions, In death's darkened vale we go down. Then, oh! for a land of all beauty, Where dwell eth the light of old days — The soul is not cheated by falseness, And joy has bright, genuine rays. THE LAST SCENE. The last gun had sounded defiance to foes, Each sword in its scabbard was lying ; Each vet'ran stood sternly, and thought on his woes, And wept that his country was dying. Our rifles were stacked, and our cannons were laid In graves o'er which heroes were weeping ; We gazed on our banners the last time displayed, And envied those then 'neath them sleeping. Our chieftain and hero in sorrow passed by, Yet proud — 'neath its pall never drooping; We loved him — we cheered, yet our shout rose not high; Our hearts were to destiny stooping. We saw our proud banner, now conquered, fall low, And that of the foe rise above it ; We felt that its folds should wave o'er us no more, And wept — for then most did we love it. 174 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. We looked on our squadrons bowed down 'neath despair, And thought on the dead clothed in glory ; Gazed, through blinding tears, on our country's black bier, And longed to lie down with the gory ! We thought on our glory — our loved ones afar — The long years of toils and of dangers ; Then trembling, clasped hands, we worn brothers in war, And proudly we parted 'mid strangers ! THE SENTINEL OF POMPEII. Dr. G-uthrie tells us a touching story of the fidelity of a Roman soldier at the destruc- tion of Pompeii, who, although thousands fled from the city, remained at his post, be- cause dishonorable to abandon it without being relieved, and died a death of useless, but of heroic devotion. He says: "After seventeen centuries they found his skeleton standing erect in a marble niche, clad in its rusty armor, the helmet on its empty skull, and its bony fingers still closed upon its spear." Thick darkness had lowered, Vesuvius had sounded, The flame of his wrath arose high in the sky ; Dense volumes of thick smoke the mountain surrounded, And lay like a pall over doomed Pompeii. Far, far in the distance the peal of his thunder Vibrated, and shook the firm earth with its sound ; While, to his hot centre the mount rent asunder, Ked rivers of lava in fierceness poured down. And thousands were gazing in fear and in horror, And thousands, inured to it, dreamed not of doom ; But soon e'en the fearless beheld with deep sorrow That ashes the city — themselves, would entomb. Like snow-flakes, those ashes of dire desolation Came thick, fast, and stifling, with burning-hot stones : While momently grander the fierce conflagration Loomed up in the distance, with death in its tones. And near to the gate that looked out on the mountain, A sentinel stood with his spear, keeping guard ; He saw the hot lava boil up like a fountain, And heavily roll on the city toward. KATE A. DU BOSE. 175 He thought of his dear wife alone in her anguish, The helpless ones weeping beside her in fear; " Yet not e'en for sweet love must duty e'er languish," He murmured, and clasped again tightly his spear. The hours passed slowly — none came to relieve him ; He called to his leader: " How long must I stay ? " Yet not for his life would that soldier deceive him, But stood to his post through that terrible day. He saw the dark ashes entombing the city ; He saw them rise up inch by inch to his chin ; He looked on the burning flood, and in deep pity He uttered one prayer for his home, and was dead. The city was covered, the lava flowed over, And beauty and manliness, childhood and age, And rich things and beauteous now to discover, Were buried below by Vesuvius' rage. Years, long years have passed, yet that sent'nel is standing, All helmeted, now disinterred, near his post ; And pilgrims, aweary at Pompeii landing, Look on him, the strangest of all her strange host ! KATE A. DU BOSE. MKS. DU BOSE is the eldest daughter of Eev. William* Richards, of Beaufort District, S. C. She was born in a village in Oxford- shire, England, in 1828. Shortly after her birth, the family came to the United States, and settled in Georgia, but removed in a few years to their present home in Carolina. In 1848, she was married to Charles W. Du Bose, Esq., an accom- plished gentleman, and lawyer of talent and ability, of Sparta, Geor- gia, where they still reside. Mrs. Du Bose was educated in Northern cities, but for some years was a teacher in Georgia, her adopted home. At an early age, she gave indications of a love of letters, and had she chosen to " break the lance " with professional contestants for lite- rary honors, she must have won distinction and an enviable fame. But as a bird sings because it must find vent for its rapture, or as the heart will overflow when too full for concealment, thus with her writ- 176 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. ings. Her productions have been given to the public from time to time, through journals and magazines, generally under the nom de 'plume of "Leila Cameron." Some of her best poems appeared in the "Southern Literary Gazette," published in Charleston, and edited by her brother, Rev. William C. Richards, now a resident of Providence, R. I. The " Orion Magazine," of Georgia, was also favored with con- tributions from her pen, and in its columns appeared the prize poem, entitled " Wachulla," the name of a famous and wonderful fountain near Tallahassee, Florida. This poem was deservedly popular, and if the spirit of the fountain had chosen a nymph from its own charmed circle to sing the praises of "beautiful Wachulla" and its surround- ings, the lay could not have gushed up from a heart more alive to its beauties and attractions than that of its talented author. In 1858, Mrs. Du Bose's first volume was published by Sheldon & Co., New York. This is a prose - story for the young, entitled, " The Pastor's Household" — a story of continuous interest, displaying nar- rative and dramatic power. The portraiture of " Lame Jimmy," one of the prominent characters — "a meek, silent boy," with paleface, and a look of patient suffering upon his young features — is admirably drawn ; and as we see him, as he bends over his desk at school, with his large eyes full of the light of intellect, poring over his books, we triumph in the truth that God sometimes gives the poor boy, in his threadbare coat, the princely endowments of mind which may win him distinction among the "world's proud honors," and crown him a king among men. As a member of a large family, all remarkable for intellectual acquirements, Mrs. Du Bose has been much favored in procuring an early and thorough cultivation. One of her brothers, Rev. William C. Richards, is not only widely known as a popular editor and writer, but is also the author of the "Shakspeare Calendar." Another bro- ther, T. Addison Richards, of New York, the poet and artist, is the principal* of the "School of Design for Women," established within the walls of Cooper Institute, New York. In her elegant home, where unpretending piety and domestic love are combined with refined and cultivated tastes, seen in all the sur- roundings, and where the patter of children's feet is heard, and their happy laugh echoes through its walls, Mrs. Du Bose forms the centre of attraction to a circle of friends, as well as that of home, and wears with equally charming grace the triple name of wife, mother, and author. leer. LOULA KENDALL ROGERS. LEOLA, a well-known nom de plume, falls on the ear softly, musi- cally, " as if the very personification of that ideality which ex- tracts inspiration from the whispering wind, the song of birds, the blush of flowers, the lightning's flash, and the thunder's roar." Miss Kendall is a graduate of the Wesleyan Female College, of Macon. In the home of her childhood, a charming country-seat in Upson County, Ga., there are so many lovely spots in her native county, so many " glen echoes " where one might imagine her a nymph " calling to sister spirits of the greenwood," we do not wonder that the gift of poesy is hers. Her ancestors were from North Carolina, and there is probably no family whose authentic history can be more closely traced through every period of the annals of that State. Her great-great-grand- father, who signed his name Joseph Lane, Jr., as far back as 1727, died at his residence on the Roanoke, in 1776. His youngest son, Jesse Lane, emigrated to Wilkes, near Oglethorpe County, Ga., and his descendants are dispersed through all the Western and Southern States; Gen. Joseph Lane, a candidate for the Vice- Presidency of the United States in 1860, and ex-Governor Swain, of Chapel Hill, North Carolina, being among the number. One of his daughters married John Hart, son of Nancy Hart, the famous heroine of the Broad River Settlement, and one of his grand-daughters was wife of Judge Colquitt, Senator from Georgia in 1847. Thus brought into close re- lationship with many of the highest families of the South, the subject of this sketch inherited the spirit of patriotism that prompted them to make any sacrifice, however great, for the welfare of their country. We do not know that we can introduce her in a more acceptable man- ner than by inserting here the following extract of a letter written by her without any thought of its publication, (1862.) Speaking of herself, she says : " I have always been a child of nature and lover of poetry ever since I can remember, though it is pleasure enough for me to lurk among flowers, to listen to their heart- voices, and remain silent while drinking with intoxicat- ing delight the sweets of far more gifted worshippers. Occasionally I cannot resist an inclination to snatch my own little harp from its favorite bed of violets ; but its rustic strains are simple, and not worthy of being placed among the productions of those whose gifted pens have gained for them a 23 177 178 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. reputation more enduring than gold. My first poem was written at eight years of age,, a grand attempt, which mamma carefully preserved. At dream- ing fourteen, I went to Montpelier Institute, once under the supervision of Bishop Elliott, and its fairy groves, sparkling streams, and * moonlit pa- laces ' grew more dear when I fancied them the abode of viewless beings who told me of all things holy and beautiful. My composition-book was filled with wild, weird imagery, and the geometrical figures on my slate frequently alternated with impromptu verses, which are still kept as souvenirs of that dear old place. Two years in Macon College (where prosaical studies and life's sterner realities crossed my path) almost obliterated the silly dream of my childhood; a dream of fame, which now has utterly departed, for I have long since ceased to pursue a shadow so far beyond my reach. I write for those who love me — that is all ; but if these wild flowers, gathered among the hills and streams of my native land — these untutored voices that speak to me from each nestling leaf, are able to dispel one single cloud among the many that overshadow our country, I have no right to withhold them. "There is no lack of talent in our bright Southland; but, under the sunlight of prosperity, it has never yet been brought out in all its strength." Of these " wild flowers and these untutored voices " we shall have but little to say, preferring to let them speak for themselves. She writes prose and poetry with equal facility, and her letters are models of literary composition ; for here she expresses herself with that gen- tle warmth and modest freedom that characterizes her conversation. As Mrs. Le Vert somewhere expresses it : " She seems to dip her pen in her own soul and write of its emotions." In company she is plain and unassuming, being wholly free from pedantry and pretension ; and yet she possesses great enthusiasm of character — the enthusiasm de- scribed by Madame De Stael, as " God within us, the love of the good, the holy, and the beautiful." "Leola" was quite a student, and accomplished much, though her advancement would probably have been greater had she possessed such a literary guide and friend as G. D. Prentice was to Amelia Welby. But, as has been said of another, when we consider the great disadvantages she must have labored under on an isolated plantation, far from public libraries, and far from social groups of literary labor- ers and artists, it seems to us that her writings reveal the aspirations of a richly endowed genius and the marks of a good culture. " Leola " is also exceedingly domestic, being, as she says, gifted with "a taste for the substantial as well as the poetry of life ; " a proof that poetry and the larder are not always separate companions, but may LOULA KENDALL ROGERS. 179 exist together on very amicable terms. The productions of " Leola " consist of fugitive pieces dashed off under the inspiration of the mo- ment, many of them being published in the newspapers of the day. We would " as soon think of sittiDg down to dissect the bird whose song has charmed us, as to break upon the wheel of criticism poems springing so much from the heart-side of the author." Since the end of the war, Miss Kendall has become the wife of Dr. C. Rogers, and lives near Thomaston, Upson County, Georgia. 1868. THE HEALING FOUNTAIN* "A nameless unrest urged me forward; but whither should I go ? My loadstars were blotted out : in that canopy of grim fire shone no star. I was alone, alone ! A feeling I had that there was and must be somewhere a Healing Fountain. From the depths of my own heart it called to me, Forward ! The winds, and the streams, and all nature sounded to me, Forward ! " — Carlyle's Sartor Resartus. On, on she wandered all alone, o'er deserts vast and dim, No hopeful ray to light the gloom, no spirit-soothing hymn ; The wearied heart no goal had found, all dark the future seeni'd; " There must be rest somewhere" she cried, and nought the toil deem'd. Elack shadows clung around the heart once filled with childlike trust, And tempters whispered in her ear, "Thy spirit is but dust/" Then she long'd to know, poor orphan child, if in another sphere She ne'er must meet with Lilly, to dwell forever there ? If the spirit's voice must ever cease, with life's dull care and pain ; If the midnight toil, her searches for Egeria's fount were vain? Beulah ! thy childhood's sacred haunts are truthful guides for thee; There rove at twilight's solemn hour, and lowly bend the knee. Yon lofty mountain's gilded height looks upward to the sky, E'en Nature's simplest voices tell the soul can never die : Then leave thy desert vast and dim, where erring feet have trod ; Each streamlet here, each bud and flower will speak to thee of God ! But onward still, child of toil ! by storm and tempest tossed ; Thy burning feet are wandering on, till childhood's faith is lost ! The scorching beam of summer sun poor Hagar scarce could bear, With no fount to slake her fever-thirst, no waters gurgling there, * Written after reading "Beulah," 1S59. 180 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. Till words of confidence and trust her parching lips express'd ; Then joyfully an angel came, and gave her peaceful rest : So Beulah might have found the balm to lighten every care — A spring to heal her aching heart — by strong and earnest prayer. The Healing Fountain ! Pure and bright those ripples near us gleam ; We need not roam o'er burning sands to quaff its crystal stream : Its whispering music oft we hear, a star shines from above, Illuming all with holy light — that star is Heaven's love. EMMA MOFFETT WYNNE. CRAGFONT is the title of a neat, unpretending volume, from the publishing house of Blelock & Co., New York, issued in 1867. The title-page stated that the book was by "a young Southern lady." It was the first production of Emma M. Wynne, of Columbus, Georgia. Like the majority of Southern books, "Cragfont" has been indis- criminately praised by w^ell-meaning but injudicious friends, whereas true criticism, while it might pain for a time, would in the end assist the youthful debutante on the field of literature. "Cragfont" is a book of promise. From the remarks of two readers of this book, we cull the criticisms we give. A writer in " Scott's Magazine," of Atlanta, praised : " Not sustaining carping Zoilus in his ill-nature, we think, with another, upon whose brow the greenest of laurel is still triumphantly worn, that ' to point out too particularly the beauties of a work is to admit tacitly that these beauties are not wholly admirable.' ' Cragfont ' is not without errors, such as all young writers are betrayed into ; but the flashings of genius so visible throughout the book overshadow and outweigh the faults, which, after all, are only the ' peccadilloes of the muse.' The plot of the book is finely conceived, the invention strong and vigorous, while imagination, that primary and indispensable requisite in a writer, like the touch of Midas, gilded every object that presented itself. The style is classical and elegant. The author seems to excel in the delineation of female character. They are all particu- larly fine and well sustained. " The heroine, Isabel Grattan, never grows commonplace, while the gay, sprightly Lizzie Armor wisely refrains from attempting a part too heavy. EMMA MOFFETT WYNXE. 181 "While dealing in classical lore and antiquities, perhaps, a little too freely, there is a depth of tenderness and pathos running through the whole, that would tell at once it came from a woman's heart." A lady criticizes " Cragfont " thus : " In the first place, I began at the beginning and read the title-page. The little quotation from Cousin, and the longer one from Mrs. Browning, each came in for a share of study. I knew that these mottoes contain frequently the key to the whole matter which follows ; and so would I do ' Cragfont ' justice, and read these too. The second contained a hint which I resolved to profit by — to " ' Gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge Soul forward into the book's profound.' Very profound I have proved it — that is, some parts of it. The fair author evidently admires Miss ' Beulah ' Evans, and follows hard after the celes- tial flights of that learned lady. The title is not appropriate ; it might just as well be styled New Orleans, or New York, since the scenes are laid prin- cipally in these two cities, and 'Cragfont' only appears briefly in two chapters. This ' ancestral mansion' is a 'stylish' country residence for an American ; but perhaps in Tennessee they do live in ' turreted castles,' and perhaps they have 'rooks' in Tennessee, also. I don't know much about the ornithology of that State, but I had an idea rooks were confined to England. However, this may be merely a 'poetic license' to prove the unmistakable and indisputable aristocracy of our hero, as rooks are supposed to favor with their presence only the ancien regime. " ' Cragfont ' contains a variety of information, and a variety of languages, and a series of essays or dissertations on various subjects are scattered through the book. It exhibits talent and promise of future excellence ; but, in itself, is hardly a successful novel or book of essays — a ' half-way per- formance.' The writer, we feel confident, will yet make a worthy offering to Southern literature." The author of " Cragfont," Mrs. Emma Moffett Wynne, was born in Alabama, in 1844. Her father, Major Henry Moffett, removed to Columbus, Ga., a beautiful city on the banks of the Chattahoochee, be- fore she had completed her fourth year. She was very fortunate in having her steps first directed in the paths of learning by the accom- plished and talented authoress, Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, under whose tuition she was placed at the age of five years. In her fifteenth year, she went to the well-known Patapsco Female Institute, near Baltimore, entered at once the senior class, aDd gradu- ated the following year with much honor to herself, receiving a gold 182 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. medal for proficiency in French. The following fall of 1860 she spent in Xew York, at the Spingler Institute, perfecting herself in music, French, Italian, etc. Owing to the "state of the country," she re- turned home early in the spring, (1861.) During the war, she occasionally contributed to the " Field and Fireside," published at Augusta, under the nom de plume of "Lola." She was married in May, 1864, to Major V. W. Wynne. Mrs. Wynne, being young, with native talent and habits of study, will, without doubt, enrich the literary world with many productions of rare merit. She has recently published an historical romance in some way connected with Maximilian, the late Emperor of Mexico — a tragic subject well suited to her pen — entitled "The Crown Jewels." In personal appearance, Mrs. Wynne is exceedingly prepossessing ; and this, combined with an elegance and vivacity of manner, renders her both attractive and fascinating. 1870. LIFE'S MISSION. The mission of life is not always lofty, yet the duty of its accomplishment is none the less imperative. The account is required of the one talent as surely as of the five. The mountain is too steep and rugged save for men of stern mould ; yet in the valley the fields " are waiting for the laborers." How mistaken is the reasoner who would reserve to the sterner sex all those feel- ings of ambition, the reaching upward for higher and holier things ! How many of gentler natures have felt the unsatisfied longing for more knowl- edge, more power over their own minds ! When we go, with Mrs. Hemans, Mrs. Browning, and Jean Ingelow, through all the chambers of the soul, and listen to the music of their songs, we feel that within our hearts whole vol- umes of sweet poetry exist ; the power to word it alone is wanting. Just as those we love so dearly are never in this life quite near enough to us ; we would have them closer — heart to heart, soul to soul; this mortal body stands between. In our dreaming of the other world, we sometimes think that per- haps by our joy there will be these yearnings satisfied ; the spell of silence will be broken, and our own poetry, sweet, beautiful, heavenly, will fill our hearts. ANNIE E. BLOUNT. MISS BLOUNT is a native of Kichmond County, Va. She com- menced writing for her own pleasure and amusement at an early age, and many of her juvenile productions appeared in print under various signatures. She graduated at Madison Female College, Madison, Ga., with the very highest honors the institution could confer ; the president stating to the trustees and audience that she was the most perfect scholar he had ever graduated. After her graduation, although very young, Miss Blount assumed the editorial conduct of a literary paper, which, under her auspices, rapidly grew into public favor, and was widely circulated. Miss Blount, besides being literary editress of the "Bainbridge Argus," (which position she held for two years,) contributed to other Southern literary journals. She received a prize offered by a literary paper published in Newbern, N. C, for " the best story by any American writer." Mr. T. A. Burke, then editor of the " Savannah News," thus al- luded to her success: " An examining committee, composed of W. Gilmore Simms, the eminent novelist, Eev. B. Craven, President of the Normal College, N. C, and John E. Thompson, editor of the ' Southern Literary Messenger/ have awarded the first prize, a one-hundred-dollar gold medal, to ' Jenny Woodbine,' alias Miss Annie E. Blount, of Augusta, Ga., 'for the best story,' to be published in a Southern paper. We know Miss Blount well, and her success as a writer, both of prose and verse, is what her decided talent induced us to expect She is young — probably the youngest writer of any reputation in the coun- try, North or South — and, with proper study and care, she has much to ex- pect in the future." This story, "The Sisters," was printed in 1859, in the "Newbern Gazette." Miss Blount has received numerous prizes for poems and novelettes, offered by various papers. In the summer of , she was invited by the trustees and faculty of Le Vert College, Talbotton, Ga., 183 184 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. to deliver an original poem at their annual commencement. An en- thusiastic gentleman, in a notice of the " Commencement," says : " It was the privilege of the large audience to listen to a poem from Miss Annie R. Blount, of Augusta. Her subject seemed to be, ' The PoAver of Woman/ The reading elicited extraordinary interest It is im- possible for me to give any just idea of the poem, and I will conclude by saying, if I am ever called to the battle-field, I want the fair author to be there to read the concluding lines at the head of my column." The next summer, Miss Blount delivered a poem at the " College Temple" Commencement, Newnan, Ga. After the reading of the poem, the faculty of College Temple conferred on her the degree of "Mistress of Arts." In 1860, Miss Blount collected her poems and printed them in a book. The volume was dedicated to Hon. Alexander H. Stephens, under whose kindly auspices it was published. Considering the un- settled state of the times, the book sold well, and was highly compli- mented by the press. The fol lowing notice of the volume is from the pen of that graceful writer, Miss C. W. Barber, then editress of the " Southern Literary Companion" : " While looking over some book-shelves in our new home, the other day, we came, unexpectedly, across a volume of Miss Blount's poems. We had never seen the book before, and sat down at once ' to read, to ponder, and to dream.' Annie Blount has, in this unassuming volume, established her right to the laurel- wreath. She may now lay her hand confidently upon it, and few will dispute her right to its possession. We were not prepared to find so many gems in so small a casket ; we did not know that so sweet a bird carolled amid the magnolia groves of the South. "Letitia E. Landon won for herself a deathless fame in England and America. Wherein are her poems so greatly superior to Miss Blount's? Both have dwelt much upon the varied emotions of the human heart ; some- times it is hopeful, sometimes disappointed love that they sing about. At Annie Blount's age, Letitia Landon had certainly written nothing sweeter, deeper, or in any respect better than this volume of poems contains. Before she died upon the coast of Africa, she had, of course, gone through a wider range of experience than Annie Blount has yet done, and every phase of human life develops in us all some latent power. But, even in her last poem — an address to the ' North Star,' written only a few hours before her death — there is nothing superior to the following, which we copy from Miss Blount's Poem entitled, ' The Evening Star ' : ANNIE R. BLOUNT. 185 " ' Where dwellest thou, my young heart's chosen one ? What glorious star can claim thee as its own? If it be true that when the spirit flies From earth it nestles in the starlit skies, What orb is brightened by thy radiant face? Methinks in yonder Evening Star I trace The light which circled o'er the brow I love, And fixed my wayward heart on things above. Sweet Evening Star, brighter than all the rest, Thou art the star my infancy loved best ; And still the fancy-dream my bosom swells, That there, with thee, my loved one's spirit dwells : I'll clasp the dear delusion to my breast, That it may quell this wild and vague unrest, And though from native land I wander far, I '11 turn to thee with love, bright Evening Star.' " Miss Blount resides with her brother in Augusta, Ga. 1869. UNDER THE LAMPLIGHT. A PRIZE POEM. Under the lamplight, watch them come, Figures, one, two, three ; A restless mass moves on and on, Like waves on a stormy sea. Lovers wooing, Billing and cooing, Heedless of the warning old, Somewhere in uncouth rhyme told, That old Time, Love's enemy, Makes the warmest heart grow cold. See how fond the maiden leaneth On that strong encircling arm, While her timid heart is beating Near that other heart so warm; Downcast are her modest glances, Filled her heart with pleasant fancies. Clasp her, lover ! — clasp her closer — Time the winner, thou the loser I 24 186 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. He will steal From her sparkling eye its brightness, From her step its native lightness; Or, perchance, Ere another year has fled, Thou may'st see her pale and dead. Trusting maiden! Heart love-laden, Thou may'st learn That the lip which breathed so softly Told to thee a honeyed lie; That the heart now beating near thee Gave to thee no fond return — Learn — and die! Under the lamplight, watch them come, Figures, one, two, three ; The moon is up, the stars are out, And hurrying crowds I see — Some with sorrow Of the morrow Thinking bitterly; Why grief borrow ? Some that morrow Ne'er shall live to see. Which of all this crowd shall God Summon to his court to-night? Which of these many feet have trod These streets their last? Who first shall press The floor that shines with diamonds bright? To whom of all this throng shall fall The bitter lot, To hear the righteous Judge pronounce: "Depart, ye cursed — I know ye not!" Oh! startling question! — who ? Under the lamplight, watch them come, Faces fair to see — Some that pierce your very soul With thrilling intensity: Cold and ragged, Lean and haggard — God ! what misery ! See them watch yon rich brocade, By their toiling fingers made, With the eyes of poverty. ANNIE R. BLOUNT. 187 Does the tempter whisper now: "Such maybe thine own!" — but how? Sell thy woman's virtue, wretch, And the price that it will fetch Is a silken robe as fine — Gems that glitter — hearts that shine — But pause, reflect ! Ere the storm shall o'er thee roll, Ere thy sin spurns all control — Though with jewels bright bedecked, Thou wilt lose thy self-respect ; All the good will spurn thy touch, As if 'twere an adder's sting, And the price that it will bring Is a ruined soul! God protect thee — keep thee right, Lonely wanderer of the night ! Under the lamplight, watch them come — Youth with spirits light; His handsome face I'm sure doth make Some quiet household bright. Yet where shall this lover, This son, this brother, Hide his head to-night? Where the bubbles swim On the wine-cup's brim; Where the song rings out Till the moon grows dim; Where congregate the knave and fool, To graduate in vice's school. Oh ! turn back, youth ! Thy mother's prayer Eings in thy ear — Let sinners not Entice thee there. Under the lamplight, watch them come, The gay, the blithe, the free ; And some with a look of anguished pain 'T would break your heart to see. Some from a marriage, Altar, and priest ; Some from a death-bed, Some from a feast: 188 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. Some from a den of crime, and some Hurrying on to a happy home ; Some bowed down with age and woe, Praying meekly as they go ; Others — whose friends and honor are gone — To sleep all night on the pavement stone; And losing all but shame and pride, Be found in the morning a suicide. Rapidly moves the gliding throng — List the laughter, jest, and song. Poverty treads On the heels of wealth ; Loathsome disease Near robust health. Grief bows down Its weary head ; Crime skulks on With a cat-like tread. Youth and beauty, age and pain — Vice and virtue form the train — Misery, happiness, side by side ; Those who had best in childhood died, Close to the good — on they go, Some to joy, and some to woe, Under the lamplight — Watch them glide, On like the waves of a swelling sea, On, on, on to Eternity. MAKIA J. WESTMORELAND. M ARIA ELIZABETH JOURDAN is the third child and second daughter of Colonel Warren Jourdan and Mary J. Thornton, his wife — all Georgians. Mrs. Jourdan, at the ripe age of fifty-four years, has in preparation a practical " Cookery Book," which will be pecu- liarly adapted to the wants of young and inexperienced housekeepers. With Maria Jourdan, music was a passion. Having been so fortu- nate as to have always enjoyed the tuition of skilful masters, she became a proficient in the art, and, unlike most married ladies, she has never given up her favorite amusement, but devotes much time to familiarizing herself with the various operas. MARIA J. WESTMORELAND. 189 Miss Jourdau's alma mater is the Baptist College located at La Grange — as it is also that of her not less gifted sister, Mrs. Madeline T. Bryan, who writes charmingly, both in prose and verse. A few weeks after the completion of her seventeenth birthday, Maria Jourdan became the wife of Dr. W. F. Westmoreland, of Atlanta, where she resides. Daring the war, Mrs. Westmoreland composed two very creditable dramas, which were entitled "The Soldier's Wife" and "The Soldier's Trials," and were performed at the Atlanta Athenaeum. The proceeds of the plays were donated to the destitute wives and children of those Atlantians who were in the Virginia army. Mrs. Westmoreland has a talent for essay writing and reviews. Her reviews of Owen Meredith's " Lucille " and Mrs. Browning's " Aurora Leigh " caused many to read those poems who would never have had that pleasure but for the rapturous praise pronounced by her upon these poems. She contributed to " Scott's Monthly " characteristic essays — conversational in style, abounding in humor, wit, and satire — under the signature of " Mystery." Mrs. Westmoreland has ready for the press a novel, to be published anonymously. She also contemplates publishing her " Essays " in a gala suit of " blue and gold." Atlanta, 1869. THE UNATTAINABLE. That indefinable longing — that hopeless yearning after what we have not — that craving of the human heart which is never satisfied — that irrepress- ible desire to go forth into the Invisible — to live in the ideal, forgetting and forgotten — to roam from star to star, from system to system, only hold- ing intercourse with the unseen spirits that dwell in this imaginary world ! Twelve hours of such existence were worth a whole lifetime tamely spent in eating, drinking, and sleeping ! We are taught that reason and judgment are more to be desired and cultivated than all the other mental faculties, while imagination is the least desirable, and, if indulged in, produces a list- less inertia, which erects an ideal standard of life, leading us into untold vagaries and idiosyncrasies. But, in the words of Mrs. Browning : " If heads That hold a rhythmic thought must ache perforce, For my part, I choose headaches." So, if imagination, on this je ne sais quoi, can carry us beyond this "vale of tears " — can stop for a moment Ixion's fatal wheel — can make Tantalus, 190 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. in spite of his thirst, essay his efforts for water — then give us the ideal — let us dwell in the imaginary. First let us consider — what are we born for ? A purpose. What do we live for? — vainly pursuing that will-o'-the-wisp, Happiness, which, while we grasp it, glides through our fingers, and is gone. We die — hoping to reach heaven. Since Adam's expulsion from the Garden of Eden, human nature, in every age, in every clime, and under all circum- stances, has been the same. Empires have risen and fallen — men tempted and overcome — women flattered and betrayed — martyrs in every cause have perished on the rack and at the stake. And what is the cause of it all? Is it not that uncontrollable desire to "o'erleap our destinies," and penetrate the realms of the unknown ? We are undoubtedly born to fill some niche in the great walls of the world ; but where that vacancy is, few of us discover until too late, or, having found, still fewer go to work in real earnest to fulfil their allotted destinies. That "life is real, life is earnest," too few of us appreciate ; and that we are all rather blindly following some phantom, some ideal of the soul, is .too palpably true to be controverted. There is implanted in every human breast, with any aspiration at all, a heart-felt craving that will not be stilled — a something that preys upon our very lives as the vulture upon the vitals of Prometheus. It seeks to go beyond our present life, and fain would pierce the dim shades of futurity, hoping to find in its winding mazes that phantasm which did not reveal itself in the past, and which the present denies. These phantoms rise up from the shrine of ambition, and every other pas- sion to which mankind are prone. Does it not seem strange, that with all the lights of the past before us, we should so often be deluded ? Is it not stranger still that we should trust this ignis fatuus, knowing it has lured so many unwary pilgrims to destruction — these spectres, that lead us blindly on, and elude our very grasp when we stretch forth our hands to clasp them ? Each individual fancies himself the fortunate one who is to escape disap- pointment and sorrow — whose bark is to sail upon an unruffled sea, pro- pelled by propitious gales — still hoping to evade the fatal whirlpool, until he is irretrievably lost in its circling eddies. This "Wandering Jew," this restive demon is never at ease. Take the first mentioned of these phantoms — these invisible giants that crush as they bear vou onward : Ambition, for example. It is a monster of frightful mien, a fiend incarnate, which sacri- fices everything to gain its ends. It heeds not the cries of orphans, nor the prayers of widows. It sheds with wanton hand the blood of the brave, and gazes on the criminal with defiant scorn. It snatches from men their morals, from women their virtue. It turns love into hate — rends asunder family ties — disrupts governments — toils unceasingly on, ever on, and levels every- thing in its march to victory. Argus-eyed, it watches to add more victims to its list. The night is engrossed with plots which the day shall execute. When, at last — having forfeited honor, principle, friends, name, and every- thing worth living for — this proud Lucifer reaches the topmost round of MARIA J. WESTMORELAND. 191 the ladder of fame, dragging its weary victims after it, we find, alas ! too late, that the dream of our lives, the Ultima Thule of our hopes, "like Dead- Sea fruit, turns to ashes on our lips." By ambition, angels fell ; and it can- not be expected that poor, frail mortals should win where seraphs failed. TALKING. What shall we talk about, then ? — and how ? Every one has felt the power of words, and been moved to tears or convulsed with laughter by their touching pathos or ready wit. The charm and fascination of talking- well refines and polishes men, while it elevates women. How delightful, upon the occasion of a dinner party, to have some one present who can relate an anecdote, repeat a poem, propose an appropriate toast, or sing a song ! It is said that at those " club " parties in London, years ago, where the most brilliant wits of the day were wont to assemble to enjoy "a feast of reason and a flow of soul/' the participants would study assiduously their speeches for a week before attending, thereby rendering them perfectly sparkling. Of course, then, the ready wit and unexpected puns, etc., would but increase their brilliancy. It is a well-known fact that Sheridan always prepared himself before attending those parties, at which he would meet the most polished wits. The "Xoctes Ambrosianse" of Edinburgh might be re- enacted in more parts of the world than one, if every one would only give a little more attention to these matters. But the " almighty dollar " is the curse, the Mephistopheles of Ameri- cans ; and even now I can hear some excessively practical person exclaim- ing, " What 's the use of it ? " " What will it pay ? " Why, the use of it is to cultivate the agreeable, and make that life which is but a span — a trou- bled dream at best — pass as pleasantly as possible. If it does not pay you, it will yield a rich harvest to your children. Just think how much more agreeable life would pass, should the whole world wear its "'company face " all the time, instead of going about growling and scowling about everything ! But, while you must cultivate your conversational powers, do not ignore the fact that the peculiar charm in entertaining lies not so much in talking yourself as in touching upon some favorite topic of the person addressed, and in listening in the most deferential manner. This was Madame Beca- mier's forte. She was very beautiful and attractive, but did not converge nearly so well as many of those brilliant women of Paris during her day ; but she possessed sufficient tact to touch the right chord in others, and, with her lovely eyes resting upon their faces, and seemingly drinking in every word as though it had been inspired, she entered into their conversation con amore, and left each one under the impression that he was her beau ideal of manly perfection. Does not this go far in proof of the doctrine that men love pretty, silly women, who can hand them their slippers and robe de 192 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. chambre, and draw them a cup of tea, ten times more than they do an intel- lectual woman, who can be a companion for them. It is a melancholy fact that highly cultivated and intellectual women only call into existence a kind of cold admiration from the other sex; and while their hearts are breaking and longing for love and sympathy, they find that it is all bestowed upon some little weak, namby-pamby, dependent creature, who does not nor cannot appreciate it. And thus time flies by on lightning wings, and ^ e stand upon the very brink of eternity before we know that we have lived, or understand the duties and demands of life. The Countess of Blessington is represented as a great talker, but so spark- ling and witty that she always drew around her the most cultivated and polished men. On the contrary, while Madame de Stael is conceded to have been the most gifted female writer who ever lived, in conversation she ha- rangued rather than entertained, until, intellectual as she was, the men would actually fly from her. Her excessive vanity sometimes placed her in very ridiculous positions. Everybody is familiar with the story of herself and Napoleon, when she asked him who was " the greatest woman in France? " and his reply, " She who bears the most children, and gives to France the greatest number of soldiers." Her vanity led her to suppose that the Em- peror would say, " Why, Madame de Stael, of course." On another occa- sion she and Madame Eecamier were conversing with Talleyrand ; or, to use his own expression, he was " sitting between wit and beauty." Madame de Stael propounded the following question : " Monsieur Talleyrand, if Madame Eecamier and yourself and myself were taking a little excursion upon the Seine, and the boat were to capsize, which one of us would you attempt to rescue? " Like a genuine Frenchman, he replied : " I should endeavor to rescue both." A little piqued at his reply, Madame de Stael said : " Well, you know you would have some preference ; which one of us would you save ? " He replied again : " I should extend a hand to each one." Irri- tated beyond concealment this time, Madame de Stael said angrily : " Tell me ! which one would you rescue ? You know it would be impossible to save both." True to his French nature, Talleyrand gallantly replied : " You, who know everything, Madame de Stael, should know that also." Thus he extricated himself from his embarrassing position by complimenting (and justly, too) her intellect. This is a specimen of ready wit which is rarely found. Nothing can more finely portray the power of words than the famous speech of Napoleon to his army, just preceding the battle of the Pyramids, in which he said : " Soldiers ! from those summits forty centuries contem- plate your actions ! " Do you suppose they would have been fired with the enthusiasm and patriotism which made them conquering heroes, if he had said: "Boys! that huge pile of rocks are gazing at you?" Never! Then, if there be such a charm and fascination in conversing well, let us all ignore that which is vulgar and commonplace, and cultivate to the highest extent the " unruly member." MISS MARIA LOU EVE. WHAT this lady has published has attracted attention, and gives promise of future excellence in some work of an extended char- acter. Miss Eve has received several prizes for essays. The prize essay furnished to " Scott's Magazine " in 1866, entitled, " Thoughts about Talking," was very readable. Miss Eve was born at Woodville, near Augusta, Ga. She has contributed occasionally articles to various Georgia journals, and has two novels in manuscript, which may never delight this generation of readers. Writing, with her, has been an occasional amusement only. Her residence is in Richmond County, Ga. 1869. SINCERITY IN TALKING. And apropos of the foundations of talking, there is also an old-fashioned idea, now nearly obsolete, nous avons change tout cela, that they should rest more or less upon truth as their basis ; and despite all theories to the con- trary, there is a certain satisfaction in feeling that we may rely implicitly upon the statements that are made to us, especially upon professions of es- teem or regard. We all carry with us into the business transactions of life a certain alloy of skepticism, and receive each statement Yv r ith a few grains of allowance, not feeling bound to believe that each flimsy fabric will last until we are tired of it, simply because told so by the obliging shopkeeper ; but in the social relations of life there are some things that we would like to receive upon faith. If we could only believe all the pleasant things told us by our friends, what a charming world would this be ! And when our particular friend, Mrs. Honeydew, tells us she is delighted to see us, have we any right to ques- tion her sincerity merely because we happened to overhear her say, " Those tiresome people again ? " We had no business to hear what was not intended for us. Why should we go peering behind the scenes, where all is so fair and specious on the outside ? If we should all commence telling the truth at once, what a grand smash- up of the great social machine ! What a severing of long-standing friend- ships — what a sundering of ties ! Madam Grundy would hang herself in 25 193 194 LIVING FEMALE WHITE KS OF THE SOUTH. despair. If I should tell my dear friend, Araminta, that her new bonnet is horrid — simply because she asks me how I like it, and that is my honest opinion — would she ever speak to me again ? Or would you endure the pre- sence of the man, though he were your best friend, who should tell you that your two-forty nag shuffles in his gait? Alas ! which of us would not, like True Thomas, have refused the gift of the " lips that could never lie" ? Yet,, let us not linger too long on the wrong side of the embroidery frame, picking flaws in the work, but only see to it that our fingers weave no un- worthy figures on the canvas. What a wonderful thing, after all, is this matter of talking ! Words — words ! Deeds are as nothing to them. It is said that love requires pro- fessions — but friendship demands proofs in the form of actions. But was it by deeds of kindness or devotion that whimsical, prating old Jack Falstaff so endeared himself to the heart of Prince Hal as to call forth that most touching and suggestive tribute, " I could have better spared a better man," upon hearing that his old boon companion was killed ? We can better spare the man who has saved our life than the one who makes it pleasant by his society, the pleasant companion who made it worth the saving. Blessed for- ever be the art of talking ; and blessed be the men and women who, by their pleasant, sunshiny talk, keep the heart of this gray-haired old world as fresh as ever it was in its prime. The pleasant talkers, may their shadows never grow less ! MISS KATE C. WAKELEE. MISS WAKELEE is one of those talented women who have yet to make a literary career. A friend of hers says : " Of all shrinking and modest women, Miss Wakelee is most so." For twelve years she has written constantly, but, mimosa-like, has shrunk from the ordeal of publication. A story from her pen appeared in the " Sat- urday Evening Post," Philadelphia, and one in the " American Union," Boston. In 1863, the novelette of " India Morgan ; or, The Lost Will," was a successful competitor for a prize offered by the " Southern Field and Fireside " newspaper. A novelette entitled, " The Forest City Bride," a tale of life in Savannah and Augusta during the war, fur- nished to " Scott's Magazine," was a lifelike narrative. Miss Wakelee is very natural indeed in her delineations of life and manners. Before the war, Miss Wakelee wrote only to please her friends. The following tribute to the brave commander of the ill-fated steamship "Central America," printed in Godey's "Lady Book," December, 1858, was from her pen : KATE C. WAKE LEE. 195 TO THE MEMORY OF CAPTAIN HEENDOX. A song for the brave — let it roll like the sea From every red lip that has pillowed a prayer, From every warm heart gush boundless and free, Ee-echoed by angels through viewless air, Wide spreading in beauty, and swelling with might, From the east to the west, on the wings of the light. An anthem of praise for the hero who stood, Undaunted and firm, in the battle of death — Below him, deep thund'rirjg, the boiling flood, Above him, in fury, the wild tempest's breath ; No thought of himself, despair, or the grave, While there was a woman his mercy could save. A single thought stirred his heart's quivering strings — He heard, for a moment, the music of home ; His brain madly reeled, while his straining eyes gazed Unblenched on his fate — a swift-speeding doom. His livid lips set, and his white brow grew pale ; But his hand nobly wrought, his soul did not quail. Down, down in the depths of the deep he may lie, The spot all unmarked to the swift passer o'er, But his name, like a star, shall be set in the sky, And woman forever his mem'ry adore: Bright angels descend to his pillow at even, There keep watch until Earth shall melt into Heaven. Like most of our Southern women, Miss Wakelee is comparatively impoverished, and her pen must become a " mighty instrument." Miss Wakelee was born in Connecticut, a great-granddaughter of Governor Law, of that State ; but she has lived so long in Georgia, has so thoroughly identified herself with the interests of that State and the South, that no one ever remembers she was not to the " ma- nor born." Miss Wakelee is elegantly educated, polished in manners, of a cheer- ful and sympathizing temperament, making her, as a gentleman re- marks, the friend and favorite of everybody. She is charming in conversation, and her manuscript is neat and legible. Her home is* in Kichmond County, Georgia — a county that is noted for the intellect of the fair daughters thereof. 1869. CARRIE BELL SINCLAIR. A CHARLESTON journal calls Miss Sinclair "one of the sweetest muses that ever warbled the simple history of a nation's dead." By her many patriotic poems she is best known. Miss Sinclair has passed nearly all of her life in Georgia, which is her native State, having been born in Milledgeville, the capital of the State. Her father, the Rev. Elijah Sinclair, a Methodist minister, was a native of South Carolina, as was her mother, and had just entered upon his ministerial labors as a member of the Georgia Con- ference when Carrie was born. The Rev. Mr. Sinclair was of Scotch descent, his mother being a sister of Robert Fulton, the inventor of the first steamboat. He labored faithfully as a minister of the gospel until within a few years of his death, when failing health compelled him to leave the pulpit. At the time of his death, the Rev. Mr. Sin- clair was teaching a school for young ladies in Georgetown, S. C. He left his widow and eight daughters — the eldest only married. Carrie Bell was a child at this time, and felt this great sorrow as only one who is possessed of a poetic temperament can feel. Some three years after the death of her father, a younger sister died, and his grave was opened that the child's dust might mingle with his. It was upon this occasion that Carrie Bell penned her first rhymes, telling her childish sorrow in song. Soon after, her mother removed to Augusta, and then she commenced her literary career, writing because she could not resist the spell that lingered around her, and not that she had any desire to venture upon the road to fame. Her first appearance in print was in a weekly literary paper published in Augusta, "The Georgia Gazette," under signature of " Clara." In 1860, she published a volume of poems in Augusta, of which says a reviewer : " Here and there the poetical element glitters through like the sunlight between fresh green leaves, and shows that she possesses some of the elements necessary for success. " 'If the mind with clear conceptions glow, The willing words in just expression flow.' 1 ( JG CARRIE BELL SINCLAIR. 197 If the debutante has not given us a tree capable of sheltering us beneath its branches, she has at least presented us with some modest flowers, which we may gracefully wear on our breasts." Shortly after the publication of this volume, she went to Savannah to reside, and, although not entirely abandoning the field of letters, yet she felt that new duties claimed her attention, and she could not be content to tread only the flowery fields of poetry and romance while war waged its wild desolation around her ; and she turned her attention to the wants of the soldiers, and, when she wielded the pen, it was that she might in some way aid in the cause of her bleeding country, or record the deeds of her brave heroes in song and story, Of one of Miss Sinclair's poems, " The Southern Girl's Homespun Dress," the following remarks were made in " Frank Moore's Anec- dotes and Incidents of the War, North and South " : " The accompanying song was taken from a letter of a Southern girl to her lover in Lee's army, which letter was obtained from a mail captured in Sher- man's march through Northern Alabama. The materials of which the dress alluded to is made are cotton and wool, and woven on the hand-loom, so commonly seen in the houses at the South. The scrap of a dress, enclosed in the letter as a sample, was of a gray color, with a stripe of crimson and green, quite pretty, and creditable to the lady who made it." Since the close of the war, Miss Sinclair has been busy Avith the pen, and has contributed to most of the leading journals of the South and many in the North and West. For over two years she has been a regular contributor to the " Boston Pilot," from which widely circu- lated journal many of her poems have been copied into English and Irish papers. The kind welcome extended to Miss Sinclair's first volume of poems served not only to lay the foundation of a literary life, but it has been- the stepping-stone to the success that has crowned her later efforts, for had the harsh sentence of the critic fallen upon her earlier produc- tions, a naturally timid and sensitive nature would have shrunk from the ordeal of again facing the public. A second volume from Miss Sinclair will shortly appear, entitled, " Heart Whispers ; or, Echoes of Song." A journal, noticing the ad- vent of this volume, thus alludes to the poems and the poet : " Miss Sinclair's poems abound with vigor, pathos, and the current of gen- uine poetic sentiment, united with almost faultless versification, breathing 198 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. the ardor of true affection, and those deep-thrilling touches of patriotic sen- timent that make the tendrils of the warm Southern heart to cling with re- doubled fondness around the once happy and prosperous sunny South. What, for instance, could be more touching than the following little incident, which gained her so many commendations and so much silent admiration. Strew- ing flowers over the graves of the Confederate dead in the cemetery near Augusta, she came upon one with a head-board bearing the simple inscrip- tion, 'Unknown.' Then and there she wrote the beautiful poem ('Un- known'). This she framed, wreathed with a chaplet of flowers, and placed on the grave of the unknown defender of the Southern cross." " UNKNOWN." Written upon visiting the Graves of the Confederate Dead, in the Cemetery, Augusta, Ga. I stood beside a little -mound, Marked by an humble -stone, And read the soldier's epitaph, In the one word — " Unknown ! " Not e'en a name to tell of him Who slept so sweetly there — ■ No name o'er which loved one could bend To drop affection's tear. The only one who sleeps " unknown " Among the many brave ; "Somebody's darling," though, I know, Sleeps in that soldier-grave ! Perchance to some poor mother's heart He was the only joy ! Perhaps that mother waited long To welcome home her boy ! Perhaps a gentle sister, too, Prayed for him night and day, And watched with anxious heart to greet The loved one from the fray ; Or it may be, some maid, whose love To him was yet more dear, Is weeping now with grief for him Who sleeps so sweetly here! Upon each little white slab here Is traced some soldier's name, CAEKIE BELL SINCLAIK. 199 And proudly do we love to tell Their glorious deeds to Fame ! But ah! 'tis sad indeed to stand Beside this humble stone, And read no name — and know that one Is sleeping all "unknown I" To know that there are loving hearts Who 'd give their all to-day To stand beside this grave, where sleeps Their soldier-boy in gray! But 'tis enough to know that he For our dear country died; And stranger hands can twine fair flowers Above this spot in pride. Ah! here are many soldier-graves — He does not sleep alone ! And though no name of him is traced Upon this simple stone, There is a spotless scroll above ! And on that snowy page Hath angel-hands for the "unknown" Eecorded name and age! Augusta, Ga., Feb. 2, 1867. Miss Sinclair has wooed the Muses amid many of the toils and per- plexing cares of every-day life, and often the harp has been tuned to song when the soul echoed only to notes of sorrow. With the stern duties of life around us, and all its bitter trials to meet, not even the poet's heart can always be tuned to sweet melody; but the "Psalm of Life " must be sung in sad as well as sweet numbers. But God has willed that the child of genius should be the child of sorrow too ; for suffering and song go linked hand in hand as twin sisters. Miss Sinclair is now residing in Philadelphia, (1871.) 1869. MES. BETTIE M. ZIMMERMAN. THE " Southern Illustrated News," published at the capital of the " Confederate States," was an excellent "war literary journal," though not much of the " illustrated ! " In this paper many excellent articles appeared from writers hitherto unknown to the public, and many writers made their debut therein. As some one has remarked, " many ladies turned to writing as a refuge from anxiety." Several of the writers of the " News," whose first effusions appeared in its col- umns, are now " high " on the steps of " fame's ladder," and are not only welcome, but well-paid contributors to Northern literary journals. It was in 1863 that the "News" contained creditable poems by " Mrs. B. M. Z " and the following year, the "Southern Field and Fireside" (Augusta) published some poems from the same pen. Mrs. Zimmerman is by birth a North-Carolinian, and daughter of the late Rev. Thomas Meredith, an eminent divine of the Baptist de- nomination. Some years since she was married to R. P. Zimmerman, of Georgia, since which time she has resided in that State. For sev- eral years she made the beautiful city of Augusta her home, but the shadow of death there fell upon her life, clouding its brightness ; for in its lovely, peaceful " city of the dead " sleeps her boy, to whom she alludes in the beautiful poems, "Three Years in Heaven" and " Christmas Tears." During and since the close of the war she has lived in Atlanta — " that monument of a conqueror's wrath," which is now, phoenix-like, rising from the ashes of desolation in renewed youth and beauty. Mrs. Zimmerman possesses a taste and talent for literature, and writing, with her, has been a pleasing pastime merely, she only lacking the study and application to make a name in the "book of Southern literature." 1869. CHRISTMAS TEARS. But one little stocking hangs to-night Upon my chimney wall, Swinging its little, nerveless foot, Where the fitful shadows fall. 200 BETTIE M. ZIMMERMAN. 201 But one to-night! Seven years gone by, Another hung in the light — Another heart throbbed by my side On each happy Christinas-night. But one little sock for Santa Claus To fill with his bright gifts rare — One pair of hands at early dawn Now searching for treasure there! The mated socks lie folded away, And the darling feet are cold; The little hands, like lily-leaves, Lie hid in the grave-yard old. The radiant eyes, and warm, red lips, To dust have mouldered away: The glad, young heart will greet no more The light of a Christmas-day. Then, is it strange that my heart will turn, With its weight of unwept tears, And yearn with a ceaseless longing For the light of by-gone years? That a shadow comes with the dawning Of each happy Christmas-time, Marring the perfect melody Of this age-resounding chime? Alas ! my heart must ever be sad, And the blinding tear-drops fall, When I miss the little stocking Once hung on the Christmas-wall. 20 MRS. SALLIE M. MARTIN. SALLIE M. MARTIN is a native of South Carolina, the first and only child of Elnathan L. and Jane Wallace Davis. Her father died when she was an infant, leaving her to the care of his early be- reaved and youthful widow. To the careful and loving training of her mother is due whatever she may accomplish in the future, whether of literary fame, or the successful practising of domestic virtues. After the death of Mr. Davis, his widow and daughter resided with her grandfather, Rev. William Holmes, a gentleman of means and influence, not only in Fairfield District, his home, but throughout many portions of the State. " Sallie " was instructed nearly entirely by her mother at home, for it was only .at intervals and for short periods at a time that she was sent to school. When she was ten years of age, her grandfather be- came unfortunate in business, so as to cause an almost entire loss of property, and removed to Georgia, accompanied by Mrs. Davis and her daughter. Having resided in Georgia the larger part of her life, she is as much devoted to her adopted as to her native State. In 1860, she was affianced to Mr. George W. Martin, a gentleman of talent, connected with the press of Atlanta, and then, for the first time, turned her attention to literature ; at his solicitation, publish- ing short articles in 1861. In 1863, she was married — a youthful bride — for she is very young, and has, we hope, a long and brilliant future before her. She contributed to various journals of the " Confederacy," over the signature of " Sibyl." Her most ambitious effort was a novelette, entitled, " Lalla De Vere," written in 1864. Mr. Martin, having been in the Confederate service for three years, was in Selma with the " Chattanooga Rebel," — a daily journal of considerable reputation and ability, — designing to bring out the nove- lette of "Lalla De Vere" in book-form. His paper, binding, etc., and his person, were captured, and for many weeks his wife was ignorant of his fate. "Lalla De Vere" was published in the "Ladies' Home Gazette," a journal published in Atlanta, (1867.) As a writer, Mrs. Martin's style is chaste and elegant, never flippant. Her essays are superior to her narratives. 202 SALLIE M. MARTIN. 203 A series of articles, entitled, "The Women of France," composed of sketches of " Madame Roland and the Empress Josephine," " Joan d'Arc and Charlotte Corday," "Heloise and Marie Antoinette," that appeared in " Scott's Magazine," are, we think, the best articles that have appeared from the pen of " Sibyl." CHARLOTTE COED AY. In Charlotte Corday we find none of the religious enthusiasm which sup- ported Joan dArc. If she believed in God at all, it was a sentiment wholly separated in her mind from any connection with her earthly mission. She did not feel herself called by any superior power to lay down her life for her country. The mighty power to do so lay in her own individual strength. Think what stern resolve must have gathered day by day in her mind, as she sat with her father in the assembly of the exiled deputies, where, without one thought that her striking beauty was calling forth admira- tion, she was slowly but surely nerving her heart and hand to strike the blow which should rid France of a tyrannical monster ! So little did she value her life in comparison to the welfare of her country that, after she had sheathed her blade in the cruel and wicked heart of the hideous Marat, rather than lose the opportunity of witnessing with her own eyes the effect this deed would have upon the people for whose good it was executed, she made no attempt whatever to escape, though she might readily have done so. It was a grand, a noble sight, to see a beautiful woman of twenty-five selling her own life that she might take that of an old and loath- some wretch whose race was wellnigh run. There was no fire, no impulse in the cool, deliberate act for which she had calmly made every preparation, as well as for the consequences. There was no battle-cry of " On to victory and glory," to lead her on ; but only the " still small voice " within her own heart, of " Liberty to France ! " Ah ! little did she dream that her apt reply to the president of the tribunal before which she was tried, would be handed down from one generation to another ! He asked how it was that her first blow reached the heart of Marat — if she had been practising before- hand. " Indignation," she calmly said, " had roused my heart, and it showed me the way to his." It was so quietly, so simply expressed, yet spoke such vol- umes. So absorbed was she in her own patriotic devotion to the cause of liberty, that she was not even aware of the deep and glowing passion which her beauty and valor awakened in the breast of the unfortunate Adam Lux, who deemed no life so sweet as the death which his beloved had suffered, and so prayed that he might but perish as she did, which happiness to him was granted. 204 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. The scaffold, the cord, the block, had no terror for the heroic Charlotte. Only her womanly delicacy suffered at the exposure of her person to the vul- gar gaze of the crowd. Even when her beautiful head, with its wealth of matchless hair, was severed from the body, the still soul-lit eyes opened and cast a look of indignation upon the ruthless executioner who dared to buffet her now lifeless cheek. Well did she win the name of heroine. Justly is she entitled to rank among the illustrious women of her country. >^c CLAKA LE CLERC. THIS young lady is favorably known in a limited circle as a " charming writer of prose." She is an Alabamian by birth, al- though the early years of her childhood were passed in Mississippi. Several months after her ninth birthday, her parents moved to the " Empire State," (Georgia,) and in one of the many pleasant little towns of the noble old State has she ever since resided. Entering school at the age of eleven, she remained a close student until she graduated, a few days before her eighteenth birthday. During her scholastic life, every spare moment was devoted to her pen, and oftentimes her vacations were passed in scribbling. Her first story was entitled, " Popie Weston." Very few of her writings have ever found their way into print. When she was fifteen years of age, Dabney Jones, the great temperance lecturer, begged a short story, which appeared in " The Temperance Crusader," then edited by Mrs. Mary E. Bryan. In 1865, she wrote a series of " Reveries " for the " Southern Lite- rary Companion," under the signature of " Harry Holt ; " also replies, "Old Maid Reveries," by "Polly Holt." Since that time she has con- tributed to "Scott's Magazine," "Miss Barber's Weekly," "Child's Delight," and "Burke's Weekly for Boys and Girls." Some of her friends affirm that she possesses the faculty- of pleasing children to a greater extent than almost any one of the present day. Miss Le Clerc has been, as assistant teacher, sheltered beneath the wing of her alma mater since her graduation, which alma mater is " College Temple," at Newnan, Georgia. 18G9. MKS. BESSIE W. WILLIAMS. AMONG the Southern writers, there are many who never published a line until the disastrous state of affairs consequent upon the close of ^the war found them compelled to earn a living ; and the pen, a delight in happier and prosperous days, was chosen by many as a means of livelihood. Articles written for the pleasure and amusement of a limited circle now saw light, that otherwise would never have been printed. Mrs. Bessie W. Williams (" Constance ") has not published a great deal, but in what she has published, in " Scott's Magazine " and " The Mobile Sunday Times," we think we see germs of great promise for future excellence. She may be now a " half-fledged birdling, but her wings will soon be sufficiently grown, and she will fly high." Her real, breathing, moving life has been so full of stirring events, so made up of deepest sorrows and sweetest joys, that not until recent- ly has she felt she could quietly sit down and write her thoughts. Mrs. Williams is a native of the town of Beaufort, State of South Carolina. She is the daughter of Lieutenant-Colonel Johnson, of " Hampton's Legion," who nobly yielded up his life on the field of the " First Manassas." The three names, Bee, Bartow, Johnson, were among the first which became immortal in the Confederate struggle for independence. Her husband was Henry S. Williams, of Marietta, Georgia, where she now resides. At the youthful age of twenty-one, Mrs. Williams was a widow. If it were possible for her to devote her time to reading and studying, we think, candidly, that as a writer she would take a high place among the literati of our country. The following extract is from the concluding chapter of " Ciaromski and his Daughter," published in the " Mobile Sunday Times." 1809. AFTER THE BATTLE. Oh ! what words can describe, what language can depict the horrors of a battle-field? Fearful it is when the booming of the cannon, the clash of 205 206 LIVING FEMALE WKITEES OF THE SOUTH. arms, the shouts of commanders, the cheering of the men, and the wild neighing of steeds, in a horrible medley, rend the skies ; but when these sounds have passed away, when the bloody work is finished, and we are left alone with the dying and the dead — then the human tongue fails, and lan- guage is powerless to portray. On such a. scene as this the setting sun now casts his last, lingering rays. The snow-covered plain, which in its spotless purity his early beams had gilded, now lies crimson and reeking with the blood of the slain. The battle is over — the cries of victory have died away in murmuring echoes among the hills ; and here, resting from their toils, lie the weary laborers in this bloody field. All gory and mangled they lie. Some, whose hearts are beating still, though the tide of life is fast ebbing away ; and others with the moisture of death upon their brows, his stiffening hand upon their limbs. Oh, fond mother ! here you will find your darling, the pride of your heart, him whom you have borne in your arms and pressed to your bosom. Come, look upon him now ! Is this cold, lifeless form, with matted locks and dis- torted features, your gallant, fair-haired boy ? Loving wife! here too is your husband, the father of your children, the strong arm upon which you leaned, the true heart where you ever found love and sympathy ; the lips are cold now — they return not your kiss. Devoted daughter ! come, seek thy father, for he too lies here ! - See, the gray locks are stained with blood, and the eyes are dim and sightless. Place thy hand upon his heart — it beats no more ! Then he is dead, and from thy life hath passed away one of its greatest blessings. Long, long wilt thou mourn the loss of his protecting love — that love which was born in thy birth, and grew with thy growth, unselfish, untiring. Yes ; husbands, sons, fathers, lovers, brothers — all lie upon the red plain, weltering in their blood. My heart grows sick within me as I gaze upon the scene of carnage. O sun! withdraw thy lingering rays ; and do thou, O night ! envelop with thy sable mantle and shut out from my sight the horrid spectacle ! LOUISE MANHIEM. (Mrs. Herbert.) MISS MANHIEM was born in Augusta, Georgia, in 1830. Her mother, whose maiden name was De Pass, was born in France, and emigrated to America when a child. She was a woman of fine endowments, and possessed great strength of character, which she con- stantly displayed in the judicious training of a large family of chil- dren amid the severest struggles of poverty. All of her children are men and women of eminent virtues and genius. Her five daughters are known in their social home-circle as writers : the two elder employ the pen merely as a means of pleasing recreation ; the three younger have made it a means of pecuniary benefit. Their two brothers, the Hon. Judge S. and Elcan Heydenfeldt, are men whose eminence is too well known to the world to require notice from us otherwise than as the talented brothers of five gifted sisters. The father of the three younger daughters (their mother having mar- ried the second time) was of Scotch and Irish descent ; and though far more proud of his American birth, he often asserted with chivalric pride that the " blood of the Bruces " flowed in his veins. He was a man of quick, nervous temperament, and, though not having leisure to enter into "authorship," genius often rose superior, and the "poet " triumphed over the laborer. He died in his forty-fifth year. His talents were trans- mitted to his eldest child, Louise Manhiem, the subject of this sketch. Miss Manhiem became Mrs. Herbert in 1853, but her husband dying immediately after his marriage, (three days,) she sought conso- lation in her studies. A few years after, she accompanied her brother to Europe, where he wished to educate his children, and where she remained for two years, visiting the principal cities of the Old World. Mrs. Herbert is now in California, and urges in her pleasant, forcible letters emigration to that " grand and splendid country." Although separated by oceans, we hope and expect many pungent and pleasing articles will cross the Atlantic to brighten and gladden our firesides. 207 208 LIVING FEMALE WKITEES OF THE SOUTH. Mrs. Herbert possesses a lively, genial disposition, is a fluent talker, and fond of cheerful company, preferring the more congenial mind of learned men to the more versatile and light companionship of her own sex. Under all circumstances, she is an agreeable companion. In person, she is of medium height, well formed, and peculiarly graceful. She has a little spice of temper, (as, by-the-by, all the sisters have, but one ;) but she possesses a noble nature and kind heart, which we hope will beat long enough to add much to the general happiness and the wisdom of mankind. Mrs. Herbert has never published a volume, her contributions being to the magazines and literary journals of the day. She is a splendid French scholar, translating that language with ease and fine diction. 1S69. E. J. OX DEESS. Finished at last — sealed, directed, post-stamped! Very well — tie on your bonnet — fling on your shawl. Oh, never mind ! don't stop to coax on those tedious gloves, pray ! You have a long way to go, and you can put them on as you walk along. You are not the Countess of Blessington, you know ; and now you have no tedious brothers to preach and tyrannize. It is true that the race of slovenly blue-stockings is fast dying out, and I, for one, certainly do admire to see a woman who " goes in thoroughly for dress." Not, indeed, the order of painted popinjays or peacock tribe, who, bedecked in all the ornament for which she can find space, and brilliant in every coloring of the rainbow, spends her time in strutting from one mirror to another, admiring the effect of its charming tout ensemble — keeping the white hands constantly busy brushing off specks, arranging a stray ringlet or rebellious lock, (sometimes too with the pomatum which happens to be most handy, and not particularly odorous or perfumed should the digestion be impaired or the dentist's rooms unfrequented,) pulling out a puffing, a crumpled frill, a tumbled flounce, a creased ribbon, a crushed collarette or undersleeve; re-fastening a brooch, re-adjusting a bracelet, or re-arranging belt or buckle :— one of those " gentle creatures," who, upon an accident in the crowded street, where her trailing skirts are out of place and out of taste, deserving any amount of ill luck — if not ill treatment — from some awkward boot or spur, cannot forbear an expression of peevish regret, or a flash of malignant anger from beneath the " fringed lashes " at the miserable, luck- less offender. No ! not one of these worshippers at the feet of fashion, but one of those majestic and queenly or graceful and delicate creatures whom you involuntarily turn to look upon again — those who, once robed with due regard to delicacy of texture, to harmonious blendings of color, and an LOUISE MANHIEM. 209 exquisite adaptation of form and propriety of contrast — above all, the suit- ableness of the color and costume to the peculiar style of personal adorn- ment — never think again of their dress except as a common accessory to their general appearance, which, being persons of intelligence and refine- ment generally, they are too highly bred to allow a spectator to perceive occupies them unduly. Supposed to be wealthy, they are all the more assi- duous, when not so in reality, to suppress all those little demonstrations that might give rise to the suspicion of an excess of personal vanity, or the pre- sumption that the coarser and more material features of existence occupy the greater part of their time or concern. And nothing is more grateful to the feelings, nor more delightful to the eye, even to a woman — and how much more must it be to a man ! than to witness, upon many of those little, and sometimes annoying and irremediable misfortunes to the toilette of a lady that are so frequent upon the street or in the crowded "party-room" — what is more admirable and soothing than to notice the gracious bend, the charming deprecatory shake of the gracefully set head, protesting against your self-reproach and excuses — the brilliant bit of jest, if proximity permit, in the sweet and gentle smile that assures you, better than words, that " it is not of the least consequence, and can be easily remedied ! " I can fancy such a woman exciting a tender reverence, and being the one any man would feel " delighted to honor " — or a woman either. Yes ; I am much inclined to say, with the vast majority, such important and ferocious personages as Dr. Johnson, Dean Swift, Christina of Sweden, and Lady Mary Worthy, notwithstanding — "Vive la mode!" but I might add, with double enthusiasm, " Vive le bon gout ! " The world would, indeed, be an ugly place, if all the women wore tumbled or limp skirts, soiled collars pinned awry, shoes unlaced, and fingers stained with ink; for, in this age of educational advancement, two-thirds at least of our charming, clever women may very justly lay claim to " blue-stockingism," or the more attractive title of litterateur. Or it would be a very monotonous world if every face, oval, or round, or long — if all brows, high or low, prominent or receding, square or round, massive or delicate — were adorned with hair worn in long, rich ringlets, like Madame Roland, or short, charming frieze, like pretty Nell Gwynn, or a VImperatrice or a la Grec — very carelessly done too ; the end trailing behind, no matter whether the neck upon which it rests be wrinkled and yellow and freckled, or whether it be a la Eugenie or & Marie Antoinette, the loveliest necks ever possessed by mortal woman, except, perhaps, poor Anne Boleyn — the two last food for the axe! Alas! what may yet be the fate of the third? There is one singular fact, however, with regard to careless women, which, being paradoxical, will have its objectors, I know, but which long ex- perience and close observation has taught me is correct beyond a doubt, or with few exceptions. It is this : that many of those women who are the most seemingly indifferent to personal appearance, are the very ones whom 27 210 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. attention to the rules and taste in the arrangement of costume would vastly improve, and who, after all, are the most inordinately vain of all women ! I have said above, the order of slovenly " blue stockings " had become almost extinct. There is, however, a remnant of the school who act upon a new principle. I suppose it used to be that carelessness saved time, and dirt, trouble. Ablution has certainly become a universal and imperative necessity of the age. But carelessness is now viewed from a new stand-point by the disciples of the reformed school. They have taken their cue from such poetical licenses as " Beauty unadorned is adorned the most ! " " Sweet simplicity ! " " Charming negligence ! " " Delightful indifference to personal appearance ! " " Entrancing abandon I " and the like hackneyed hyperboles. And the phrases are well enough after all, time, place, and circumstances corresponding or considered. The careless simplicity — even the extreme approach to negligence and abandon, or recklessness, and rebellion against all accepted rules of propriety in costume, pose, and style that certainly became the " fairest Adelaide " — gave a bewitching air of espieglerie to that loveliest hoyden, Laura — or that enhanced the divine grace of the proud, silent, beautiful Myra — heightened the dazzling attractions of the brilliant and haughty Semiramis, or the daring, passionate, bewilderingly entrancing Cleopatra, are all well enough. These trespassers may carry it off grandly triumphant in the very face of rules of art or propriety, but woe to the miser- able, mistaken mediocrity, personal or mental, that ventures to follow where these daring, self-confident guerillas and pioneers undertake to lead ! It is a pity their imitators could not " see themselves," etc., etc. And yet, there are moments when verily, in spite of their intense silliness, I could not help but pity their discomfiture and crushing disappointment. I once knew a beauty who used to take half an hour extra at her toilette to arrange a curl upon her forehead so as to give it the appearance of accident. Chance did first reveal to her keen, artistic perceptions that it enhanced her charms. Her lover admired it, too ; and she availed herself of the hint. She was much complimented upon the " sweet " pet straggler, and it received all sorts of caresses and encouragements from every slender hand that dared the familiar approach to that queenly brow ; and when, with an enchanting little moue of impatience, and a still more enchanting blush and smile, ac- companying an espiegle glance at me, who was in the secret, she would at- tempt to push back the intruding lock, she was immediately besieged with intercessions to permit the pretty trespasser to remain. It came about, then, that shortly after that, when spending some weeks at a gay country-place, I chanced to be cognizant — unwillingly — of an attempt to imitate this illustrious " renegade curl," on the part of one of these indijf events — these lovers of " interesting simplicity, " who " did n't care the least in the world how they looked! " and whose broad, majestic brow and quiet face, that was almost plain in its grave repose, and which did look far REBECCA JACOBUS. 211 more interesting, and decidedly more soft and feminine, crowned by her smooth, glossy wealth of braids, than in artificially tumbled locks. It followed naturally enough, then, that the poor thing was most despe- rately, but unconsciously teased by her artless companions' constant attempts to force the deserter back to his proper quarters, and fasten it all the more securely for fear of new attempts at insubordination, for " Hermine looks hideous with that strand always in her eyes. How on earth came your hair so uneven, Hermine? " " To make that set for your sister Claudia? " " But you should have taken it from the back hair, dear ! " They were also lavish in their condolences concerning the " stiff" quality of the little " twist," or, as the more irreverent termed it, " pig-tail," and positive in their assurances that it would become pliable as soon as it " grew out " again. I pitied the poor girl's flushes of impatience and pallors of suppressed anger, annoyance, and disappointment, though sometimes the by-play was comic enough. But the innocent gravity of my face then and there was a chef-d'oeuvre of self- restraint — a fitting and commendable holocaust to — charity ! OOj^OO — MES. KEBECCA JACOBUS WAS born at Cambridge, S. G, February 22, 1832. She is younger sister of Louise Manhiem. During her infancy, her parents re- moved to Augusta, Ga., where they remained until she reached her eleventh year, when her father, dissatisfied with his vocation, and craving that sphere of life which his poetic imagination pictured in the wilds of Florida, emigrated to that lovely land. The versatile beauty, sombre gloom, and grandeur of its scenery, awoke the talent of his second daughter, and threw into her after-life an impassioned love of solitude and nature. Mrs. Jacobus was educated by her eldest brother, Judge Heyden- feldt, and graduated at the principal seminary in Montgomery, Ala., with credit. She married, in 1852, J. Julien Jacobus, a good and talented man, who, contrary to the general rule, was proud of his young wife's lite- rary ability, and who now and then took pleasure in inditing poems complimentary to her genius. The reverent affection with which he regarded her to the end of his short life is the noblest panegyric we can offer her in the character of wife and mother — the hearth of home being the truest means by which to test the higher attributes of a good and gifted woman. In her home circle, her virtues shine pre-eminent, 212 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. and sanctify the genius which they adorn. Death, however, soon entered this happy home, and gathered two lovely children to his breast, casting a deep gloom over the young mother's life, which a few years later was deepened by the death of her husband, who fell while defending his home and his country on the bloody plain of Shiloh. Death claimed few nobler victims than this young and talented man, who had already given bright promise of future pre-eminence in his profession as a member of the Georgia bar. The deep devotion which Mrs. Jacobus pays to the education of her three promising children elicits our especial admiration. She is a woman of medium height, is slight and well formed, has regular fea- tures ; she is habitually pale, and her face wears a thoughtful expres- sion when in repose ; her manner is quiet and retiring, and there is an atmosphere of marked refinement pervading her every movement. Mrs. Jacobus is a Jewess by birth, (as are all the five sisters,) and, with that native pride so inherent in the Hebrew people, she brings up her children in accordance with the Jewish faith. (Her father was a Presbyterian.) Mrs. Jacobus is still young, and though her life has been early clouded with sorrow, we hope she will yet emerge from her voluntary seclusion, and we confidently expect much that is good, true, and beautiful from her pen. Her home is in Augusta, and she promises a book to the world at a not distant day. 1869. MRS. MARY A. McCRIMMON. MRS. McCRIMMON has done much for Southern letters ; has been editress of several literary journals ; in 1859, edited the " Chil- dren's Department," in the "Georgia Temperance Crusader," and dur- ing the war, edited an "Educational Monthly" at Lumpkin, Georgia, her then residence. She was also among the prominent contributors to the "Southern Illustrated News," her sketches and poems being much admired by the readers of that journal, which had an extensive circulation in camp as well as at the firesides of the readers of the " Southern Confederacy." Since the close of the war, Mrs. McCrimmon, we are informed, has married a Mr. Dawson, and removed to Arkansas. MARY A. McCKIMMON. 213 As one of the constant " workers in the mine of literature," we could not well omit the name of this lady, although obliged to furnish such an incomplete notice as this. FLOEIDA. Land of beauty — blooming ever In the golden summer sun ; Land of perfume — blighted never By the borean blast; where one Unfading, dreamy spring-time still Lies like a veil on plain and hill. Soft the shadows slowly creeping Through thy dim and spectral pines ; Pure thy lakelets, calmly sleeping, Save a few light, rippling lines, "When the white water-lilies move, And fairies chant their early love. Far in ether, stars above thee Ever beam with purest light ; Birds of richest music love thee; Flowers than Eden's hues more bright ; And love — young love, so fresh and fair, Fills with his breath thy gentle air. Oh, land of beauty — clime of flowers — Scenes of precious memory! Thine are the happy "by-gone hours" Which made all of life to me; When every moment was, in joy, an age — A volume concentrated in a page. But, land of beauty, blooming ever 'Neath the fairest summer-sky, I may see thee more — ah! never — Never hear thy soft wind's sigh; Yet in my heart thou evermore must dwell; Then land — dear land of beauty, fare thee well ! 1S60. MRS. AGNES JEAN STIBBES, RUTH FAIRFAX, a favorite contributor of novelettes, poems, and sketches to Father Ryan's paper, the " Banner of the South," published in Augusta, is known by a few friends to be Mrs. Stibbes, at the present time residing in Savannah. Mrs. Stibbes was born in South Carolina. She commenced writing for publication when about sixteen years of age, and was ' married at seventeen years to a gentle- man of Georgia. Until the late war, her life was one bright scene ; but, in common with her Southern sisters, all of her property was swept away, her home desolated, and wanting the "necessaries of life," she wrote the first chapters of the " Earls of Sutherland " (afterward published in the " Banner of the South ") to pass away in pleasant thoughts the hours that were otherwise so frightfully real. During the war, she contributed novelettes and sketches to the " Field and Fireside," under the nom de plume of " Emma Carra." REV. A. J. RYAN, THE GOLDEN-TONGUED ORATOR. I have seen him, the poet, priest, and scholar ! I have seen him — yea, and not only sat with hundreds of others listening to the holy words of love that fell from his lips, not only made one of many to whom his words were addressed, but I have listened to words of kindness and admonition, addressed to me alone; and this is not all. I have clasped his hand, gazed into the unfathomable depths of those clear blue eyes, seeing there a blending of the tenderest pity and almost superhuman love with the shadow of a deep sorrow. The majesty of his holy office loses nought of its mysterious grandeur when explained by his lips. As he cries, " Ours is the royal priesthood ! " behold that radiant smile ! It illumines his pale face as does a sunbeam the pure and graceful lily, and the glorious thoughts, fresh from his soul, breathe sweet incense to our hearts ! Would that mine were the privilege of daily 214 AGNES JEAN S T I B B E S. 215 kneeling at his feet, and, while his hand rests on my bowed head, have him invoke God's blessing upon me. I listened lingeringly to the last words that fell from his lips, treasuring them up in my heart, and then turned away, grieving that I could see him, hear him no longer ; and yet I bore away with me, fresh from his lips, a fer- vent " God bless you ! " that has hovered round me like a halo of glory, brightening my pathway through the weary world. The earth has seemed greener, the sky bluer, the sun brighter since my interview with him ; and still, in imagination, I can see his delicate pale face, the beautiful brown, waving hair, and glowing, soul-lit eyes — eyes that look down into one's heart, seeking the real feelings of the soul — eyes that tell of holy thought, of tender love for all mankind — eyes that speak of a strong soul struggling with the frail tenement of clay, beating her wings, longing to be free ! I can even now see him before me, as he stood then, his hands clasped, his head thrown back, and a smile of rare beauty brightening his pure face as he exclaimed, with a ring of holy exultation in his voice; "And upon this rock will I build my Church, and the gates of hell shall never prevail against it." This is no fancy-sketch, but a bright reality, and yet I have not done jus- tice to him of whom I speak. MISS FANNY ANDREWS. {Elzey Hay.) rpHIS record of " Southern Writers" would be incomplete without _L mention of a young lady, the daughter of an able legal gentleman of Washington, Georgia, and herself born and educated in the State, who has, since the close of the war, been a frequent contributor to the periodical literature of the country, under the pseudonym of "Elzey Hay." Until recently, " Elzey Hay " was " Elzey Hay " merely. Miss Andrews believes that " the great beauty of anonymous writ- ing is to protect one against bores and the other annoyances of a small reputation, till one can claim the advantages of a great one." Her identity was published to the world without her knowledge, and she feels diffident in appearing among " Southern Writers " with that mask which separated her from the public thrown aside. As she expresses the matter in a recent article, we prefer to use her words : " Under all circumstances, it is wisest to feel one's ground first, before ad- vancing boldly upon it, and for a timid or reserved person there is nothing like a pseudonym, which throws a veil over one's identity, and stands like a tower of defence to shield one's private life from the invasions of public curiosity. If by the public were meant merely that vague assembly of in- dividuals which makes up the world at large, one would care very little about it, save in so far as one's interest was concerned in pleasing its taste ; but each one of us has a little world of his own, bounded by the circle of his personal acquaintance, and it is the criticism of this public that literary novices dread. Within this circle there is always some one individual who, to young female writers in particular, is the embodiment of public opinion. One could not write a line without wondering what this person would think of it, if the blessed anonymous did not come to one's aid. Safe behind this shield the most timid writer may express himself with boldness and independence." From my first acquaintance with the articles of " Elzey Hay," I felt the identity of such a sparkling, piquant writer could not long re- main concealed. 216 FANNY ANDREWS. 217 Sometimes I am almost tempted to call her the " Southern Fanny Fern," but "Elzey" is a woman, and "Fanny" a bloomer, perhaps! Both excel in a peculiar style — so bright, witty, caustic; but the wit of " Elzey Hay " is as keen as a Damascus blade and as pol- ished. Fanny Fern's wit reminds one of a dull, spiteful, little pen- knife. The former " holds the mirror up to nature ; " the latter cari- catures it. The one laughs merrily and good-naturedly at the faults and follies of mankind; the other sneers at them. "Elzey Hay" ib a great favorite with her own sex ; Fanny Fern is not. In one, we recognize the champion of the sex, in the other a " Woman's Rights lecturer." But both are a terror to the " lords of creation." They deal stinging blows to domestic tyrants, would-be exquisites, and pre- tence generally; the small weaknesses and foibles of the "lords of cre- ation " are not dealt with tenderly. Satire is a powerful weapon in cutting off the excrescences of society. Juvenal and Pope and Thackeray effected some good in their day. So will "Elzey Hay." "Elzey Hay" has been a frequent contributor to Godey's "Lady's Book," and " Scott's Magazine," (Atlanta.) " Dress under Difficul- ties," a paper concerning the "fashions in Dixie during the war," which appeared in Godey's " Lady's Book," for July, 1866, is " Elzey Hay's " most widely read article. Her first debut as a writer was in the " New York World," shortly after the close of the war, in an article entitled "A Romance of Robbery," exposing some infamous proceedings of the Bureauites at a village in Georgia. She assumed the character of a Federal officer in this instance. She has also been correspondent for other New York papers under "masculine signatures." We venture to predict that, if she lives, Miss Andrews will be widely known, and " sparkling El- zey Hay " be as familiar as a household word in the homes of our land. Her home is in the charming town of Washington, where Miss An- drews is one of the attractions, entertaining with her delightful con- versations, for she converses as well as she writes. 28 218 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. A PLEA FOE EED HAIR. BY A RED-HAIRED WOMAN. There has always existed an unconquerable, and it seems to me unreason- able prejudice against red hair among the nations of Northern Europe and America. In vain do physiognomists, phrenologists, physiologists, or any other ologists, declare that the pure old Saxon family, distinguished by red heads and freckled faces, is highest in the scale of human existence, being farthest removed from the woolly heads and black faces of the African or lowest race ; the world positively refuses to admire red heads and freckled faces, or to regard them as marks of either physical or intellectual superior- ity. In vain are nymphs, fairies, angels, and the good little children in Sunday-school books, always pictured with sunny tresses ; the world is so perverse that it scorns in real life what it pronounces enchanting in books and pictures. Now this inconsistency is the main cause of quarrel that we red-heads have against the rest of the world. Little does it advantage us that our hair is thought bewitching on the angels in picture-books, while it is sneered at on our own heads in drawing-rooms. Willingly would we resign the ideal glories of sylphs and angels to our dark-haired sisters, if we could in return share some of the substantial glories they enjoy in real life. The world is too inconsistent: while our crowning feature seems to be acknowledged as the highest type of ideal beauty, it is at the same time regarded as a trait of positive ugliness in real life. No painter ever made a black-haired angel. Men's ideas of celestial beauty seem to be inseparable from the sunny ringlets that dance round azure eyes like golden clouds floating over the blue canopy of heaven. I challenge any of my readers to name a single poet or painter who has ventured to represent angel or glori- fied spirit with black hair. Even the pictures and images of our Saviour — with reverence I speak it — are generally represented with some shade of yellow hair, and surely all that relates to Him must come up to our highest ideas of perfect loveliness. If red hair were really such a bad thing, why should the inhabitants of heaven be always painted with it ? Who would think of representing even the lowest of the angels with a red nose ? And yet in real life red heads meet with little more favor than red noses. Poets are as friendly to red hair as painters. Milton describes his Adam and Eve — " The loveliest pair That ever since in love's embraces met; Adam, the godliest man of men since born His sons ; the fairest of her daughters, Eve " — both as red-haired. FANNY ANDREWS. 219 " His fair large front, and eyes sublime, declared Absolute rule; and hyacinthine locks Round from his parted forelock manly hung Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad ; She, as a veil, down to the slender waist Her unadorned golden tresses wore." Milton's admirers will doubtless be shocked at the idea of a red-headed Adam and Eve, and consider the accusation a slander on the poet; but sub- stitute the epithet auburn, golden, or hyacinthine, and nobody's taste is offended. Poets always take care to observe this nice distinction, and their readers are satisfied, few ever stopping to consider that auburn is only a polite name for one kind of very red hair. The difference is simply this : what is golden or auburn hair on a pretty woman, is blazing red on an ugly one ; and people are apt to like or dislike it, according as they see it con- nected with pretty faces or plain ones. After gazing at a portrait of the beautiful Queen of Scots, one is enraptured with auburn ringlets ; after beholding a picture of her ill-favored rival, Elizabeth, one is equally out of humor with carroty hair. The force of prejudice in this matter is strikingly illustrated in the case of two sisters — the one very pretty, the other very plain, who once spent some time in the house where I was boarding. Though the hair of both was precisely the same color, that of the younger, or handsome one, was always called auburn, the other red. A lady one day had the kindness — some people are very fond of making such pleasant little remarks — to tell the ugly one that her hair was not near so pretty a color as that of her sister. The person addressed made no reply ; but, when the polite lady had departed, told me that she was wearing frizettes made of her pretty sister's curls, which had been cut off during an attack of fever. On first thoughts, it may seem strange that red hair is nowhere held in such contempt as among those races of whom it is most characteristic ; but this results from the general disposition of mankind to depreciate what they have, and overrate what they do not possess. In France, Spain, Italy, all the nations of Southern Europe, nothing is so much admired as the most fiery red hair — called by a more poetical name, of course ; while a dark- browed Mexican, whose stiff, wiry locks bear greater resemblance to the tail of a black horse than anything else in nature, will all but fall down and worship the beauty of any happy possessor of sunflower tresses. " Coma Bella, Coma Blanca," are the pleasing sounds which greet the ear of a red- headed woman on landing in Mexico, as she finds herself surrounded by an admiring group of natives ; doubly pleasing by contrast to the less flattering remarks which she has been accustomed to hear from Americans or English- men. Chateaubriand seems to have found it impossible to reconcile his ideas of the beautiful and poetical with the presence of sable tresses, for he describes the hair of his Indian heroine, Atala, as a golden cloud floating before the eyes of her lover ! 220 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. If poets and painters are the friends of red hair, novelists are its mortal foes. It is the business of these latter to make the ideal approach the real, and their highest excellence consists in making the one so like the other that one can scarcely tell them apart. They take advantage of the prevail- ing prejudice against red hair to paint their worst characters with it. Tittle- bat Titmouse and Uriah Heep are a perpetual slander upon red-headed people, The character usually ascribed to these last, and with much truth, is entirely out of keeping with that ascribed by the great romancers to their villains. Eed-haired people are generally high-tempered, impulsive, warm- hearted; and, though it may not become a red-headed woman to say so, I do not think I have ever known one to be either a fool or a coward. Such characteristics are entirely at variance with the low, sneaking craftiness of Uriah, or the sottish imbecility of Titmouse. It always seemed to me that the latter ought to have been drawn with a certain pale, sickly shade of sandy hair, which looks as if it might once have been red, but had got faded, like a piece of bad calico, from constant using. Uriah, on the other hand, should have stiff, straight, puritanical locks, with a dark, sallow complexion, and green eyes. There are some people who look as if they had lain in the grave until they had become mouldy, and then risen to wander about the world without ever getting dry or warm again. Uriah Heep belongs to this class, and should have nothing about him so warm and bright as a sunny head. One reason for the common dislike of red hair may be found in the fact that it is often accompanied by a red or freckled face, neither of which is exactly consistent with our ideas of the most refined and delicate beauty. But is it not unfair to lay the faults of the face and complexion upon the hair? Nobody objects to black hair because it sometimes accompanies a dark, muddy complexion ; and, upon the whole, I think brunettes oftener have bad complexions than blondes. After all, there are as many pretty faces framed in gold as in jet. There are three golden threads from the head of Lucretia Borgia preserved in the British Museum on account of their rare beauty. It is said that Cleopatra had red hair; the beautiful Mary of Scotland certainly had it, and the present Empress of France is crowned with something which is cousin-german to it ; and this seems to be the secret of the present triumph of blondes. Whenever a reigning beauty happens to be crowned with the obnoxious color, prejudice dies out for a time, and light hair becomes the fashion, as at present. Brunettes are in despair, and red-headed women have their revenge. Modes are invented, such as frizzing and crimping, which do not at all become raven tresses, but render golden locks bewitching. There are started all manner of devices for giving dark hair a golden tinge. Gilt and silver powders are used without stint, while some devoted worshippers of fashion submit to the ordeal of lying with their hair in dye for thirty-six hours, and then run the risk of making it blue, green, or purple, as did their worthy prototype, Tittlebat FANNY ANDREWS. 221 Titmouse, in his famous attempt at the reverse and more common opera- tion. But these wayward freaks of fashion never last long. So soon as the belle, whose beauty in spite of red hair cheated people into the belief that she was beautiful because of it, becomes passe, or out of fashion, and some sable-tressed rival succeeds to her triumphs, the old prejudice revives. The pretty names of auburn, golden, sunny are dropped, and red hair falls into such disrepute that any charity schoolboy will fly to arms if the odious epi- thet is applied to his pate. Men and women are unconscious of the power there is in a pretty face ; they are influenced by it involuntarily. Many an ugly fashion gains ground just because pretty women will look so pretty in spite of it, that others are deluded into the belief that the fashion is itself graceful and becoming. Thus it is with red hair; some of the reigning belles of Europe having been supplied with it by nature, and making a virtue of necessity, have brought it in fashion. Let the rest of us make the most of the triumph they have won, and pray that a dark-haired empress may not ascend the throne of France till we are too gray to care what our hair was in the beginning. The ascendency we enjoy at present cannot endure forever, that is certain ; for though the world may submit to the dic- tates of fashion for a season, she has a spite against red hair at the bottom, and will make war on it to the end of time. When eternity begins, as it seems pretty generally conceded that angels have — well, I won't offend the reader by saying red hair, but certainly something very like it, if poets and painters are to be credited — it is to be hoped that our triumph may then prove more lasting. PAPEE-COLLAE GENTILITY. "Ward's patent reversible, perspiration-proof paper collar,' warranted, by the chemicals used in its composition, to equal in polish the finest linen fin- ish, and to rival in durability the best," etc., etc. What a commentary on the age in which we live ! What a catalogue of shams and vulgarities ! " Fine linen finish," a sham upon raw material ; " reversible," a slander on personal neatness ; " perspiration-proof," an in- sult to friendly soap and water, the only honest means that nature has pro- vided for making a man thoroughly " perspiration-proof." The present has often been called an age of shams, and who can question the justice of the accusation, when we see a " patent, reversible," many-sided sham, boldly asserting itself as such, and obtaining public favor through the very hollow- ness of its pretensions ? Considered merely, in themselves, without reference to their usual accom- paniments, paper collars are comparatively small affairs, scarcely worth singling 222 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. out for special reprehension, from among the greater shams to which the age ia addicted, bat they are significant of much beyond themselves. They are the outward and visible signs of an inward and by no means splrituelle state of things, which is not chic, as the Parisians say. They are suggestive of a small shopkeeper, second-rate boarding-house state of society, where frowsy young ladies in pink ribbons sing sickly ballads to amorous dry -goods clerks, and ogle, at the sentimental parts, some slender swain in shining paper col- lar and soiled kid-gloves. They are suggestive of plated forks and printed cards of invitation ; of bad cigars and cheap perfumery ; of suspiciously large and showy brooches, stuck into not always the most immaculate of shirt-bosoms ; — and worse than all, they are suggestive of a mind to save washing-bills; of a desire to keep up the "outward and visible signs" of decency without the "inward and spiritual grace;" of a whit ed- sepulchre style of toilet, content to be all rottenness and corruption within, if it is beautiful enough without ; of a class of men who can stay three weeks from home on a box of paper collars. Think of a man's going to spend Christ- mas at a country house, with his baggage in his pocket ; think of his delib- erately turning the soiled side of a " patent reversible perspiration-proof" in toward his skin ; what liberties may we not suspect him of taking with the invisible and unmentionable parts of his toilet ? Imagination shrinks from exploring farther the recesses of such a whited sepulchre. Paper collars are typical of a class of men, as well as a state of society. A cast-off "patent reversible perspiration-proof" gives as clear an insight into the habits and manners of the wearer, as the comparative anatomist can obtain from a tooth or a bone of any other animal. The individual distin- guished by the " Professor at the Breakfast Table " as the Kohinoor is a per- fect specimen of the paper-collar class, and I am as well satisfied that he wore a " patent reversible perspiration-proof," enamelled and embossed on both sides, as if the "Professor" had taken special care to inform us of the fact. The man of thorough paper-collar breeding is essentially one of the " fellers." He always has very sleek, greasy hair, carefully curled, and per- fumed with cinnamon or bergamot, and is much addicted to light kid-gloves, always a little soiled. He wears a huge seal ring on his little finger, (his nails are never clean,) and a miraculous brooch, with perhaps studs to match, in his shirt-bosom. From his vest-pocket dangles a bulky chain, with a quantity of big seals, secret-society badges, etc., at one end, and possibly, a watch at the other. His coat and pants are in the latest fashion, his boots are glossy as a mirror, but who shall dare to say what is under them ? His habits vary slightly in different localities, but not enough to destroy the unity of the species. North of the Potomac, he talks through his nose, and says, " I calculate ; " farther South, he drawls his vowels, puts his knife into his mouth when he eats, and tries to talk literary on magazine stories and Miss Evans's novels. As to business pursuits, the Northern type of the genus paper-collarls is usually a merchant's clerk, or a small tradesman in MARIA J. McIXTOSH. 223 the dry-goods line ; the Southern, a country beau, who puts on a clean shirt every Sunday, to go " sparking " among the girls. The species is chiefly indigenous to large commercial towns, and always flourishes best where laundresses' fees are highest. It is very widely diffused, however, and exists, with slight variations, under all vicissitudes of civilization and nationality, and individuals may readily be detected, even when the most prominent mark of the species is wanting. Circumstances may have placed certain in- dividuals beyond the reach of paper-collar influences, but they have paper- collar souls, all the same as though they carried the outward badge of the species round their necks. There is a class below, as well as one above, paper collars — an honest, humble, hard-working class, in homespun shirts, without collars — a class perfectly free from vulgarity because perfectly free from pretension. The two extremes of society are, perhaps, the only classes entirely free from vulgarity, in the proper acceptation of" the word. The one, because it pretends to nothing which it is not ; the other, because it pretends to nothing at all. In Europe the peasantry are treated with more familiarity by the aristocracy than the bourgeoisie ; and of all the lower strata of American society, the least vulgar, because the least assuming, are, or rather were, the negroes of the South. The ignorance and simplicity of these people kept them below pretension, and therefore above vulgarity. The idea of a respectable old " Uncle," as old " Uncles " were once, in a paper collar, is as preposterous as the thought of General Lee or Wade Hampton in the same guise. Extremes often meet, and in many respects the lowest stratum of society is less removed from the highest than are the intermediate, or paper-collar classes. The only differ- ence between the homespun-shirt man and the paper-collar man is the dif- ference between a good piece of stout brown wrapping-paper and the bill of a broken bank. The one is good for all it pretends to ; the other is good for nothing at all. MARIA J. McINTOSH. MARIA J. McIXTOSH was bom in 1803, at Sunbury, Liberty County, Georgia. Sunbury is forty miles south of Savannah, on the sea-coast of Georgia. In a reminiscence of this spot, Miss Mcintosh thus records her impressions : "Sunbury was beautifully situated, about five miles from the ocean, on a bold frith or arm of the sea, stretching up between St. Catharine's Island on the one side and the main land on the other — forming apparently the horns of a crescent, at the base of which the town stood. It was a beautiful spot, 224 LIVING FEMALE WRITEKS OF THE SOUTH. carpeted with the short-leaved Bermuda grass, and shaded with oak, cedar, locust, and a flowering tree, the Pride of India. It was then the summer resort of all of the neighboring gentry, who went thither for the sea-air. Within the last twenty years it has lost its character for health, and is now a desolate ruin ; yet the hearts of those who grow up in its shades still cling to the memory of its loveliness, — a recollection which exists as a bond of union between them, which no distance can wholly sever. Its sod, still green and beautiful as ever, is occasionally visited by a solitary pilgrim, who goes thither with something of the tender reverence with which he would visit the grave of a beloved friend." The house of Major Lachlan Mcintosh, the father of the subject of this sketch — who had been commissioned in the American army of the Revolution — was a stately old mansion, commanding a full view of the water ; and here the first twenty years of her life were spent. " The remembrance of the generous hospitality, the graceful society, the luxuriant beauty of nature that displayed itself in and around the family mansion, is vivid in the mind of our author, and shows itself in the fervor and enthusiasm of her language whenever she writes of the land of her childhood." * At an academy in Sunbury, which dispensed its favors to pupils of both sexes, Miss Mcintosh received all of her education for which she is indebted to schools. After the death of her parents, Miss Mcintosh passed much of her time with a married sister, who resided in New York, and afterward with her brother, Captain James M. Mcintosh, of the U. S. Navy, whose family had also removed to that city. In 1835, Miss Mcintosh was induced to sell her property in Georgia, and invest the proceeds in New York securities. The commercial crisis of 1837 caused her to lose; to awake from her life-dream of prosperity — bankrupt. " By an almost universal dispensation of Providence, which ordains means of defence and support to the frailest foundation of animal life, with the new station was granted a power of protection, of pleasure, and maintenance, unknown to the old. New feelings and powers came into life." . . .* A friend advised her to attempt a juvenile series of books, and sug- gested "Aunt Kitty" as a nom de plume. Two years after the loss of her property, Miss Mcintosh had completed her first book, — a small volume, bearing the marks of a feeling, religious mind, and written in * Professor John S, Hart. maria j. Mcintosh. 225 a pleasant, easy style, suitable for children, and was entitled " Blind Alice." For two years the manuscript of this little volume lay alter- nately on the table of the author and the desk of publishers. At last, in January, 1841, it was published anonymously. Its success was complete. With renewed energy she resumed her pen, and finished " Jessie Graham," a work of similar size and character, which was published in the summer of the same year. " Florence Arnott," " Grace and Clara," and " Ellen Leslie," all of the same class and style, appeared successfully and at short intervals, the last being pub- lished in 1843. These five works are generally known as "Aunt Kitty's Tales." They met with great success, and were republished in England with equal success. They are simple tales of American life, told in graceful and easy language ; conveying a moral of beauty and truthfulness that wins love at once for the fictitious character and the earnest writer. The following are Miss Mcintosh's volumes. In addition, she has contributed many tales to the different magazines. 6. Conquest and Self-Conquest. 1844. 7. Woman an Enigma ; or, Life and its Eevelations. 1844. 8. Praise and Principle. 1845. 9. The Cousins. A tale for children. 1845. All of these works appeared anonymously. The following were pub- lished with the name of the author. 10. Two Lives ; or, To Seem and to Be. 1846. (Seven editions of this work were published in less than four years.) 11. Charms and Counter-Charms. 1848. 12. Woman in America; her Work and her Keward. 1850. 13. Evenings at Donaldson Manor; or, The Christmas Guest. 1850. (A collection of tales.) 14. The Lofty and the Lowly. 2 volumes. 1852. 15. Emily Herbert ; or, The Happy Home. 1855. 16. Hose and Lillie Stanhope ; or, The Power of Conscience. 17. Violet; or, The Cross and Crown. 1856. 18. Met a Gray. A juvenile tale. 1858. * " In 1859, Miss Mcintosh, in company with her nephew, (the Hon. John Ward, American Minister to China,) and his family, sailed for Liverpool. After spending some months in pleasant wanderings about *Mary Forrest's "Women of the South." 29 226 LIVING FEMALE WEITERS OF THE SOUTH. England and France, Miss Mcintosh, in company with Mrs. Ward and her children, settled quietly down in one of the picturesque valleys of Geneva, Switzerland. Here, in the society of a few genial friends, and in tender and worshipful communion with the great heart of Nature, she gathered strength and inspiration, and memorized much valuable material for future labors. At the beginning of 1860 she returned to New York, where she now resides." Miss Mcintosh's books have been translated into French, and have sold largely in England, France, and on the Continent. I will give notices of several of her books, from high critical authorities. "Conquest and Self-Conquest" was of a more ambitious character than any of her previous works, which were published anonymously. In the April number of the " Southern Literary Messenger," (1844,) a correspondent, in a "gossip about a few books," commences thus : " Who can have written the little book called ' Conquest and Self-Con- quest ; OR, Whicb makes the Hero ? ' I have read it with a delight that no book of its class has inspired me with since 'Sandford and Merton,' 'The Parent's Assistant/ ' Popular Tales.' Amid the numberless and worthless tomes of trash that have in recent times superseded those glories of English literature just named, it is meat and drink to one who relishes an exquisite blending of the sweet with the useful to find such a treat as this ' Con- quest and Self-Conquest.' It is a story of an American boy, who, after an early education at home, under the eye of a judiciously fond mother, went, at eleven years of age, to a grammar school ; fought, was beaten ; grew stronger in body and principles; won the heart of his adversary; entered the navy ; and there, in a career of virtue and honor, proved how unnecessary vice or ferocity is to a high place among the sons of maritime glory. Except Miss Edgeworth and the author of ' Sandford and Merton,' I do not know a writer who has so happily portrayed true heroism." " Woman an Enigma.* This is an attempt to delineate, not moral prin- ciples that are well defined — not religious duties that are more easily de- picted — but the ideal, impalpable, varied substance of woman's love. The first scene in the book opens in a convent in France, where young Louise waits upon a dying friend, and the friend leaves her ward as an affianced bride to her brother, the Marquis de Montrevel. " The vow is duly made between the noble courtier and the trusting girl. Louise is then taken to Paris by her parents, and introduced into fashionable life with its gayeties and seductions, while the Marquis is absent on his estate. * Professor John S. Hart. maria j. Mcintosh. 227 The new world of pleasure has no effect on the novice, save so far as it stimu- lates her to excel, that she may be the more worthy of her husband's love. She mingles in the dance to acquire grace, in the soirie to learn the styles of fashionable life — and all for the sole purpose of being the better fitted to be the companion and wife of the high-born noble. But the absent lover hears of the brilliant life of his so lately timid girl, and, ignorant of the mighty power that impels her to the exertion, scorns the supposed fickleness that will give to the many that regard which he had hoped to have won ex- clusively for himself. "Then follows the portion of the work which most perfectly pictures the author's idea of womanly love. The earnest toil of the poor girl for the pittance of a smile that is rewarded by jealousy with a sneer ; the passionate pride of the wounded woman ; the stern sorrow of the man ; and the final separation, are all true to the instincts of that master feeling." " Charms and Counter-Charms. * In this work the author seems to have concentrated the strength of her artistic and womanly nature. It is threaded with veins and nerves, as if she had dipped her pen in living hearts and written on and on because the elastic tide would flow. It impresses one with a painful sense of reality, and at the same time with a conflicting sense of unnaturalness, not of highly wrought fiction, but of intense truth. The plot is complicate, but well defined and sustained. Questions of vital import are involved, and worked out with a will and fervor which leave their indelible record upon the memory of the reader. " Euston Hastings, the hero, belongs, we should say, to the German type of organism and temperament. A ' dark man/ the philosopher Alcott would call him, with luminous phases. A man of strong will and rare physical and spiritual magnetism ; skilled in metaphysical disquisition, worldly-wise, skeptical, and sufficient ; lofty and cold as a mountain peak to the many, but to those who interest him, or whom for any reason he would interest, warm, winsome, and low-voiced as the sigh of a summer twilight ; a man of whom we can most of us say we have known one such in a lifetime ; one whom we admired and deprecated ; a sphere that was not loud nor discordant, but deep and unserene ; a spirit that knew its power and loved to test it, though in the process it stirred and troubled many waters. "Evelyn Beresford, a young girl of warm heart and generous impulses, the pet and sunbeam of her father's house, marries Euston Hastings, and is borne along his fiery orbit, ignoring, to meet his exactions, one after another, the finer and holier instincts of her nature, till at last she reaches a point from whence she must retrace her steps or lose all. Stifling the cry of her agonized heart, she goes forth from his home, with her frail life in her hand, and Euston Hastings, left alone with the memory of her love and prayerful vigils, for the first time awakes to a sense of 'heart within and God o'erhead.' *Mary Forrest. 228 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. Penitent and subdued, he seeks out the fugitive, and a new union, based upon the sympathy and fitness of divine appointment, secures to both the happiness which had well-nigh been wrecked forever." "Violet; or, The Cross and Crown. This work is marked by fine delineations and dramatic power, no less than by simplicity and pathos. "The story unfolds with a wild shipwreck scene on the coast of New Jersey. A sweet babe, the only living thing upon the stranded vessel, is found lashed to an upper berth, while its dead mother lies, white and cold, beneath the water on the cabin floor. The burial scene upon that desolate shore — the group of rude wreckers, and the lone waif child — the still sleeper in the rough deal box — the ' dust to dust ' of the sublime service, mingling with the hoarse roar of the ocean — is singularly impressive. The book is full of such pictures. " The foundling is claimed by one of the wreckers, and taught to look upon him and his coarse companions as her natural protectors. While yet very young, by one of the coincidences occasional to real life, inevitable to romance, she is thrown into the presence of her true father, who, unconscious of their tender relation, yet impelled by an undefinable instinct, adopts his unknown child. She is baptized Violet Ross, in memory of his angel wife — her mother — and removed from the lawless wreckers to a refined and luxurious home. But amid the amenities of her new position, one thought haunted and distressed her : she is not Violet Ross, the daughter of her noble foster- father, but Mary Van Dyke, and must still say ' father ' to the repulsive wrecker, and 'mother' to the wrecker's wife; they have a first claim, and may at any time recall her. The good pastor tells her that every human creature must bear a cross on earth who would wear a crown in heaven, and that this is her cross. That night the angels record the vow of the beautiful girl to bear cheerfully and unfalteringly the burden imposed upon her ; and then commences a life of sacrifice, and a series of events which give to the book a peculiar and deep interest. Many a bruised heart has lifted itself hopefully in the light of little Violet's smile and the strength of the promise, thus happily presented, ' Bear the cross, and ye shall wear the crown.' " * f'Miss Mcintosh restricts herself in the characters of her story, and selects only the common ones of practical life, as though anxious for the principle alone, and the fiction that would draw the reader off from the moral is dis- carded. In her quiet pages there never occurs the extreme either of character or passion. It is only the system of conscience — the rule of right — the law of God that is portrayed ; and the more marked characters, or the more easily delineated beauties and feelings of life and nature, are left with a rigid indif- ference to those whose design is to please more than to instruct. " Yet the reader, when the book is closed, and he has gone to his daily labor, or mingles in social life, finds lingering in his brain and warming in *Mary Forrest's " Women of the South." | Professor John S. Hart. KATE CLIFFORD KENAN. 229 his heart, a true principle of honor and love that is constantly contrasting itself with the hollow forms by which he is surrounded ; and if he fails to bear himself up to that high ideal of principle which he feels to be true, he still walks a little nearer to his conscience and his God; and long after the volume is returned to the shelf and forgotten, a kindly benediction is given to the noble influence it excited. And thus will it be with the author who lives in the hearts and not in the fancy of her readers. And long after she is returned to the great library of the unforgotten dead, a blessing, wide as her language and fervent as devotion, will descend on the delineator of those lofty principles that showed the nobleness of simplicity and the holi- ness of truth." KATE CLIFFORD KENAN. VIOLETTA AND I; by "Cousin Kate." Edited by M. J. Mcintosh. Boston. 1870. The motto of this little volume is from Longfellow : "... Gentleness and love and trust Prevail o'er angry wave and gust." This is a beautiful story of the Southern sea-side. It is short, and reads very much as if it were a study for a more ambitious book of the future. The style will remind the reader of "Aunt Kitty's Tales," of her earlier works. The chapter giving an account of Maggie's " want to learn physic, and practice, and have a gig, and a man to beat the mortar, and do like her father and Thomas, and not her mother and Violetta," shows that "Cousin Kate" has humor in her composition. The "good doctor" is a pathetic study — poetry delin- eated in the character of a country doctor. The story purports to be a grandmother's history of her girlhood. The picture of the little Otilia and the old doctor — companions, " babyhood " and " old age " — is charming, and gives evidence of pathetic power possessed by the young author. The old doctor was growing old — " Much of his old wit and dry humor left him also ; and he seemed like some good husbandman, who will shortly set out on a journey. The little Otilia, in her shy, dreamy way, seemed to be a better companion to him than any other ; and often the two would sit together in the office porch, and Otilia 230 LIVING FEMALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. would sing to him sometimes little hymns, sometimes broken parts of a German chant that she had heard from her old nurse — the hazy sunlight, as it fell upon the pair, showing often that both had fallen asleep ; and I said to myself as I saw them, that the pure heart of the child rested against the pure heart of the man ; for through all of life's warfare could there be any more simple, more tender, than this gray -haired father ? I think, when he entered heaven, the little children, who love the guileless and the good, must have led his feet by the golden river, and never known how he was old and weary in this world before he came to theirs, so little had the years touched the true heart." Miss Kate Clifford Kenan is the daughter of Mr. M. J. Kenan, of Milledgeville, Ga. She is young, and resides with her parents in the eity mentioned. Mrs. Kenan (whose maiden name was Spalding) is a native of the sea-coast of Georgia, near Darien, and is related to the Mcintosh family, who settled there in the early days of colonization. The distinguished authoress, Miss Maria J. Mcintosh, was an intimate friend of the family of Mr. and Mrs. Spalding — Mrs. Kenan's parents in her girlhood — and her noble heart testifies its love and remem- brance of the past by ushering into the literary world the first book of Miss Kate Kenan — " Violetta and I." Miss Kenan's early life was spent on the sea-coast of Georgia ; and the graphic sketches of sea-coast adventure and existence, of peril and rescue, are the results of her own experience and observation. About ten years ago, when Miss Kenan's family removed from the sea-coast to Milledgeville, she was hardly more than a child. Her vivid pic- tures of sea-side life are the result of her early impressions when she daily gazed at " old ocean," and sometimes, in the language of Byron, "... laid her hand upon his mane." Miss Kenan has furnished numerous verses and prose sketches to various newspapers. THE DOCTOR. When I recall the kind of practice this dear old gentleman did, I am often troubled at the force of an unpleasant truth. I often had to own to myself that he would not have stood very high at this day, for he believed physic a humbug, and nature the best doctor ; and though I never doubted, when he was telling me so, that he was right, yet many learned men have arisen, and KATE CLIFFORD KENAN. 231 many learned things are now in fashion ; and it is clear to me my father did not practise as they do. The older he grew, the fewer medicines did he carry in his square chest ; and I sometimes thought his dear memory was failing him. He prescribed frequently " fresh air " and " fresh water." Once I feared he had made the wife of a Dutch skipper very angry. She brought her little child to my father's office, and for the life of me I couid not tell which was its head and which its feet, as it lay across her bosom, so completely was it enwrapped in shawls. I saw a queer little smile in the corner of my father's eye, as he commenced unrolling the wrappings, until he came to a poor little, smothered, white face — all the while listening to a crowd of ail- ments. To my surprise, he handed the little thing over to me, and bade me sit with it in the sunshine ; and, as I carried it out, I heard him say to the mother, " Sunshine, madam ; that 's the first prescription, and don't cost a cent ; fresh water, madam, that 's the next, and fully as cheap — not a thim- bleful to start it crying, with no beneficial effects, but a tubful, madam, enough to wet the whole of its skin at once." And then I heard a great oath from my father, — for he sometimes said such things when very much excited, though he always expressed his regret afterward for having done so. The oath now, it seems, was because the little morsel I held in my arms so tightly, for fear the sunshine would melt it, or the sea-breeze coax it away, ate " things " just as the burly skipper and his wife did — a fact which the honest Dutchwoman told with great pride. Though I am certain my father would not have wounded the feelings of a humming-bird, yet it sounded wickedly to me when he said, " Madam, with such a taste, I fear your child will not be content with milk and honey, which is, I hear, the simple diet of a better world." When she comprehended him fully, I heard her sobbing gently, and my father's old, kind manner returning, he told her that we had Bible doctrine for milk for babes, and not strong meat ; and when she had gone away hugging the little one up to her motherly heart, and stopping every now and then to kiss it, I said, " Father, how could you make her cry about the babe ? " and he said, as he drew me on his knee, smoothing the curly locks so like his own : " Sweet heart, did I ever make thee cry but for thine own good ? Tears shed for innocent error are not bitter ; only conscious guilt draws burning tears. When thy little hands lifted the young mocking birds from their nest last spring, and I told thee how the mother would grieve for her lost nestlings, thy tears fell fast; but they were quenched, dear little heart, when I restored them to their nest. So with yonder poor woman. She lifted her baby from the proper place where God had put it, and she only cried to see what she had done, as thou didst; but she will not cry any more, for only mismanagement ailed the babe, and she will bear in mind what I told her concerning it." And several months after, the same woman came; but the baby was so rosy I hardly knew it. Wherever a patch of sunshine fell, it crawled over the floor toward it, and once I saw it trying to catch a beam which slanted in through the lattice ; and I thought my father must t 232 LIVING PE1ALE WEITEES OF THE SOUTH. have given it some drugs; but he only said, "Nay, thou little medicine- chest, not any of thy drugs ! " And afterward, as was his common habit when he could think of nothing else to tell Thomas to do, he lifted me on his knee, and bade him burnish the instruments — those instruments that his dear old hands never touched if he could help it, and which he kept as bright as silver, but always locked up in the skeleton case. MARY LOUISE COOK. IN 1869, a novel, entitled " Ante-Bellum ; or, Southern Life as it Was," was published by J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia. " Mary Lennox " was the name given as the author ; and it was dedi- cated to " the friends of the South." " Ante-Bellum " was, as the title would imply, a story of Southern life before the war, naturally por- trayed, written in a simple style. A Georgia writer reviewed this novel in a long criticism : • "The name itself calls up so many happy memories of Eden -like homes, holidays, and pastimes that we are prepared to be pleased before the book is epened. After that, the history of an orphan girl, who wrought out her life to a successful issue of happiness and love by a simple adherence to the rules of duty and Christian kindness, enchains the heart as scene after scene of Southern life is unfolded. As the author, with a master-hand, portrays some scene so lifelike to memory, you think your own experience has been turned into history, and chronicled by some sympathizing friend." A writer in a Northern paper, in a review of "Ante-Bellum," writes thus: " The South owes the author a debt of gratitude for the beautiful word- painting she has given of many Southern scenes of ante-bellum memory. . . . The sentiment of the book is elevating and exquisitely chaste and refined; and her sensible and timely views upon home education for girls are calcu- lated to be of benefit. Our greatest objection to the book is, that its political tendency is to keep alive the spirit of discord and dissension which exists between the North and the South, by appealing to sectional pride and preju- dice ; but its excellent rhetoric and ethics almost compensate for this." This latter criticism disarms itself, as it arises simply from the pre- judice of the writer's own mind ; and any impartial reader would free CORNELIA BORDERS. 233 the author of " Ante-Bellum " from the charge of attempting, in its pages, to fan the flames of useless strife, though the love of the South and devotion to her speaks throughout the book. Mrs. Cook — the owner of the pseudonym "Mary Lennox" — is a native of the State of Georgia, and has for a number of years resided in Columbus. Her maiden name was Redd. She was left an orphan at an early age, and was married, when quite young, to Mr. James C. Cook, a planter. Poetry, music, painting, and all that is elevating and refining, are a part of her nature. Surrounded, as she is and has been, with every luxury, and occupying a high social position, writing, with Mrs. Cook, has been and is an expression of her soul which could not be kept back. She writes because she cannot help it. On the walls of her home one sees evidence of her skill as an artist. " Ante-Bellum " is Mrs. Cook's only published book. She is, at present, contributing short poems and stories to different Southern journals. 1871. E. M. CORNELIA BORDERS. THE subject of this sketch is a native Georgian, and was reared in the village of Hamilton, that nestles between abrupt hills, which give to the surrounding scenery a wild and picturesque appearance. There, beside flowing waters and mountain slopes, and in the midst of valleys rich with forest growth, she rambled in her youth and saw the gorgeous sunsets that are only seen in such a region. She loved nature, and her rambles amidst these scenes deepened and intensified her feelings. The amusements that so generally attract the young did not interest her so much as books and the companionship of her own thoughts. Her parents encouraged her love of books ; and her father (the late Colonel William C. Osborn), with rare judgment, selected such works for her as would give strength to her character and deepen her moral sentiments. The strength of character, firmness of purpose, and noble resolution that distinguish her, are due (next to the training of her mother, a very superior woman,) to the course of reading that she pursued at an early age. Miss Osborn accompanied the family of Hon. Henry AV. Hilliard SO 234 LIVING FEMALE WRITERS OF THE SOUTH. to Europe, when that gentleman was appointed Minister to Belgium, being a near relative of Mrs. Hilliard. Soon after her return from Europe, she was married to Augustus Borders, Esq., a lawyer. Some time after their marriage they removed to Texas, where Mr. Borders died. Mrs. Borders, after her husband's death, removed to Houston, and devoted much of her time to writing. At the close of the war, she returned to Columbus, Ga., where she now resides. Mrs. Borders has recently completed a work entitled '•'Fortune's Wheel; or, Life's Vicissitudes," which is ready for pub- lication. Several distinguished gentlemen who have perused the MS. pronounce it superior to anything issued from the South for years. The Hon. Alexander H. Stephens writes : " I have given the work a careful perusal from the beginning to the end. The best evidence of my opinion of its merits is that I was interested in it from the first line to the last. In my judgment the work has real merit. As it progresses it becomes more interesting ; after a while it becomes exceed- ingly so. The moral of it surpasses any work of the kind I have read lately ; no one can read it without benefit." H. >>©