His novels dealing with Colonial and Revolutionary subjects are his
best work. They give us graphic pictures of the struggles that our
forefathers in the South had with the wild beasts, swamps, forests,
and Indians in Colonial times, and with these and the British in the
Revolutionary period. They should be read in connection with our early
history, especially the following: _Yemassee_, (_1714, Colonial
times_); _Partisan_, _Mellichampe_, and _Katharine Walton_, (_forming
the Revolutionary Trilogy_); _Eutaw_; _Scout_; _Forayers_;
_Woodcraft_, (_1775-1783_); _Wigwam and Cabin_ (_a collection of short
stories_).
Some of his poems are well worth reading, especially the legends of
Indian and Colonial life; and the Spirits' songs in "Atalantis" are
very dainty and musical.
He was the friend and helper of his younger fellow-workers in
literature, among whom were notably Paul Hamilton Hayne and Henry
Timrod. At his country home "Woodlands" and in Charleston, he
dispensed a generous and delightful hospitality and made welcome his
many friends from North, South, and West. The last few years of his
life were darkened by distress and poverty, in common with his
brethren all over the South; and his heroic struggle against them
reminds us of that of Sir Walter Scott, though far more dire and
pathetic.
A fine bust of him by Ward adorns the Battery in his native and
much-loved city. See Life, by William P. Trent.
WORKS.
NOVELS.
Martin Faber.
Book of My Lady.
Guy Rivers.
Yemassee.
Partisan.
Mellichampe.
Richard Hurdis.
Palayo.
Carl Werner and other Tales.
Border Beagles.
Confession, or the Blind Heart.
Beauchampe, [sequel to Charlemont].
Helen Halsey.
Castle Dismal.
Count Julian.
Wigwam and Cabin.
Katharine Walton.
Golden Christmas.
Forayers.
Maroon, and other Tales.
Utah.
Woodcraft.
Marie de Bernière.
Father Abbott.
Scout, [first called Kinsmen.]
Charlemont.
Cassique of Kiawah.
Vasconselos, [tale of De Soto.]
POEMS, [2 volumes.]
Atalantis.
Grouped Thoughts and Scattered Fancies.
Lays of the Palmetto.
Southern Passages and Pictures.
Areytos: Songs and Ballads of the South.
DRAMAS.
Norman Maurice.
Michael Bonham, or Fall of the Alamo.
BIOGRAPHY AND HISTORY, &C.
Life of General Francis Marion.
Life of Captain John Smith.
Life of Chevalier Bayard.
Geography of South Carolina.
Reviews in Periodicals [2 vols.].
Life of General Nathanael Greene.
History of South Carolina.
South Carolina in the Revolution.
War Poetry of the South.
Seven Dramas of Shakspere.
SONNET.--THE POET'S VISION.
Upon the Poet's soul they flash forever,
In evening shades, these glimpses strange and sweet;
They fill his heart betimes,--they leave him never,
And haunt his steps with sounds of falling feet;
He walks beside a mystery night and day;
Still wanders where the sacred spring is hidden;
Yet, would he take the seal from the forbidden,
Then must he work and watch as well as pray!
How work? How watch? Beside him--in his way,--
Springs without check the flow'r by whose choice spell,--
More potent than "herb moly,"--he can tell
Where the stream rises, and the waters play!--
Ah! spirits call'd avail not! On his eyes,
Sealed up with stubborn clay, the darkness lies.
THE DOOM OF OCCONESTOGA.
(_From Yemassee._)
[Occonestoga, the degenerate son of the Yemassee chief
Sanutee, has been condemned, for befriending the whites,
to a fate worse than death. The _totem_ of his tribe, an
arrow branded upon the shoulder, is to be cut and burnt
out by the executioner, Malatchie, and he is to be
declared accursed from his tribe and from their paradise
forever, "a slave of Opitchi-Manneyto," the evil
spirit.]
Occonestoga's head sank in despair, as he beheld the unchanging look
of stern resolve with which the unbending sire regarded him. For a
moment he was unmanned; until a loud shout of derision from the crowd
as they beheld the show of his weakness, came to the support of his
pride. The Indian shrinks from humiliation, where he would not shrink
from death; and, as the shout reached his ears, he shouted back his
defiance, raised his head loftily in air, and with the most perfect
composure, commenced singing his song of death, the song of many
victories.
"Wherefore sings he his death-song?" was the cry from many
voices,--"he is not to die!"
"Thou art the slave of Opitchi-Manneyto," cried Malatchie to the
captive, "thou shalt sing no lie of thy victories in the ear of
Yemassee. The slave of Opitchi-Manneyto has no triumph"--and the words
of the song were effectually drowned, if not silenced, in the
tremendous clamor which they raised about him. It was then that
Malatchie claimed his victim--the doom had been already given, but the
ceremony of expatriation and outlawry was yet to follow, and under the
direction of the prophet, the various castes and classes of the nation
prepared to take a final leave of one who could no longer be known
among them. First of all came a band of young marriageable women, who,
wheeling in a circle three times about him, sang together a wild
apostrophe containing a bitter farewell, which nothing in our language
could perfectly embody.
"Go,--thou hast no wife in Yemassee,--thou hast given no lodge to the
daughter of Yemassee,--thou hast slain no meat for thy children. Thou
hast no name--the women of Yemassee know thee no more. They know thee
no more."
And the final sentence was reverberated from the entire assembly,
"They know thee no more, they know thee no more."
Then came a number of the ancient men,--the patriarchs of the nation,
who surrounded him in circular mazes three several times, singing as
they did so a hymn of like import.
"Go--thou sittest not in the council of Yemassee--thou shalt not
speak wisdom to the boy that comes. Thou hast no name in Yemassee--the
fathers of Yemassee, they know thee no more."
And again the whole assembly cried out, as with one voice, "They know
thee no more, they know thee no more."
These were followed by the young warriors, his old associates, who
now, in a solemn band, approached him to go through a like
performance. His eyes were shut as they came, his blood was chilled in
his heart, and the articulated farewell of their wild chant failed
seemingly to reach his ear. Nothing but the last sentence he heard--
"Thou that wast a brother,
Thou art nothing now,
The young warriors of Yemassee,
They know thee no more."
And the crowd cried with them, "They know thee no more."
"Is no hatchet sharp for Occonestoga?" moaned forth the suffering
savage. But his trials were only then begun. Enoree-Mattee now
approached him with the words, with which, as the representative of
the good Manneyto, he renounced him,--with which he denied him access
to the Indian heaven, and left him a slave and an outcast, a miserable
wanderer amid the shadows and the swamps, and liable to all the doom
and terrors which come with the service of Opitchi-Manneyto.
"Thou wast the child of Manneyto,"
sung the high priest in a solemn chant, and with a deep-toned voice
that thrilled strangely amid the silence of the scene,
"Thou wast the child of Manneyto
He gave thee arrows and an eye,--
Thou wast the strong son of Manneyto,
He gave thee feathers and a wing,--
Thou wast a young brave of Manneyto,
He gave thee scalps and a war-song,--
But he knows thee no more--he knows thee no more."
And the clustering multitude again gave back the last line in wild
chorus. The prophet continued his chant:
"That Opitchi-Manneyto!--
He commands thee for his slave--
And the Yemassee must hear him,
Hear, and give thee for his slave--
They will take from thee the arrow,
The broad arrow of thy people,--
Thou shalt see no blessed valley,
Where the plum-groves always bloom--
Thou shalt hear no songs of valour,
From the ancient Yemassee--
Father, mother, name, and people,
Thou shalt lose with that broad arrow,
Thou art lost to the Manneyto,--
He knows thee no more--he knows thee no more."
The despair of hell was in the face of the victim, and he howled
forth, in a cry of agony that for a moment silenced the wild chorus of
the crowd around, the terrible consciousness in his mind of that
privation which the doom entailed upon him. Every feature was
convulsed with emotion; and the terrors of Opitchi-Manneyto's dominion
seemed already in strong exercise upon the muscles of his heart, when
Sanutee, the father, silently approached him, and with a pause of a
few moments, stood gazing upon the son from whom he was to be
separated eternally-- . . .
. . . . .
In a loud and bitter voice he exclaimed, "Thy father knows thee no
more,"--and once more came to the ears of the victim the melancholy
chorus of the multitude--"He knows thee no more, he knows thee no
more." Sanutee turned quickly away as he had spoken; and as if he
suffered more than he was willing to show, the old man rapidly
hastened to the little mound where he had been previously sitting, his
eyes averted from the further spectacle. Occonestoga, goaded to
madness by these several incidents, shrieked forth the bitterest
execrations, until Enoree-Mattee, preceding Malatchie, again
approached. Having given some directions in an under-tone to the
latter, he retired, leaving the executioner alone with his victim.
Malatchie, then, while all was silence in the crowd,--a thick silence,
in which even respiration seemed to be suspended,--proceeded to his
duty; and, lifting the feet of Occonestoga carefully from the ground,
he placed a log under them--then addressing him, as he again bared his
knife which he stuck in the tree above his head, he sung--
"I take from thee the earth of Yemassee--
I take from thee the water of Yemassee--
I take from thee the arrow of Yemassee--
Thou art no longer a Yemassee--
The Yemassee knows thee no more."
"The Yemassee knows thee no more," cried the multitude, and their
universal shout was deafening upon the ear. Occonestoga said no word
now--he could offer no resistance to the unnerving hands of Malatchie,
who now bared the arm more completely of its covering. But his limbs
were convulsed with the spasms of that dreadful terror of the future
which was racking and raging in every pulse of his heart. He had full
faith in the superstitions of his people. His terrors acknowledged
the full horrors of their doom. A despairing agony which no language
could describe had possession of his soul.
Meanwhile, the silence of all indicated the general anxiety; and
Malatchie prepared to seize the knife and perform the operation, when
a confused murmur arose from the crowd around; the mass gave way and
parted, and, rushing wildly into the area, came Matiwan, his mother,
the long black hair streaming, the features, an astonishing likeness
to his own, convulsed like his; and her action that of one reckless of
all things in the way of the forward progress she was making to the
person of her child. She cried aloud as she came, with a voice that
rang like a sudden death-bell through the ring.
"Would you keep a mother from her boy, and he to be lost to her for
ever? Shall she have no parting with the young brave she bore in her
bosom? Away, keep me not back--I will look upon him, I will love him.
He shall have the blessing of Matiwan, though the Yemassee and the
Manneyto curse."
The victim heard, and a momentary renovation of mental life, perhaps a
renovation of hope, spoke out in the simple exclamation which fell
from his lips:
"Oh, Matiwan--oh, mother!"
She rushed towards the spot where she heard his appeal, and thrusting
the executioner aside, threw her arms desperately about his neck.
"Touch him not, Matiwan," was the general cry from the crowd; "touch
him not, Matiwan,--Manneyto knows him no more."
"But Matiwan knows him--the mother knows her child, though Manneyto
denies him. Oh, boy--oh, boy, boy, boy." And she sobbed like an infant
on his neck.
"Thou art come, Matiwan--thou art come, but wherefore? To curse, like
the father--to curse, like the Manneyto?" mournfully said the captive.
"No, no, no! Not to curse, not to curse. When did mother curse the
child she bore? Not to curse, but to bless thee. To bless thee and
forgive."
"Tear her away," cried the prophet; "let Opitchi-Manneyto have his
slave."
"Tear her away, Malatchie," cried the crowd, now impatient for the
execution. Malatchie approached.
"Not yet, not yet," appealed the woman. "Shall not the mother say
farewell to the child she shall see no more?" and she waved Malatchie
back, and in the next instant drew hastily from the drapery of her
dress a small hatchet, which she had there carefully concealed.
"What wouldst thou do, Matiwan?" asked Occonestoga, as his eye caught
the glare of the weapon.
"Save thee, my boy--save thee for thy mother, Occonestoga--save thee
for the happy valley."
"Wouldst thou slay me, mother, wouldst strike the heart of thy son?"
he asked, with a something of reluctance to receive death from the
hands of a parent.
"I strike thee but to save thee, my son; since they cannot take the
totem from thee after the life is gone. Turn away from me thy
head--let me not look upon thine eyes as I strike, lest my hands grow
weak and tremble. Turn thine eyes away; I will not lose thee."
His eyes closed, and the fatal instrument, lifted above her head, was
now visible in the sight of all. The executioner rushed forward to
interpose, but he came too late. The tomahawk was driven deep into the
skull, and but a single sentence from his lips preceded the final
insensibility of the victim.
"It is good, Matiwan, it is good; thou hast saved me; the death is in
my heart." And back he sank as he spoke, while a shriek of mingled joy
and horror from the lips of the mother announced the success of her
effort to defeat the doom, the most dreadful in the imagination of the
Yemassee.
"He is not lost, he is not lost. They may not take the child from his
mother. They may not keep him from the valley of Manneyto. He is
free--he is free." And she fell back in a deep swoon into the arms of
Sanutee, who by this time had approached. She had defrauded
Opitchi-Manneyto of his victim, for they may not remove the badge of
the nation from any but the living victim.
MARION.
"_The Swamp Fox._"
(_From the Partisan._)
I.
We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,
His friends and merry men are we;
And when the troop of Tarleton rides,
We burrow in the cypress tree.
The turfy hammock is our bed,
Our home is in the red deer's den,
Our roof, the tree-top overhead,
For we are wild and hunted men.
II.
We fly by day, and shun its light,
But, prompt to strike the sudden blow,
We mount and start with early night,
And through the forest track our foe.
And soon he hears our chargers leap,
The flashing sabre blinds his eyes,
And ere he drives away his sleep,
And rushes from his camp, he dies.
III.
Free bridle-bit, good gallant steed,
That will not ask a kind caress,
To swim the Santee at our need,
When on his heels the foemen press,--
The true heart and the ready hand,
The spirit stubborn to be free,
The twisted bore, the smiting brand,--
And we are Marion's men, you see.
IV.
Now light the fire, and cook the meal,
The last perhaps that we shall taste;
I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal,
And that's a sign we move in haste.
He whistles to the scouts, and hark!
You hear his order calm and low--
Come, wave your torch across the dark,
And let us see the boys that go.
V.
We may not see their forms again,
God help 'em, should they find the strife!
For they are strong and fearless men,
And make no coward terms for life;
They'll fight as long as Marion bids,
And when he speaks the word to shy,
Then--not till then--they turn their steeds,
Through thickening shade and swamp to fly.
VI.
Now stir the fire, and lie at ease,
The scouts are gone, and on the brush
I see the colonel bend his knees,
To take his slumbers too--but hush!
He's praying, comrades; 'tis not strange;
The man that's fighting day by day,
May well, when night comes, take a change,
And down upon his knees to pray.
VII.
Break up that hoe-cake, boys, and hand
The sly and silent jug that's there;
I love not it should idly stand,
When Marion's men have need of cheer.
'Tis seldom that our luck affords
A stuff like this we just have quaffed,
And dry potatoes on our boards
May always call for such a draught.
VIII.
Now pile the brush and roll the log;
Hard pillow, but a soldier's head
That's half the time in brake and bog
Must never think of softer bed.
The owl is hooting to the night,
The cooter crawling o'er the bank,
And in that pond the flashing light
Tells where the alligator sank.
IX.
What! 'tis the signal! start so soon.
And through the Santee swamp so deep,
Without the aid of friendly moon,
And we, Heaven help us! half asleep!
But courage, comrades! Marion leads,
The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night;
So clear your swords, and spur your steeds,
There's goodly chance, I think, of fight.
X.
We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,
We leave the swamp and cypress tree,
Our spurs are in our coursers' sides,
And ready for the strife are we,--
The Tory camp is now in sight,
And there he cowers within his den,--
He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight,
He fears, and flies from Marion's men.
[Illustration: [Handwriting: Most truly & aff^ly yours
R E Lee]]
ROBERT EDWARD LEE.
~1807=1870.~
ROBERT EDWARD LEE was born at Stratford, Westmoreland County,
Virginia, descended from a long line of illustrious ancestors. He was
educated as a soldier at West Point, served with great distinction
under General Scott in the Mexican War, and commanded the troops which
suppressed the John Brown Raid in 1859. When his State seceded in
1861, he resigned his commission of Colonel in the United States Army,
and returned to Virginia. He was appointed commander-in-chief of the
Virginia forces, and later of the Confederate Army. His course during
the war has elicited the praise and admiration of all military
critics. After the war he quietly turned to the duties of a citizen.
He became president of Washington College, which is now called in his
honor Washington and Lee University. He stands with Washington a model
for young men, and many monuments in marble and bronze attest the love
and devotion of the South to her great Chief.
WORKS.
_Edited_ his father's Memoirs of the Revolution.
Letters and Addresses.
General Lee was a soldier and a man who acted rather than spoke or
wrote. When, however, it was his duty to speak or write, he did it, as
he did everything else, excellently, striving to express in simplest
language the right and proper thing rather than draw attention and
admiration to himself by any effort at grace or beauty of style. Its
simplicity reminds us of Washington.
His life has been written by John Esten Cooke, John William Jones,
J. D. McCabe, Jr., and Fitz Hugh Lee, his nephew.
TO HIS SON.
Duty is the sublimest word in the English language.
At THE SURRENDER.
Human virtue should be equal to human calamity.
GENERAL LEE'S LAST ORDER.
(_Appomattox Court-House, April 10, 1865._)
After four years of arduous service, marked by unsurpassed courage and
fortitude, the Army of Northern Virginia has been compelled to yield
to overwhelming numbers and resources. I need not tell the survivors
of so many hard-fought battles, who have remained steadfast to the
last, that I have consented to this result from no distrust of them;
but, feeling that valor and devotion could accomplish nothing that
would compensate for the loss that would have attended the
continuation of the contest, I have determined to avoid the useless
sacrifice of those whose past services have endeared them to their
countrymen. By the terms of the agreement, officers and men can return
to their homes, and remain there until exchanged.
You will take with you _the satisfaction that proceeds from the
consciousness of duty faithfully performed_; and I earnestly pray that
a merciful God will extend to you his blessing and protection. With an
unceasing admiration of your constancy and devotion to your country,
and a grateful remembrance of your kind and generous consideration of
myself, I bid you an affectionate farewell.
[Illustration: ~Washington and Lee University, Lexington, Va.~]
LETTER ACCEPTING THE PRESIDENCY OF WASHINGTON COLLEGE.
POWHATAN COUNTY, _August 24, 1865_.
GENTLEMEN:--I have delayed for some days replying to your letter of
the 5th instant informing me of my election, by the board of Trustees,
to the Presidency of Washington College, from a desire to give the
subject due consideration. Fully impressed with the responsibilities
of the office, I have feared that I should be unable to discharge its
duties to the satisfaction of the Trustees, or to the benefit of the
country. The proper education of youth requires not only great
ability, but, I fear, more strength than I now possess; for I do not
feel able to undergo the labor of conducting classes in regular
courses of instruction. I could not, therefore, undertake more than
the general administration and supervision of the institution.
There is another subject which has caused me serious reflection, and
is, I think, worthy of the consideration of the Board. Being excluded
from the terms of amnesty in the proclamation of the United States of
the 29th of May last, and an object of censure to a portion of the
country, I have thought it probable that my occupation of the position
of president might draw upon the college a feeling of hostility, and I
should therefore cause injury to an institution which it would be my
highest object to advance.
I think it the duty of every citizen, in the present condition of the
country, to do all in his power to aid in the restoration of peace and
harmony, and in no way to oppose the policy of the State or general
Government directed to that object. It is particularly incumbent on
those charged with the instruction of the young to set them an example
of submission to authority, and I could not consent to be the cause
of animadversion upon the college. Should you, however, take a
different view, and think that my services, in the position tendered
me by the Board, will be advantageous to the college and the country,
I will yield to your judgment and accept it; otherwise I must most
respectfully decline the offer.
Begging you to express to the Trustees of the college my heartfelt
gratitude for the honor conferred upon me, and requesting you to
accept my cordial thanks for the kind manner in which you have
communicated its decision, I am, gentlemen, your most obedient
servant,
R. E. LEE.
JEFFERSON DAVIS.
~1808=1889.~
JEFFERSON DAVIS, President of the Confederate States, was born in Todd
County, Kentucky, but his father removed to Mississippi soon
afterwards, and he was reared and partly educated in that state. Later
he attended Transylvania University in Kentucky, and in 1824 entered
West Point. He was graduated in 1828 and served seven years in the
army, being stationed in Missouri and Minnesota. On account of
ill-health he resigned in 1835 and travelled, and then settled on his
Mississippi plantation, "Brierfield."
He was elected to Congress in 1845; served in the Mexican War with
great distinction and was injured in eye and limb at the battle of
Buena Vista. He was Secretary of War in President Pierce's cabinet,
and was a Senator when Mississippi seceded from the Union.
He made his farewell to the Senate in January, 1861, and returned home
where he was at once appointed commander of the State troops. But he
had been elected president of the new Confederacy by the Convention at
Montgomery, and he was inaugurated, February 18, 1861. On the change
of the capital from Montgomery to Richmond, he removed to the latter
city and remained there until the war was ended.