Even in the gateway turn! The orange tree
Keeps still her snowy wreath of love for thee;
The jasmine's starry spray
Still waves thee back: O South! thy glory lies
In thine own sacred fields. There shall arise
Thy day, which fadeth not:
There--patient hands shall fill thy cup with wine,
There--hearts devoted, make thy name divine,
Their own hard fate forgot.
DEDICATION.--SONNET.
TO ELIZABETH, MY MOTHER.
The green Virginian hills were blithe in May,
And we were plucking violets--thou and I.
A transient gladness flooded earth and sky;
Thy fading strength seemed to return that day,
And I was mad with hope that God would stay
Death's pale approach--Oh! all hath long passed by!
Long years! long years! and now, I well know why
Thine eyes, quick-filled with tears, were turned away.
First loved; first lost; my mother: time must still
Leave my soul's debt uncancelled. All that's best
In me and in my art is thine:--Me-seems
Even now, we walk afield. Through good and ill,
My sorrowing heart forgets not, and in dreams,
I see thee, in the sun-lands of the blest.
FOOTNOTE:
[43] By permission of the author, and publishers, the Cassell
Publishing Co., N. Y.
"CHRISTIAN REID."
FRANCES C. TIERNAN.
MRS. TIERNAN has written many novels of Southern life. She is a
daughter of Colonel Charles F. Fisher of Salisbury, North Carolina,
who was killed in the battle of Manassas. Her best known book, "The
Land of the Sky," describes a summer tour through the grand mountains
of her native State, taken before the railroads had penetrated them.
WORKS.
Valerie Aylmer.
Mabel Lee.
Nina's Atonement.
Carmen's Inheritance.
Hearts and Hands.
Land of the Sky.
Heart of Steel.
Summer Idyl.
Roslyn's Fortune.
Morton House.
Ebb Tide.
Daughter of Bohemia.
A Gentle Belle.
A Question of Honor.
After Many Days.
Bonny Kate.
Armine.
Miss Churchill.
Land of the Sun (1895).
[Illustration: ~Mt. Mitchell, N. C. Above the Clouds.~]
ASCENT OF MOUNT MITCHELL, BLACK MOUNTAIN, NORTH CAROLINA.
(_From The Land of the Sky._[44])
The sun is shining brightly, and his golden lances light up the depths
of the forest into which we enter--an enchanted world of far-reaching
greenness, the stillness of which is only broken by the voice of the
streams which come down the gorges of the mountain in leaping
cascades. Few things are more picturesque than the appearance of a
cavalcade like ours following in single file the winding path (not
road) that leads into the marvelous, mysterious wilderness. When the
ascent fairly begins, the path is often like the letter S, and one
commands a view of the entire line--of horsemen in slouched hats and
gray coats, of ladies in a variety of attire, with water-proof cloaks
serving as riding-skirts, and hats garlanded with forest wreaths and
grasses. The guide tramps steadily ahead, leading the pack-horse, and
we catch a glimpse of his face now and then as he turns to answer some
question addressed to him. . . . . . . .
"We wind up the side of the mountain like this for several miles,"
says Eric, "then we travel along a ridge for some distance, and
finally we ascend the peak formerly called the Black Dome, now Mount
Mitchell. The whole distance is about twelve miles, and the most of it
is steady climbing." . . . . . .
"And it was in this wilderness that Professor Mitchell lost his life
sixteen or seventeen years ago, was it not?" I ask.
"Yes, Burnett [the guide] was one of the men engaged in the search for
him. He will tell you all about it. . ."
The forest around us becomes wilder, greener, more luxuriant at every
step. . . . Presently, however, the aspect of our surroundings
changes. We leave this varied forest behind, and enter the region of
the balsam, from the dark color of which the mountain takes its name.
Above a certain line of elevation no trees are found save these
beautiful yet sombre firs. They grow to an immense height and stand so
thickly together that one marvels how any animal larger than a cat can
thread its way among their stems. Overhead the boughs interlock in a
canopy, making perpetual shade beneath. No shrubs of any kind are to
be found here--only beds of thick elastic moss, richer than the
richest velvet, and ferns in plumy profusion. . . . Dan Burnett leads
on, and presently we emerge on the largest and most beautiful of the
little prairies through which we have passed. This stretch of open
ground lies at the foot of the highest peak, the abrupt sides of which
rise in conical shape before us. It is here, Mr. Burnett tells us,
that the mountaineers who were searching for Professor Mitchell found
the first trace of the way he had taken.
"We had been searchin' from Friday to Tuesday," he says, "and on
Tuesday we was pretty nigh disheartened, when Wilson--an old hunter
from over in Yancey--said he hadn't no doubt the professor had tried
to go down to Caney Valley by a trail they two had followed thirteen
years afore, and which leads that way"--he points down into the dark
wilds below us. "Well, we looked along the edge of this here prairie
till we found a track. Wilson was right--he _had_ tried to go down to
Caney Valley. We follered his trail fur about four mile, and I was one
of them what found him at last."
"He had lost his way," says Eric. "I have seen the spot--they call it
Mitchell's Falls now--where he died. A stream of considerable size
plunges over a precipice of about forty feet into a basin fourteen
feet deep by as many wide. Into this he fell, probably at night."
"But how was it possible to bring a dead body up these steeps?" Sylvia
says, addressing Mr. Burnett.
"We brought it in a sheet slung to the top of stout poles," he
answers. "Then it were carried down to Asheville, and then brought up
again, and buried there"--he nods to the peak above us.
"In the warmth of their great friendship and admiration, people
thought that he ought to rest in the midst of the scenes he had
explored so fearlessly and loved so well," says Eric. . . . Before
long we gain the top, and the first object on which our eyes rest
is--the grave. . . . . . . .
Besides the grave, the summit is entirely bare.
The view is so immense that one is forced to regard it in sections.
Far to the north east lies Virginia, from which the long waving line
of the Blue Ridge comes, and passes directly under the Black, making a
point of junction, near which it towers into the steep Pinnacle and
stately Graybeard--so called from the white beard which it wears when
a frozen cloud has iced its rhododendrons. From our greater eminence
we overlook the Blue Ridge entirely, and see the country below
spreading into azure distance, with white spots which resolve
themselves through the glasses into villages, and mountains clearly
defined. The Linville range--through which the Linville River forces
its way in a gorge of wonderful grandeur--is in full view, with a
misty cloud lying on the surface of Table Rock, while the peculiar
form of the Hawk's Bill stands forth in marked relief. Beyond, blue
and limitless as the ocean, the undulating plain of the more level
country extends until it melts into the sky.
As the glance leaves this view, and, sweeping back over the Blue
Ridge, follows the main ledge of the Black, one begins to appreciate
the magnitude of this great mountain. For miles along its dark crest
appear a succession of cone-like peaks, and, as it sweeps around
westwardly, it divides into two great branches--one of which
terminates in the height on which we stand, while numerous spurs lead
off from its base; the other stretches southward, forming the splendid
chain of Craggy. At our feet lie the elevated counties of Yancey and
Mitchell, with their surfaces so unevenly mountainous that one wonders
how men could have been daring enough to think of making their homes
amid such wild scenes. . . . Beyond these counties stretches the chain
of the Unaka, running along the line of Tennessee, with the Roan
Mountain--famous for its extensive view over seven states--immediately
in our front. Through the passes and rugged chasms of this range, we
look across the entire valley of East Tennessee to where the blue
outlines of the Cumberland Mountains trend toward Kentucky, and we see
distinctly a marked depression which Eric says is Cumberland Gap.
Turning our gaze due westward, the view is, if possible, still more
grand. There the colossal masses of the Great Smoky stand, draped in a
mantle of clouds, while through Haywood and Transylvania, to the
borders of South Carolina, rise the peaks of the Balsam Mountains,
behind which are the Cullowhee and the Nantahala, with the Blue Ridge
making a majestic curve toward the point where Georgia touches the
Carolinas. . . . .
It is enough to sit and watch the inexpressible beauty of the vast
prospect us afternoon slowly wanes into evening. There is a sense of
isolation, of solemnity and majesty, in the scene which none of us are
likely to forget. So high are we elevated above the world that the
pure vault of ether over our heads seems nearer to us than the blue
rolling earth, with its wooded hills and smiling valleys below. No
sound comes up to us, no voice of water or note of bird breaks the
stillness. We are in the region of that eternal silence which wraps
the summits of the "everlasting hills." A repose that is full of awe
broods over this lofty peak, which still retains the last rays of the
sinking sun, while over the lower world twilight has fallen.
FOOTNOTE:
[44] By permission of the author, and publishers, D. Appleton & Co.,
N. Y.
HENRY WOODFEN GRADY.
~1851=1889.~
HENRY WOODFEN GRADY was born at Athens, Georgia, and educated at the
State University. He became an editor, and in 1880 purchased an
interest in the Atlanta "Constitution" on whose staff he remained till
his death. His articles, addresses, and editorials made his name well
known throughout the country, and contributed no little to the
development of Southern industries after the war. A monument has been
erected to him in Atlanta.
WORKS.
The New South, [a series of articles].
Editorials, addresses, &c.
THE SOUTH BEFORE THE WAR.
(_From The New South, 1889._[45])
[Illustration: ~Grady Monument, Atlanta, Ga.~]
_Master and Slave._--Perhaps no period of human history has been more
misjudged and less understood than the slaveholding era in the
South. Slavery as an institution cannot be defended; but its
administration was so nearly perfect among our forefathers as to
challenge and hold our loving respect. It is doubtful if the world has
seen a peasantry so happy and so well-to-do as the negro slaves in
America. The world was amazed at the fidelity with which these slaves
guarded, from 1861 to 1865, the homes and families of the masters who
were fighting with the army that barred their way to freedom. If
"Uncle Tom's Cabin" had portrayed the rule of slavery rather than the
rarest exception, not all the armies that went to the field could have
stayed the flood of rapine and arson and pillage that would have
started with the first gun of the civil war. Instead of that, witness
the miracle of the slave in loyalty to his master, closing the fetters
upon his own limbs--maintaining and defending the families of those
who fought against his freedom--and at night on the far-off
battle-field searching among the carnage for his young master, that he
might lift the dying head to his breast and bend to catch the last
words to the old folks at home, so wrestling the meantime in agony and
love that he would lay down his life in his master's stead.
History has no parallel to the faith kept by the negro in the South
during the war. Often five hundred negroes to a single white man, and
yet through these dusky throngs the women and children walked in
safety, and the unprotected homes rested in peace. Unmarshalled, the
black battalions moved patiently to the fields in the morning to feed
the armies their idleness would have starved, and at night gathered
anxiously at the "big house to hear the news from marster," though
conscious that his victory made their chains enduring. Everywhere
humble and kindly. The body-guard of the helpless. The rough companion
of the little ones. The observant friend. The silent sentry in his
lowly cabin. The shrewd counsellor. And when the dead came home, a
mourner at the open grave. A thousand torches would have disbanded
every Southern army, but not one was lighted. When the master, going
to a war in which slavery was involved, said to his slave, "I leave my
home and loved ones in your charge," the tenderness between man and
master stood disclosed.
The Northern man, dealing with casual servants, querulous, sensitive,
and lodged for a day in a sphere they resent, can hardly comprehend
the friendliness and sympathy that existed between the master and the
slave. He cannot understand how the negro stood in slavery days,
open-hearted and sympathetic, full of gossip and comradeship, the
companion of the hunt, frolic, furrow, and home, contented in the
kindly dependence that had been a habit of his blood, and never
lifting his eyes beyond the narrow horizon that shut him in with his
neighbors and friends. But this relation did exist in the days of
slavery. It was the rule of that _régime_. It has survived war, and
strife, and political campaigns in which the drum-beat inspired and
Federal bayonets fortified. It will never die until the last
slaveholder and slave has been gathered to rest. It is the glory of
our past in the South. It is the answer to abuse and slander. It is
the hope of our future.
_Ante-bellum Civilization._--The relations of the races in slavery
must be clearly understood to understand what has followed, and to
judge of what is yet to come. Not less important is it to have some
clear idea of the civilization of that period.
That was a peculiar society. Almost feudal in its splendor, it was
almost patriarchal in its simplicity. Leisure and wealth gave it
exquisite culture. Its wives and mothers, exempt from drudgery, and
almost from care, gave to their sons, through patient and constant
training, something of their own grace and gentleness and to their
homes beauty and light. Its people, homogeneous by necessity, held
straight and simple faith, and were religious to a marked degree along
the old lines of Christian belief. This same homogeneity bred a
hospitality that was as kinsmen to kinsmen, and that wasted at the
threshold of every home what the more frugal people of the North
conserved and invested in public charities.
The code duello furnished the highest appeal in dispute. An affront to
a lad was answered at the pistol's mouth. The sense of quick
responsibility tempered the tongues of even the most violent, and the
newspapers of South Carolina for eight years, it is said, did not
contain one abusive word. The ownership of slaves, even more than of
realty, held families steadfast on their estates, and everywhere
prevailed the sociability of established neighborhoods. Money counted
least in making the social status, and constantly ambitious and
brilliant youngsters from no estate married into the families of the
planter princes. Meanwhile the one character utterly condemned and
ostracized was the man who was mean to his slaves. Even the coward was
pitied and might have been liked. For the cruel master there was no
toleration.
The _ante-bellum_ society had immense force. Working under the slavery
which brought the suspicion or hostility of the world, and which
practically beleaguered it within walls, it yet accomplished good
things. For the first sixty-four years of the republic it furnished
the president for fifty-two years. Its statesmen demanded the war of
1812, opened it with but five Northern senators supporting it, and its
general, Jackson, won the decisive battle of New Orleans. It was a
Southern statesman who added the Louisiana territory of more than
1,000,000 square miles to our domain. Under a Southern statesman
Florida was acquired from Spain. Against the opposition of the free
States, the Southern influence forced the war with Mexico, and annexed
the superb empire of Texas, brought in New Mexico, and opened the
gates of the republic to the Pacific. Scott and Taylor, the heroes of
the Mexican war, were Southern men. In material, as in political
affairs, the old South was masterful. The first important railroad
operated in America traversed Carolina. The first steamer that crossed
the ocean cleared from Savannah.
The first college established for girls was opened in Georgia. No
naturalist has surpassed Audubon; no geographer equalled Maury; and
Sims and McDonald led the world of surgery in their respective lines.
It was Crawford Long, of Georgia, who gave to the world the priceless
blessing of anæsthesia.
The wealth accumulated by the people was marvellous. And, though it is
held that slavery enriched the few at the general expense, Georgia and
Carolina were the richest States, per capita, in the Union in 1800,
saving Rhode Island. Some idea of the desolation of the war may be had
from the fact that, in spite of their late remarkable recuperation,
they are now, excepting Idaho, the poorest States, per capita, in the
Union. So rich was the South in 1860, that Mr. Lincoln spoke but
common sentiment when he said: "If we let the South go, where shall we
get our revenues?"
In its engaging grace--in the chivalry that tempered even Quixotism
with dignity--in the piety that saved master and slave alike--in the
charity that boasted not--in the honor held above estate--in the
hospitality that neither condescended nor cringed--in frankness and
heartiness and wholesome comradeship--in the reverence paid to
womanhood and the inviolable respect in which woman's name was
held--the civilization of the old slave _régime_ in the South has not
been surpassed, and perhaps will not be equalled, among men.
And as the fidelity of the slave during the war bespoke the kindness
of the master before the war, so the unquestioning reverence with
which the young men of the South accepted, in 1865, their heritage of
poverty and defeat, proved the strength and excellence of the
civilization from which that heritage had come. In cheerfulness they
bestirred themselves amid the ashes and the wrecks, and, holding the
inspiration of their past to be better than their rich acres and
garnered wealth, went out to rebuild their fallen fortunes, with never
a word of complaint, nor the thought of criticism!
FOOTNOTE:
[45] By permission of "New York Ledger," Robert Bonner's Sons, N. Y.
THOMAS NELSON PAGE.
~1853=----.~
THOMAS NELSON PAGE was born at "Oakland," Hanover County, Virginia, of
distinguished ancestry. He was educated at Washington and Lee
University, studied law, and settled in Richmond. His first writings
were poems and stories in the Virginia negro dialect, some of them in
connection with Armistead Churchill Gordon. He is now (1894) editor of
"The Drawer" in Harper's Monthly, and stands high as one of the
younger writers of our country.
WORKS.
In Ole Virginia, [stories in negro dialect].
Two Little Confederates.
Elsket, and other Stories.
Essays on the South, its literature, the Negro question, &c., in
magazines.
Befo' de Wa', (with A. C. Gordon).
On New Found River.
Pastime Stories, [written for "The Drawer"].
Among the Camps, [stories].
[Illustration: ~Agricultural and Mechanical College of Mississippi.~]
Mr. Page delineates finely the old Virginia darkey and his dialect,
as Mr. Harris does the darkey of the Carolinas and Georgia. There is a
marked difference between them.
"The naturalness of his style, the skill with which he uses seemingly
indifferent incidents and sayings to trick out and light up his
pictures, the apparently unintentional and therefore most effective
touches of pathos, are uncommon."
MARSE CHAN'S LAST BATTLE.
(_From Marse Chan: In Ole Virginia._[46])
"Well, jes' den dey blowed boots an' saddles, an' we mounted: an' de
orders come to ride 'roun' de slope, an' Marse Chan's comp'ny wuz de
secon', an' when we got 'roun' dyah, we wuz right in it. Hit wuz de
wust place ever dis nigger got in. An' dey said, 'Charge 'em!' an' my
king! ef ever you see bullets fly, dey did dat day. Hit wuz jes' like
hail; an' we wen' down de slope (I 'long wid de res') an' up de hill
right to'ds de cannons, an' de fire wuz so strong dyar (dey had a
whole rigiment of infintrys layin' down dyar onder de cannons) our
lines sort o' broke an' stop; de cun'l was kilt, an' I b'lieve dey wuz
jes' 'bout to bre'k all to pieces, when Marse Chan rid up an' cotch
hol' de fleg, an' hollers, 'Foller me!' and rid strainin' up de hill
'mong de cannons.
"I seen 'im when he went, de sorrel four good lengths ahead o' ev'ry
urr hoss, jes' like he use' to be in a fox-hunt, an' de whole rigiment
right arfter 'im. Yo' ain' nuvver hear thunder! Fust thing I knowed,
de roan roll' head over heels an' flung me up 'g'inst de bank, like
yo' chuck a nubbin over 'g'inst de foot o' de corn pile. An' dat's
what kep' me from bein' kilt, I 'spects. Judy she say she think 'twuz
Providence, but I think 'twuz de bank. O' c'ose, Providence put de
bank dyah, but how come Providence nuver saved Marse Chan?
"When I look 'roun' de roan wuz lyin' dyah by me, stone dead, wid a
cannon-ball gone 'mos' th'oo him, an' our men had done swep' dem on
t'urr side from de top o' de hill. 'Twan' mo'n a minit, de sorrel come
gallupin' back wid his mane flyin', an' de rein hangin' down on one
side to his knee. 'Dyar!' says I, 'fo' God! I 'spects dey done kill
Marse Chan, an' I promised to tek care on him.'
"I jumped up an' run over de bank, an' dyar, wid a whole lot o' dead
men, an' some not dead yit, onder one o' de guns, wid de fleg still in
he han', an' a bullet right th'oo he body, lay Marse Chan. I tu'n him
over an' call him, 'Marse Chan!' but 'twan' no use, he wuz done gone
home, sho' 'nuff. I pick 'im up in my arms wid de fleg still in he
han's, an' toted' im back jes' like I did dat day when he wus a baby,
an' ole marster gin 'im to me in my arms, an' sez he could trus' me,
an' tell me to tek keer on 'im long ez he lived.
"I kyar'd 'im 'way off de battle-fiel' out de way o' de balls, an' I
laid 'im down onder a big tree till I could git somebody to ketch the
sorrel for me. He wuz cotched arfter a while, an' I hed some money, so
I got some pine plank an' made a coffin dat evenin', an' wrapt Marse
Chan's body up in de fleg, and put 'im in de coffin; but I didn' nail
de top on strong, 'cause I knowed ole missis wan' see 'im; an' I got
a' ambulance, an' set out for home dat night. We reached dyar de nex'
evenin', arfter travellin' all dat night an' all nex' day."
FOOTNOTE:
[46] By permission of author, and publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons,
N. Y.
MARY NOAILLES MURFREE.
"CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK."
MISS MURFREE was born at "Grantlands," near Murfreesboro, Tennessee,
the family home inherited from her great-grandfather, Colonel Hardy
Murfree, for whom the town was named. Her youth was spent here and in
Nashville, the summers being passed in the Tennessee Mountains:
shortly after the Civil War, her father removed to St. Louis, and it
was there that she began to write.
Her stories are laid mainly in the mountains of Tennessee and describe
vividly and truly the people, life, and exquisite scenery of that
region.
WORKS.
In the Tennessee Mountains, [short stories].
Down the Ravine.
In the Clouds.
Despot of Broomsedge Cove.
Phantoms of the Foot-Bridge.
Where the Battle Was Fought.
Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains.
Story of Keedon Bluffs.
In the "Stranger People's" Country.
THE "HARNT" THAT WALKS CHILHOWEE.
(_From In the Tennessee Mountains._[47])
[Illustration: ~A Summer and Winter View of the University of
Tennessee, Knoxville, Tenn.~]
June had crossed the borders of Tennessee. Even on the summit of
Chilhowee Mountain the apples in Peter Giles' orchard were beginning
to redden, and his Indian corn, planted on so steep a declivity that
the stalks seemed to have much ado to keep their footing, was crested
with tassels and plumed with silk. Among the dense forests, seen by no
man's eye, the elder was flying its creamy banners in honor of June's
coming, and, heard by no man's ear, the pink and white bells of the
azalea rang out melodies of welcome. . . . . . . .