Lucia Dare, [novel].
Atalie, or a Southern Villeggiatura.
Agnes Graham, [novel].
Panola, a Tale of Louisiana.
A CONFEDERATE EXILE ON HIS WAY TO MEXICO, 1866.
(_From Recollections of Henry W. Allen, Ex-Gov. of Louisiana._[26])
The people wept over Allen's departure. They followed him with tears
and blessings, and would have forced on him more substantial tokens of
regard than words of regret. They knew he had no money--his noble
estates had long been in possession of the enemy; hundreds of
hogsheads of sugar had been carried off from his plundered
sugar-houses; his house was burned, his plantation, a wide waste of
fallow-fields, grown up in weeds. He had nothing but Confederate and
State money. One gentleman begged him to accept $5,000, in gold, _as a
loan_, since he refused it as a gift. Allen accepted five hundred.
With this small amount, his ambulance and riding-horses, he started to
Mexico. His journey through Texas was a complete ovation, instead of a
hegira. Everybody, rich and poor, vied with each other in offering
him attention and the most eager hospitality. The roof was deemed
honored that sheltered his head for the night. He stopped at Crockett,
to say "goodbye."
. . . . . . .
This conversation occurred whilst we were returning from a visit to
Gov. Moore's family. I had driven over to their cottage in a buggy, to
invite them to join us at dinner. Allen had accompanied me. . . .
These exiles were personal friends of mine. I suffered in parting with
them: for some I suffer still--for those who are still absent and
still living! Everything was very quiet and still, nothing audible but
the low murmur of our voices, when suddenly arose from the prairie
beyond us, one of the beautiful, plaintive, cattle or "salt" songs of
Texas. These wild simple melodies had a great attraction for me. I
would often check my horse on the prairies, and keep him motionless
for a half-hour, listening to these sweet, melancholy strains. Like
all cattle-calls, they are chiefly minor. I thought them quite as
singular and beautiful as the Swiss _Ranz des Vaches_, or the Swedish
cattle-calls. They consisted of a few chanted words, with a cadence
and a long _yodl_. Sometimes the yodling was aided by what the Texan
boys called "quills"--two or more pipes made of reed--_cane_
(arundinaria macrosperma). This made a sort of limited syrinx, which
gave wonderful softness and flute-like clearness to the prolonged
tones of the voice, as it was breathed into them. The boy sang one of
his saddest "calls." I looked quickly to see if Gov. Allen had noticed
the melancholy words and mournful air. I saw he had. He ceased
talking, and his face was very grave.
The boy sang:
"Going away to leave you,
Ah-a-a-a--
Going away to leave you,
Ah-a-a-a--
Going away to-morrow,
Ah-a-a-a--
Going away to-morrow,
Ah-a-a-a--
Never more to see you,
Ah-a-a-a--
Never more to see you,
Ah a-a-a."
[Music: Go-ing a-way, Go-ing a-way,
Going a-way to leave you, Ah-a-a-a.
Going a-way to leave you, Ah-a-a.]
This had always been an affecting strain to me; it was doubly so under
the existing circumstances. The song died mournfully away. We drove on
in silence for a few moments. Gov. Allen roused himself, with a sigh:
"That boy's song is very sad."
"Yes, but he sings it very frequently. He knows nothing about you. It
is neither a prophecy nor intended to be sympathetic,--you need not
make special application of it!"
"No; but it may prove a strange coincidence."
"You shan't say that. I won't listen to such a thought. You'll only
spend a pleasant summer travelling in Mexico. We'll see you at the
opera in New Orleans, next winter."
"I hope so."
Our conversation reverted now to past years. Allen spoke of his early
friends among my relatives; of his whole career in Louisiana; of his
wife, with tenderness,--[she had died in 1850], of her beauty and her
love for him. His future was so uncertain--that he scarcely alluded to
that--never with any hopefulness. It was only in the past that he
seemed to find repose of spirit. The present was too sad, the future
too shadowy for any discussion of either . . .
During this last visit, I never renewed my arguments against his
quitting the country. I had already said and written all that I had to
say on that subject . . . . .
Besides, our minds were in such a confused state, we scarcely knew
what any of us had to expect from the victorious party, or what would
become of our whole people. So that in urging him not to leave
Louisiana, I argued more from instinct, which revolted at anything
like an abandonment of a post of duty, and from a temperament which
always sought rather to advance to meet and defy danger, than to turn
and avoid it, than from any well-grounded assurance or hope of
security for him, or any one else. I felt more anxiety for his
reputation, for his fame, than for his life and freedom. His natural
instincts would have induced similar views; but his judgment and
feelings were overpowered by the reasonings and entreaties of his
friends.
FOOTNOTE:
[26] By permission of J. A. Gresham, New Orleans.
HENRY TIMROD.
~1829=1867.~
[Illustration: ~University of State of Missouri, Columbia, Mo.~]
HENRY TIMROD was born in Charleston, the son of William Henry Timrod,
who was himself a poet, and who in his youth voluntarily apprenticed
himself to a book-binder in order to have plenty of books to read. His
son Henry, the "blue-eyed Harry" of the father's poem studied law
with the distinguished James Louis Petigru, but never practiced and
soon gave it up to prepare himself for a teacher. He spent ten years
as private tutor in families, writing at the same time. Some of his
poems are found in the "Southern Literary Messenger" with the
signature "Aglaüs."
His vacations were spent in Charleston, where he was one of the
coterie of young writers whom William Gilmore Simms, like a literary
Nestor, gathered about him in his hospitable home. His schoolmate,
Paul Hamilton Hayne, was one of these, and their early friendship grew
stronger with the passing years.
In 1860, Timrod removed to Columbia, published a volume of poems which
were well received North and South, and undertook editorial work. Life
seemed fair before him. But ill-health and the war which destroyed his
property and blighted his career, soon darkened all his prospects, and
after a brave struggle with poverty and sickness, he died of
pneumonia.
His poems are singularly free from sadness and bitterness. They have
been collected and published with a sketch of his life by his friend,
Paul Hamilton Hayne.
WORKS.
Poems.[27]
Prose Articles in the "South Carolinian."
Of all our poets none stands higher than Henry Timrod. His singing is
true and musical, and his thoughts are pure and noble. A tardy
recognition seems at last coming to bless his memory, and his poems
are in demand. One copy of his little volume recently commanded the
price of ten dollars.
SONNET.
Life ever seems as from its present site
It aimed to lure us. Mountains of the past
It melts, with all their crags and caverns vast,
Into a purple cloud! Across the night
Which hides what is to be, it shoots a light
All rosy with the yet unrisen dawn.
Not the near daisies, but yon distant height
Attracts us, lying on this emerald lawn.
And always, be the landscape what it may--
Blue, misty hill, or sweep of glimmering plain--
It is the eye's endeavor still to gain
The fine, faint limit of the bounding day.
God, haply, in this mystic mode, would fain
Hint of a happier home, far, far away!
ENGLISH KATIE.
(_From Katie._)
It may be through some foreign grace,
And unfamiliar charm of face;
It may be that across the foam
Which bore her from her childhood's home
By some strange spell, my Katie brought,
Along with English creeds and thought--
Entangled in her golden hair--
Some English sunshine, warmth, and air!
I cannot tell,--but here to-day,
A thousand billowy leagues away
From that green isle whose twilight skies
No darker are than Katie's eyes,
She seems to me, go where she will,
An English girl in England still!
I meet her on the dusty street,
And daisies spring about her feet;
Or, touched to life beneath her tread,
An English cowslip lifts its head;
And, as to do her grace, rise up
The primrose and the buttercup!
I roam with her through fields of cane,
And seem to stroll an English lane,
Which, white with blossoms of the May,
Spreads its green carpet in her way!
As fancy wills, the path beneath
Is golden gorse, or purple heath:
And now we hear in woodlands dim
Their unarticulated hymn,
Now walk through rippling waves of wheat,
Now sink in mats of clover sweet,
Or see before us from the lawn
The lark go up to greet the dawn!
All birds that love the English sky
Throng round my path when she is by:
The blackbird from a neighboring thorn
With music brims the cup of morn,
And in a thick, melodious rain
The mavis pours her mellow strain!
But only when my Katie's voice
Makes all the listening woods rejoice,
I hear--with cheeks that flush and pale--
The passion of the nightingale!
HYMN SUNG AT THE CONSECRATION OF MAGNOLIA CEMETERY, CHARLESTON, S. C.
Whose was the hand that painted thee, O Death!
In the false aspect of a ruthless foe,
Despair and sorrow waiting on thy breath,--
O gentle Power! who could have wronged thee so?
Thou rather should'st be crowned with fadeless flowers,
Of lasting fragrance and celestial hue;
Or be thy couch amid funereal bowers,
But let the stars and sunlight sparkle through.
So, with these thoughts before us, we have fixed
And beautified, O Death! thy mansion here,
Where gloom and gladness--grave and garden--mixed,
Make it a place to love, and not to fear.
Heaven! shed thy most propitious dews around!
Ye holy stars! look down with tender eyes,
And gild and guard and consecrate the ground
Where we may rest, and whence we pray to rise.
FOOTNOTE:
[27] The following extracts are made by permission of Mr. E. J. Hale,
formerly of E. J. Hale & Son.
PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.
~1830=1886.~
PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE has been justly called the "Laureate of the
South." He was born at Charleston, and being left an orphan by the
death of his father, Lieutenant Hayne of the Navy, he was reared and
educated by his uncle, Robert Young Hayne. His fortune was ample, but
he studied law although he never practised. He became editor of
"Russell's Magazine" and a contributor to the "Southern Literary
Messenger." His genius and lovely nature made him a favorite with all
of his companions, among whom were notably William Gilmore Simms and
Henry Timrod.
During the Civil War, he served in the Confederate Army; his entire
property, the inheritance of several generations, was destroyed in the
bombardment of Charleston. From 1865 till his death he resided at
"Copse Hill," a small cottage home in the pine hills near Augusta,
Georgia, "keeping the wolf from the door only by the point of his
pen," dearly honored and loved by all who knew him or his poems.
His son, William H. Hayne, is also a poet of much ability, and has
published a volume of "Sylvan Lyrics."
WORKS.
Poems containing Sonnets Avolio Lyrics Mountain of the Lovers.
Preceded by a Sketch of the Poet by Mrs. M. J. Preston (1882).
Life of Robert Young Hayne (1878).
Life of Hugh Swinton Legaré (1878).
[Illustration: ~University of Texas (Main Building), Austin, Texas.~]
"There is no poet in America who has written more lovingly or
discriminatingly about nature in her ever varying aspects. We are sure
that in his loyal allegiance to her, he is not a whit behind
Wordsworth, and we do not hesitate to say that he has often a grace
that the old Lake-poet lacks."--Mrs. Preston.
"Hayne has the lyric gift, and his shorter poems have a ring and
richness that recall the glories of the Elizabethan period; . . . each
shows the same careful and artistic workmanship."--Collier.
THE MOCKING-BIRD.
(_At Night._)
(_From Poems, 1882._[28])
A golden pallor of voluptuous light
Filled the warm southern night;
The moon, clear orbed, above the sylvan scene
Moved like a stately Queen,
So rife with conscious beauty all the while,
What could she do but smile
At her own perfect loveliness below,
Glassed in the tranquil flow
Of crystal fountains and unruffled streams?
Half lost in waking dreams,
As down the loneliest forest dell I strayed,
Lo! from a neighboring glade,
Flashed through the drifts of moonshine, swiftly came
A fairy shape of flame.
It rose in dazzling spirals overhead,
Whence, to wild sweetness wed,
Poured marvellous melodies, silvery trill on trill;
The very leaves grew still
On the charmed trees to hearken; while, for me,
Heart-thrilled to ecstasy,
I followed--followed the bright shape that flew,
Still circling up the blue,
Till, as a fountain that has reached its height
Falls back in sprays of light
Slowly dissolved, so that enrapturing lay,
Divinely melts away
Through tremulous spaces to a music-mist,
Soon by the fitful breeze
How gently kissed
Into remote and tender silences.
SONNET.--OCTOBER.
The passionate summer's dead! the sky's aglow
With roseate flushes of matured desire,
The winds at eve are musical and low,
As sweeping chords of a lamenting lyre,
Far up among the pillared clouds of fire,
Whose pomp of strange procession upward rolls,
With gorgeous blazonry of pictured scrolls,
To celebrate the summer's past renown;
Ah, me! how regally the heavens look down,
O'ershadowing beautiful autumnal woods
And harvest fields with hoarded increase brown,
And deep-toned majesty of golden floods,
That raise their solemn dirges to the sky,
To swell the purple pomp that floateth by.
A DREAM OF THE SOUTH WIND.
O fresh, how fresh and fair
Through the crystal gulfs of air,
The fairy South Wind floateth on her subtle wings of balm!
And the green earth lapped in bliss,
To the magic of her kiss
Seems yearning upward fondly through the golden-crested calm.
From the distant Tropic strand
Where the billows, bright and bland,
Go creeping, curling round the palms with sweet, faint undertune;
From its fields of purpling flowers
Still wet with fragrant showers,
The happy South Wind lingering sweeps the royal blooms of June.
All heavenly fancies rise
On the perfume of her sighs,
Which steep the inmost spirit in a languor rare and fine,
And a peace more pure than sleep's
Unto dim half-conscious deeps,
Transports me, lulled and dreaming, on its twilight tides divine.
Those dreams! ah, me! the splendor,
So mystical and tender,
Wherewith like soft heat lightnings they gird their meaning round,
And those waters, calling, calling,
With a nameless charm enthralling,
Like the ghost of music melting on a rainbow spray of sound!
Touch, touch me not, nor wake me,
Lest grosser thoughts o'ertake me;
From earth receding faintly with her dreary din and jars--
What viewless arms caress me?
What whispered voices bless me,
With welcomes dropping dew-like from the weird and wondrous stars?
Alas! dim, dim, and dimmer
Grows the preternatural glimmer
Of that trance the South Wind brought me on her subtle wings of balm,
For behold! its spirit flieth,
And its fairy murmur dieth,
And the silence closing round me is a dull and soulless calm!
FOOTNOTE:
[28] By permission of the Lothrop Publishing Co., Boston; as also the
others following.
JOHN ESTEN COOKE.
~1830=1886.~
JOHN ESTEN COOKE was born at Winchester, Virginia, a younger brother
of Philip Pendleton Cooke and son of the eminent jurist, John Rogers
Cooke, under whom he made his law studies. He seemed, however, to
prefer literature to law, and when he was twenty-four he had already
published several works. Among them was "Virginia Comedians," a novel
of great interest and greater promise.
In 1861 he entered the Confederate service as one of General T. J.
Jackson's staff, was transferred to that of General J. E. B. Stuart at
the death of Jackson in 1863; and after Stuart's death, he was
Inspector-General of the horse artillery of the Army of Northern
Virginia till the close of the war.
His novels deal with the life and history of Virginia, the best known
of them being "Surry of Eagle's Nest," which is said to be partly
autobiographical. They hold well the popular favor. His "Stories of
the Old Dominion" are specially interesting to Virginians.
WORKS.
Leather Stocking and Silk.
Virginia Comedians.
Last of the Foresters.
Life of Stonewall Jackson.
Surry of Eagle's Nest.
Mohun, or the Last Days of Lee and his Paladins.
Out of the Foam.
Heir of Gaymount.
Dr. Vandyke.
Pretty Mrs. Gaston, and other Stories.
Professor Pressensee.
Virginia Bohemians.
Virginia: a History of the People.
Maurice Mystery.
Youth of Jefferson.
Ellie.
Henry St. John, Gentleman, sequel to Virginia Comedians.
Wearing of the Gray.
Fairfax, or Greenway Court.
Hilt to Hilt.
Hammer and Rapier [Grant and Lee].
Life of R. E. Lee.
Her Majesty the Queen.
Canolles.
Mr. Grantley's Idea.
Stories of the Old Dominion.
My Lady Pokahontas.
THE RACES IN VIRGINIA, 1765.
(_From Virginia Comedians._[29])
The races!
That word always produces a strong effect upon men in the South; and
when the day fixed upon for the Jamestown races comes, the country is
alive for miles around with persons of all classes and descriptions.
As the hour of noon approaches, the ground swarms with every species
of the genus _homo_; Williamsburg and the sea-faring village of
Jamestown turn out _en masse_, and leave all occupations for the
exciting turf.
As the day draws on the crowd becomes more dense. The splendid
chariots of the gentry roll up to the stand, and group themselves
around it, in a position to overlook the race-course, and through the
wide windows are seen the sparkling eyes and powdered locks, and
diamonds and gay silk and velvet dresses of those fair dames who lent
such richness and picturesque beauty to the old days dead now so long
ago in the far past. The fine-looking old planters too are decked in
their holiday suits, their powdered hair is tied into queues behind
with neat black ribbon, and they descend and mingle with their
neighbors, and discuss the coming festival.
Gay youths, in rich brilliant dresses, caracole up to the carriages on
fiery steeds, to display their horsemanship, and exchange compliments
with their friends, and make pretty speeches, which are received by
the bright-eyed damsels with little ogles, and flirts of their
variegated fans, and rapturous delight.
Meanwhile the crowd grows each moment, as the flood pours in from the
north, the south, the east, the west--from every point of the compass,
and in every species of vehicle. There are gay parties of the yeomen
and their wives and daughters, in carryalls and wagons filled with
straw, upon which chairs are placed: there are rollicking fast men--if
we may use a word becoming customary in our own day--who whirl in, in
their curricles: there are barouches and chairs, spring wagons and
carts, all full, approaching in every way from a sober walk to a
furious headlong dash, all "going to the races." There are horsemen
who lean forward, horsemen who lean back; furious, excited horsemen
urging their steeds with whip and spur; cool, quiet horsemen, who ride
erect and slowly; there are, besides, pedestrians of every class and
appearance, old and young, male and female, black and white--all going
to the races.
The hour at last arrives, and a horn sounding from the judges' stand,
the horses are led out in their blankets and head-coverings, and
walked up and down before the crowd by their trainers, who are for the
most part old gray-headed negroes, born and raised, to the best of
their recollection, on the turf. The riders are noble scions of the
same ancient stock, and average three feet and a half in height, and
twenty pounds in weight. They are clad in ornamental garments; wear
little close-fitting caps; and while they are waiting, sit huddled up
in the grass, sucking their thumbs, and talking confidentially about
"them there hosses."
Let us look at the objects of their attention; they are well worth it.
Mr. Howard enters the bay horse _Sir Archy_, out of Flying Dick, by
Roderick.
Mr. James enters _Fair Anna_, a white mare, dam Virginia, sire
Belgrave.
Captain Waters enters the Arabian horse _Selim_, descended in a direct
line, he is informed, from Al-borak, who carried the prophet Mahomet
up to heaven--though this pedigree is not vouched for. The said
pedigree is open to the inspection of all comers. _Note_--That it is
written in Arabic.
There are other entries, but not much attention is paid to them. The
race will be between Sir Archy and Fair Anna, and perhaps the
outlandish horse will not be "distanced."
"Prepare the horses!" comes from the judges' stand opposite.
Captain Ralph Waters leaves the ladies with a gallant bow, and pushes
his way through the swaying and excited crowd, toward the spot where
the animals are being saddled.
A tremendous hurly-burly reigns there; men of all classes, boys,
negroes, gentlemen, indented servants,--all are betting with intense
interest. The dignified grooms endeavor to keep back the crowd:--the
owners of the horses give their orders to the microscopic monkeys who
are to ride. . . . . . The riders are raised by one leg into the
saddles; they gather up the reins; the drum taps; they are off like
lightning.
The course is a mile in circumference, and they go round it before the
excited crowd can look at them a dozen times. They whirl past the
stand, and push on again.
Sir Archy leads; Fair Anna trails on a hard rein; the Arabian is two
lengths behind; but he is not running.
They thunder up the quarter stretch: Sir Archy is bounding, like some
diabolical monster, far before his companions, spite of his owner's
cries; the Arabian has come up and locks the mare; they run neck and
neck. Sir Archy whirls past the stand, and wins by a hundred yards.
The immense crowd utters a shout that shakes the surrounding
forest. . . . . . . .
The horses are again enveloped in their hoods and blankets. Captain
Ralph returns to the Riverhead carriage, [that of the Lees, in which
were Miss Henrietta Lee and her sister Clare.]
"Any more betting, sir?" says Miss Henrietta, satirically.
"Who, I?"
"Yes, sir."
"Assuredly!" says the Captain; "do not think, _chere ma'm'selle_, that
I am very much cast down. I am so far from that, I assure you, that I
am ready to take the field again."
"Well, sir."
"Then you will bet again, madam?"
"Yes, indeed."
"_Bien!_ I now stake all that is left me in the world--though not
quite. I stake my horse, Selim, against the curl and the pair of
gloves you wear, with the knot of ribbons at your girdle thrown
in--all upon the final issue."
Henrietta blushes; for, however common such gallant proposals were at
that day, she cannot misunderstand the meaning of the soldier's
glance, and reddens beneath it.
"That would be unfair, sir."
"Not so, my dear madam, for are you not sure to lose?"
"To lose?"
"Yes, indeed."
"No, sir; I am sure to win."
"Bah! you ladies have such a delicious little confidence in the things
you patronize, that it is really astonishing. You think Sir Archy will
beat Selim? Pshaw! you know nothing about it."
This piques madam Henrietta, and she smiles satirically again as she
says:
"Well, sir, I do not want your pretty horse--but if you insist, why, I
cannot retreat. I shall, at least, have the pleasure of returning him
to his master."
The Captain shakes his head.
"A bet upon such terms is no bet at all, my dearest madam," he says,
"for, I assure you, if I win, you will return home curl-less,
glove-less, and ribbon-less. All is fair in war--and love."
With which words, Captain Ralph darts a martial ogle at his companion.
This piques her more than ever.
"Well, sir," she replies, "if you are determined, have your desire."
"Good!" cries the Captain, "we are just in time. There is the
horse." . . . . . . And, with another gallant bow, the Captain rides
away towards the horses. . . .
The boys are again instructed much after the same fashion: the signal
is given in the midst of breathless suspense, and the horses dart from
their places.
They dart around, Sir Archy again leading: but this position he does
not hold throughout the first mile: he gradually falls behind, and
when they pass the winning-post he is fifty yards in the rear. His
owner tears his hair, but the crowd do not see him--they flush and
shout.