saw every day upon the home-place, no strange negro dared to come
inside the big gate unless accompanied by one of the family. Whenever
the deep, hoarse bark of Beauregard announced the appearance of
strangers, it was known that the dog must be chained. Not once, but
many times, I have seen a load of "fodder" or "garden-truck" driven
into the yard and immediately _surrounded_ by this one big dog, who
would keep the black driver crouching at the very top of the load with
"ashy" face and chattering teeth, while his besieger walked growling
around the wagon, occasionally jumping up upon the chance of seizing
an unguarded foot. Until the dog was securely chained nothing would
induce his prisoner to venture down. No chicken-thieves dared to put
in an appearance so long as this faithful beast kept watch upon the
premises. And for his faithfulness he was doomed to destruction. Such
a state of security in any place could not long be tolerated. The
would-be thieves, exasperated by the impunity with which fine, fat
turkeys, geese, ducks, and chickens walked about before their very
eyes, and smoke-houses, melon-patches, and wood-piles remained
undisturbed, at last poisoned faithful Beauregard, whose death left
the home-place unprotected, for not one of his successors ever
followed his example or proved half as watchful.
PART III.
AFTER TWENTY YEARS.[2]
[2] These articles, originally prepared for _The Southern
Bivouac_ and "South Illustrated," are here republished by special
request.
CHAPTER I.
"MY BOYS."
_Address to the Wives and Children of Confederate Veterans._
I have been often and earnestly requested by "my comrades" to address
to you a few words explanatory of the tie which binds me to them and
them to me. They tell me, among other things, that you "wonder much,
and still the wonder grows," that I should presume to call grave and
dignified husbands and fathers "my boys." Having promised to meet
their wishes, I must in advance apologize for the egoism which it is
quite impossible to avoid, as my own war record is inseparable from
that of my comrades.
Does it seem strange to you that I call these bronzed and bearded men
"my _boys_?" Ah, friends, in every time-worn face there lives always
for me "the light of other days." Memory annihilates the distance
between the long-ago and the present.
I seem to see them marching, with brave, bright faces and eager feet,
to meet the foe. I hear the distant boom of cannon, growing fainter as
they press the retreating enemy. And then, alas! many come back to me
mutilated, bleeding, dying, yet with ardor unquenched, repressing
moans of anguish that they may listen for the shout of victory:
wrestling fiercely with the King of Terrors, not that they fear to
die, but because his chill grasp palsies the arm that would fain
strike another blow for the right.
I stood among the sick and wounded lying in a hospital in Richmond,
Virginia, while the magnificent Army of Northern Virginia was passing
from the scene of their late glorious victory at Manassas to meet the
invaders under McClellan, who were marching upon the Peninsula. Around
me lay many sick and wounded men, gathered under the immense roof of a
tobacco factory, which covered nearly a whole square. Its windows
commanded a full view of the legions passing on both sides.
The scene I can never forget. As the strains of martial music fell
upon the summer air, pale, gaunt forms struggled to their feet, feebly
but eagerly donned clothes and accoutrements, and, staggering under
their weight, crept to the office of the surgeon in charge, piteously
begging that they might "get to go on with the boys." Many, too weak
to rise, broke into bitter sobs: tears poured from eyes bright with
fever or dim with the shadow of death. Passing among these, I was
startled to see a patient, whom all had supposed to be dying, sitting
up in bed. Stretching his arms toward me, he cried out, "Lady, lady,
come here!" He was a boy of sixteen years, one of the glorious Third
Alabama, and he begged so hard to be allowed to see "the boys" that I
had his bunk drawn up to an open window, supporting him in my arms so
that he _could_ see. When his own regiment passed, he tried with
faltering breath to cheer, but, failing, waved his feeble hand,
gasping out, "_God knows_, I wish I could be with you, boys, but
'pears like the heavenly Master ain't willing."
His comrades passed on. The boy was borne back to his place, whence,
in a few hours, he passed beyond all pain and disappointment.
I need not mention here the magnificent record of the army that passed
that day the streets of Richmond. The pages of history are ablaze with
the glory of it. Not less glorious to me are the records written in my
heart of heroic fortitude, patient endurance, sublime resignation.
Alas for my poor, worn, shattered, suffering, dying boys! how their
souls were tried, _yet never found wanting!_
The fortunes of war led me from the scenes of my first service to
rejoin my husband, who had been ordered to the Army of Tennessee. On
my journey, and while waiting to be assigned to duty, I lingered for a
while among the homes of Southern soldiers. How can I convey to you
the impressions there received?
Here lay the main-spring of the valor which then and long afterward
astonished the world. In the towns and near the front thousands of
women daily ministered to the sick and wounded. When a battle ended,
these could soon know the fate of loved ones, perhaps were permitted
to nurse them, to attend their dying hour, or--inestimable
privilege--reclaim the precious casket which had enshrined a gallant
soul. But in many a country home women endured, day after day,
crucifixion of the soul, yet heroically, patiently, toiled and prayed
on. Startled by flying rumors, tortured by suspense, weary with
unwonted labor, they never dreamed of leaving the post of duty or of
neglecting the interests confided to their care. No comforter had they
save their God, no resource but unwearied prayer.
Memory brings back to me a scene which sadly illustrates the exalted
courage and faith of these noble women. I was present one night when,
at a plantation home, the family and servants were assembled, as
usual, for prayers. The aged father led the worship, but, while
praying for the absent sons, two of whom had already fallen in battle,
he faltered and ceased. Instantly the clear, sweet voice of the mother
was heard as she prayed fervently, not only for the dear ones at the
front, but for the holy cause, for _other_ parents, _other_ sons, and
for _strength_ to _submit_ to _God's will_.
I have, sitting by the bedside of sick or wounded soldiers, read to
them letters from just such homes, breathing lofty courage, full of
cheer, although I knew that the hearts of the writers had been almost
breaking, the fingers that penned them stiff and trembling with toil
hitherto unknown. God bless the women of the South.
If from every wreath that ever adorned the brow of a hero the
brightest laurels were plucked, all would not form an offering too
resplendent to lay at their feet.
Soon after the battle of Shiloh began my service with the Army of
Tennessee. How shall I make you understand, dear friends, how strong,
how dear, how imperishable are the ties which bind me to these grand
and noble heroes,--the true, brave boys with whom I shared until the
bitter end their trials and glory. Heroic souls who bore with equal
fortitude and transcendent bravery alike the shock of battle, the
pangs of "hope deferred," the untold hardships which soon became their
daily portion. Their bleeding feet dyed alike the snows of Georgia and
the rocky mountain paths of Tennessee.
As their ranks were decimated by battle, disease, starvation, death,
the hearts that were left swelled higher and higher with holy zeal,
sublime courage. Night after night, with lagging, unwilling feet, they
made the hated retreat.
Day after day the sun shone on those defiant faces as they presented a
still unbroken front and hurled themselves again and again against the
invaders, contesting every inch of the land they loved.
Ah, the horrors of those latter days, when daily, almost hourly,
brought to me ghastly wrecks of manhood, when my ears were always
filled with the moans of the dying, or irrepressible agonizing shrieks
of those who were undergoing the torture of the surgeon's knife
without the blessed aid of chloroform, for that was contraband of war.
Do you wonder, then, that I love to call those comrades of mine "my
boys"? Whether they served in the Army of Northern Virginia or the
Army of Tennessee, they were all alike my comrades. Their precious
blood has often dyed my own garments. I have gone down with them to
the very gates of death, wrestling with the death angel every step of
the way, sometimes only to receive their last sighs as they passed
into the valley of the shadow, sometimes permitted to guide their
feeble feet once more into the paths of glory.
I have shared their rations, plain but plentiful at first, at the last
only a mouldy crust and a bit of rusty bacon. I have been upon an
ambulance-train freighted with human agony delayed for hours by rumors
of an enemy in ambush. I have fed men hungry with the ravening hunger
of the wounded with scanty rations of musty corn-bread; have seen them
drink eagerly of foetid water, dipped from the road-side ditches. Yet
they bore it all with supreme patience; fretted and chafed, it is
true, but only on account of enforced inactivity. I have packed
haversacks with marching rations for forty-eight hours, a single
corn-dodger split and with only a thin slice of bacon between the
pieces. This was a _Confederate sandwich_. And on such food Southern
soldiers marched incredible distances, fought desperate battles. The
world will never cease to wonder at the unfailing devotion, the
magnificent courage, the unparalleled achievements of the Southern
armies. Scarcely less admirable is the heroic spirit in which they
have accepted defeat; the industry which has hidden the desolation of
our land with bountiful harvest, the honesty of purpose which now
seeks to restore the constitution framed by our forefathers as it was,
the patient yet invincible determination which has driven out tyranny
and oppression, and reclaimed for posterity this beautiful Southland,
rich with historic memories, made sacred and beautiful by the graves
of heroes.
And these are _my boys_--still--always my boys. From the highest
places of the land they turn to give me a comrade's greeting. I glory
in the renown of these, but just as dear and precious to me is the
warm grasp of the toil-hardened hand and the smile which beams upon me
from the rugged face of the very humblest of "the boys who wore the
gray."
Dear friends, this subject is to me inexhaustible; but I may no longer
trespass upon your patience. With loving, reverent hands I have lifted
the veil of the past. Let the transcendent glory streaming through
penetrate the mask which time and care and sorrow have woven for the
faces of my boys, and show you the brave, unfaltering hearts as I know
them.
CHAPTER II.
THE CONFEDERATE REUNION AT DALLAS.
On the morning of August 6, 1885, a small party of ladies and
gentlemen set forth from Shreveport to attend the Confederate reunion
at Dallas, Texas.
The gentlemen of the party were veteran soldiers, and your
correspondent claimed like honors. (Place this admission to my credit,
for, believe me, it is a ruthless sacrifice of womanly vanity to
dearer memories.)
In congenial companionship the day passed quickly. Its close brought
us to Dallas. And here began at once an emotional experience which
might well be called "a tempest of the heart,"--glimpses of glory once
real. "Forms and scenes of long ago" appeared in such constant
succession that it seemed like a resurrection of the dead and buried
past.
The first object that met our view was a large Confederate
battle-flag, suspended from a conspicuous building on one of the
principal streets, surmounted, surrounded by "star-spangled banners,"
large and small, but still there, to set our hearts throbbing wildly,
to call forth a rain of blinding tears. This was but the beginning.
Borne swiftly onward to the hotel, we momentarily started forward with
streaming eyes and bated breath to gaze upon the phantom legions ever
passing. Squads of cavalry dashed by, manly, weather-beaten boys in
gray, and elegant-looking officers wearing the well-remembered
slouched hat with cord and feathers, and full Confederate uniforms.
Infantry and artillery officers and privates thronged the sidewalks,
arm in arm, walking in half embrace, or standing with hand grasping
hand. Those not in uniform wore the badges of their respective
commands, and frequently some faded remnant of "the gray."
In the largo dry-goods establishment of Sauger & Brothers an immense
show-window was skilfully and beautifully arranged in honor of the
occasion. Confederate soldiers (life size), so natural and life-like
as to startle one, were grouped around a camp-fire anxiously watching
a large kettle containing a tempting-looking "mess" of green corn,
potatoes, other vegetables, and the rations of pork and beef. Blankets
neatly rolled and strapped, canteens, haversacks, etc., lay near upon
the ground. In the background, a deck of cards and two piles of
Confederate money had evidently been thrown down and deserted to
"watch the pot." We learned that this most realistic arrangement was
the work of a "Yankee boy," whose father had served in the Federal
army,--a loving tribute to the people among whom he had come to make
his home.
Arrived at the hotel, where a crowd of people waited in the parlor to
be assigned rooms, we witnessed many a touching scene between veterans
who met now after twenty years. An anxious face would look in at the
door, a manly form would advance irresolutely into the room, furtively
scanning the new-comers. Suddenly,--"Jim, can this be you?" "Why,
Dave, old fel! great God, is this Dave?" Then as hand met and grasped
hand these strong men would often break into sobs which forbade all
speech, while every heart of those who looked on thrilled with
responsive feeling.
From what I learned of the intended evening festivities at the
camp-ground (music and dancing under the glare of the electric light),
I felt disinclined to be present. All day I had walked hand in hand
with memory, turning again and again to clasp her closely and to feel
the throbbing of her sad heart upon my own. The dear presence still
enthralled me, and I could imagine no counter-charm in the laughing
face and airy form of Terpsichore.
On the following morning, Amy and I, escorted by a gallant Missouri
veteran, set out for the rendezvous, where we found assembled three or
four thousand people, among whom hundreds wearing more or less of the
gray were conspicuous. The perfect and magnificent arrangements for
the comfort and entertainment of guests inspired one with genuine
admiration for those who had so well accomplished the grand results
everywhere apparent. Did one thirst? In a hundred cool, pleasant nooks
were placed casks of ice-water, with dippers and gourds of all sizes
attached by long chains. If hungry, at "Headquarters" requisitions
were furnished and duly honored by the commissary, who seemed to have
a never-failing supply of delicious barbecued beef and mutton, also
generous rations of fresh bread.
These were supplemented by elegant refreshments of all kinds, served
under shaded tents by ladies, whose entire cordiality made them
charming hostesses.
Bands of music continually enlivened the scene. One of these (Gauche
Brothers, of Dallas) was of rare excellence, rendering "Bonnie Blue
Flag," "Dixie," and an exquisite nocturne, "The Soldier's Dream"
(composed for this occasion by the leader of this band), with so much
expression and skill as to elicit great applause. The speaker's stand
was beautifully ornamented. Hanging on either side of the rostrum was
a Confederate battle-flag. Above them, in the centre, floated a new
and very handsome United States banner in graceful undulations. From
its blue field not a star was missing. All had been restored, and the
bunting waved proudly as if instinct with knowledge of this fact. But,
oh, those other flags! sacred emblems of a cause so loved, so nobly
defended, yet, alas, lost! shattered and torn by shot and shell,
begrimed with the smoke of battle, deeply stained with precious blood;
as the summer breeze dallied with their ragged folds, they seemed to
stir with a feeble, mournful motion, like the slow throbbing of a
breaking heart. Pictures illustrating camp-life, battle scenes, etc.,
ornamented the stand, which was also decorated plentifully with red
and white, with a sufficient admixture of blue to make one remember to
be loyal to the present. The attempt to depict camp-life, cannon,
camp-fires, tents, stacked guns, sentries, etc., was utterly upset by
the presence of hundreds of ladies and children, with the inevitable
paraphernalia necessary to their comfort. "The front of grim-visaged
war" was constantly being smoothed into beauty by baby fingers. Men,
lured by siren voices, deserted the tented field, and were happy, in
entire forgetfulness of duty (so called). Soldiers who did _not_ bring
ladies enjoyed hugely living in tents and once more "messing"
together. Many eloquent speakers addressed the crowd. Pearls of
eloquence were sown broadcast, and brought forth a generous harvest of
applause.
The number of officers present was surprising. Generals, colonels,
majors were pointed out to me by the score, and at last I began to
wonder whether in the portion of the Confederate army here represented
there were any "privates," at least I _might_ have so wondered had I
not _known_ that, after many of the battles now being recalled with
honest pride and merited applause, my own eyes had been too dim with
tears to see the glory, my ears had failed to catch the sounds of
triumph, because so filled with awful death-groans or the agonizing
cries of the wounded. Men whose parting breath was an ascription of
praise to the god of battles, whose last earthly joy was the knowledge
of victory, and others who, shattered and torn and in throes of agony,
yet repressed their moans that they might listen for the music of the
fount which "springs eternal," whose bright waters (to them) mirrored
the cause they loved so well.
All honor to those who planned the glorious campaigns of the late
war--who dauntlessly led heroic legions. Their record is without a
parallel in the history of nations. Equal honor to the rank and
file--whose splendid valor and self-sacrifice made success possible
even when further efforts seemed but a "forlorn hope."
I believe I have omitted no important detail of the reunion. Each day
was just like the preceding one. Meetings and partings "tried men's
souls," and women's hearts were stirred to their depths.
At last the end came; afterwards to many painful reaction. Still it
was passing sweet to meet old friends and comrades, and to find that
memory had not proven faithless to her trust. For many a day in the
future we shall stand in the light of the surpassing glory which
streamed through as the curtain, which has so long obscured the past,
was lifted again and again by tender, reverent hands, under the oaks
at Dallas.
_An Incident of the Dallas Reunion._[3]
[3] Written at the time for the Shreveport paper by Colonel
Henderson, a true and gallant soldier, who has since died.
(The scene here described is to me a "_memory_" passing sweet, and one
which I desire to perpetuate. This feeling is far removed from vanity.
Had the "Lost Cause" been triumphant, my lips would have been sealed
as to my own service. As it is, I glory in having served it, and
cherish fondly even the slightest token that "my boys" do not forget
me.)
"On the last day of the Southern Soldiers' Reunion at Dallas, and when
sentiments had been read in honor of this and that officer of
distinction in the service of the Lost Cause, a lady occupying a
somewhat retired position on the platform handed to General Gano a
slip of paper on which was traced the following noble sentiment as
read by General Gano in a clear, distinct voice, and in tones that
expressed his entire concurrence.
"The sentiment and the name subscribed are sufficient of themselves.
We give it as follows:
"'THE PRIVATE SOLDIER OF THE CONFEDERATE STATES ARMY.
"'He bore in his bosom a heart of oak; he withstood the brunt of
battle and sustained the heat and burthen of the day. His blood
nourished the laurels which otherwise had never bloomed to grace
the brow of Lee and Jackson. For myself, no blessing has ever
crowned my life more highly prized than the God-given privilege I
enjoyed during four years of the war, of ministering to the boys
who wore the ragged, unornamented gray.
"'Your devoted friend and comrade,
"'MRS. FANNY A. BEERS,
"'Late of the Confederate Army.'
"To this sentiment came the response of three cheers and a regular
rebel yell, repeated and repeated for the space of twenty minutes.
"But the most touching feature followed. A number of old Confederate
soldiers, who had in wounds and sickness received gentle and healing
ministrations from the hands of Mrs. Beers, and learned just then that
she was present, in defiance of all order, rushed to the stand and
gathered about her. Each and every one bore the mark of some wound
received in the war, and wore about their person some fragment of
Confederate uniform--a hat, a coat, or other article--as souvenirs of
the days of trials and glory.
"Like old children they gathered around her, grasping her hand and
blessing her and testifying to all the world what a blessing she had
been to them.
"It was, indeed and truly, the most touching and striking incident of
the late reunion of Confederate veterans at Dallas."
CHAPTER III.
CAMP NICHOLS.
The Louisiana Soldiers' Home.
I must begin with a digression, for, as thought concentrates itself
upon this pleasant subject, one is irresistibly impelled to remember
the delightful ride thitherward, and to wonder if any other city in
the United States can boast of street-car routes so beautiful. The
visitor to "Camp Nichols," taking on Canal Street a car of the
Esplanade and Bayou Bridge line, is borne smoothly along for miles
under cool, green arches of oak-trees, a broad street on either side,
bordered by elegant residences and lovely, fragrant gardens.
Looking back, where the green arcade narrows away in the distance, or
forward, to observe how the rough track is made beautiful by the shadows
of dancing leaves and boughs,--glancing at the rapidly-succeeding
pictures of beauty and comfort on either side, inhaling the mingled
perfume of flowers,--one is placed under a spell of enchantment which
lasts until, at "Bayou Bridge," the end of the route is reached.
Leaving the car, a very short walk along the banks of the Bayou brings
the visitor to the "camp." Upon entering the gate the first thought is,
"How pleasant, how peaceful, how homelike." The comfortable-looking
house is beautifully shaded by large live-oaks. Under these green grass
is diversified by neatly-kept walks. Midway between the outer gate and
the house a small stream is spanned by a rustic bridge. As I stood upon
this bridge and saw, upon the pleasant galleries in front of their
rooms, the maimed and scarred veterans sitting in groups or apart,
tranquilly smoking and chatting or reading, the dying words of our
"Stonewall" Jackson came into my mind,--"Let us cross the river and
rest in the shade of the trees." To him was given eternal rest. The
weary spirit even then stood by the river of death and viewed beyond
the trees of paradise. Less happy these who remain to witness the
downfall of hope. Ah, what can be more glorious, yet more deeply
sorrowful, than the story of their past. The strength and beauty of
their youth and early manhood was freely given to the cause they deemed
sacred. It was, alas! lost; and, the tempest of war subsiding, left
upon a desolate shore these wrecks.
Returning after the war to find only ruined homes and shattered
fortunes, those who had retained health and strength found them taxed
to the utmost. Necessity held them in bonds of iron, and the demands
of helpless families absorbed them. All the same, manly hearts have
been often and painfully stirred by the silent appeals of maimed and
suffering comrades, and the faithful few have never ceased to hope and
strive for the result now attained in the "Soldiers' Home."
It is pleasant to feel that the first rays of the newly-arisen sun of
prosperity have dispelled the darkness wherein these poor fellows have
wandered so long, revealing to them the kindly faces of brothers, who,
having gone in search of them, will lead them to home and rest.
As I said before, the "Home" viewed from the bridge, a few hundred
yards in front, suggests ideas of comfort which are fully realized
upon a closer investigation. The rooms are delightfully situated
(opening upon a shaded gallery), perfectly ventilated, and very cool,
furnished with iron bedsteads, comfortable and cleanly bedding,
wardrobes or bureaus, and washstands. The library and reception-room
is a charming nook, embellished with many gifts from loving hands.
Immediately opposite the entrance is placed an excellent portrait of
General Francis T. Nichols, a hero whom all (Louisianians especially)
delight to honor. From the bloody battle-fields of Northern Virginia
he brought back a mangled and shattered body, but enough to hold and
enshrine a powerful, active brain, and a heart as brave and generous
as ever beat in human bosom.
He is idolized by his comrades and beloved by us all. By a unanimous
vote of the board of directors the home has been called "Camp
Nichols," and from a gracefully-proportioned flag-staff, placed
directly in front of the reception-room (the gift of the Army of
Tennessee), floats a banner whereon this honored name was embroidered
by the daughters of Generals Lee and Jackson during their recent visit
to New Orleans.
The dining-room is very large, well lighted, and fairly shines with
cleanliness. In short, every appointment is excellent, and every
effort of managers and officers is directed toward making the disabled
veterans feel that they are honored inmates of a home which they have
earned and deserved, not recipients of charity. Camp Nichols may well
be called a trysting-place of heroes. Here old comrades meet as
comrades and friends. In the warm grasp of hands there is no suspicion
of patronage. Right down in these brave, long-suffering hearts shine
glances full of the unforgotten "light of other days," causing eyes
dim and clouded by care and sorrow to beam with a responsive
brightness. Ah, who shall undertake to estimate the value and
blessedness of this work!
The Legislature of Louisiana organized this enterprise in 1881, making
a yearly appropriation for its support. It is designed for all
soldiers of Louisiana who have been disabled by wounds received in
her service or have become incapacitated by age or disability; is
controlled by a board of directors, also created by the State,
consisting of the president, three vice-presidents, and recording
secretary of the Army of Northern Virginia, and the president, three
vice-presidents, and recording secretary of the Army of Tennessee.
The harmonious action of this board is nobly sustained by the members
composing both organizations.
The president of the Army of Tennessee, Judge Walter Rogers, is an
indefatigable worker, as he was once a brave and faithful soldier. He
may with perfect truth be written "as one who loves his fellow-men"
(especially his fellow-soldiers). I believe he will, as long as he
lives, stand a faithful sentinel upon the sands of time, watching lest
the ever-encroaching tide of years may obliterate sacred foot-prints.
All arrangements having been nearly completed, the Home was opened
January 1, 1884. Eight soldiers were at once admitted, and since the
number has been increased to fifty. Under the rules of the institution
no compulsory labor is allowed except that necessary to properly
police the quarters. Yet all feel so deep an interest in their Home
that they yield willing assistance whenever asked. They choose such
occupations as they are physically able to perform, and take delight
in keeping things in order.
The Home has many friends outside of the Confederate organizations,
none more zealous and truly kind than the officers and members of the
Grand Army of the Republic, "Mewer Post." These are frequent and
welcome visitors to Camp Nichols, and have shown both generosity and
thoughtfulness in their contributions to the comfort of its inmates.
The superintendent, Captain William Bullitt, was selected on account
of his soldierly qualities and excellent administrative abilities, and
by a unanimous vote of the board elected to fill the position.
His record is untarnished and excellent. At the inception of the war,
having assisted in raising the First Company Louisiana Guards, he went
out as first lieutenant of the same, won by promotion the rank of
captain and afterwards of major, which he held at the close of the
war. Used, therefore, to command, he also brings to his work a
thorough love for it, and an amount of intelligence in interpreting,
and skill in carrying out arrangements and improvements proposed by
the board of directors, which insures success and the satisfaction of
all concerned.
"God bless our Home," and let the light of His countenance shine upon
it and bless it.
And may God strengthen the kindly hands which have led these weary
ones away from thorny pathways "through green pastures and beside
still waters." May they never falter nor fail until the all-merciful
Father shall himself provide the "rod and staff" which shall guide all
through the dark valley to rest eternal.
CHAPTER IV.
THE MARCH OF TIME.
Thoughts suggested while witnessing the ceremonies attending the
unveiling of a statue of General Albert Sydney Johnston, erected upon
their tomb by the Louisiana Division, Army of Tennessee, in New
Orleans, Louisiana, April 6, 1887.[4]
[4] The article was first published in "The Illustrated South."
Little more than three years ago there came a day long to be
remembered by every man, woman, and child resident in New Orleans, and
by all strangers then sojourning within her gates. A day when the
souls of thousands held but a single thought, when all hearts beat as
one, when one impulse, strong, thrilling, irresistible led willing
feet to where, upon a pedestal, raised stone by stone by love and
self-sacrifice, stood the shrouded figure of General Robert E. Lee.
Above hung heavy clouds, alas! too suggestive of the hopes that
perished forever at Appomattox, but ever and anon the struggling sun
broke through, lingering awhile as if to recall the matchless glory
which, even in the hour of disaster and defeat, gilded and made
immortal the untarnished swords, the stacked arms, then and there
surrendered.
To me the terrific storm which soon broke, upsetting all arrangements,
abolishing all ceremonies, hushing all oratory, seemed to solemnize
and mark in a most fitting manner this great occasion. For no tongue
of man or angel could have evoked a feeling so strong, a sentiment so
lasting, as that written, as it were, by the finger of Heaven that day
upon the hearts of that awe-stricken multitude. Years hence, those who
were boys then will remember the lesson there learned. They will tell
you of the soldierly figures standing at the foot of the monument,
exposed to the pitiless storm, immovable, unshrinking ON DUTY, and
these were men who, following where duty led, had won an imperishable
record under the immortal Lee.
They will describe how, in the storm-swept streets outside the
enclosure, legions of soldiers, the Blue as well as the Gray, calmly
faced the howling tempest, standing "at rest," awaiting the moment
when the form of the great commander should be revealed to their
reverent gaze. Among these, the veterans of the Army of Tennessee bore
a conspicuous part. In their true, brave hearts, second to none in
allegiance to their commander-in-chief, there yet lay enshrined
another image, there burned another purpose equally high and holy.
Hope pointed down the long vista of the future to where lay--a tomb!
only a tomb! nay, more--a "bivouac of the dead," where, life's battle
fought, the toilsome march ended, weary comrades might gather to their
rest. And so far distant, yet always in sight, gleamed their Mecca;
steadily towards it marched the pilgrims of memory, unfaltering,
undismayed, led by a few brave, faithful spirits, through deserts of
discouragement, when oases were few and far between, patiently
bridging chasms which seemed impassable, until to-day they stand at
the goal so hardly won. There lie the veterans who one by one have
stolen to the bivouac. "After life's fitful fever they sleep well."
Above, faithful comrades keep watch and ward. Here is a solemn but
glorious trysting-place.
On the morning of the 6th of April, twenty-five years ago, a sky as
bright and beautiful as that which to-day bends above us, became
obscured and darkened by the smoke of battle. Of the Confederate
forces then and there engaged it has been said, "Their splendid valor
has been rarely equalled, never surpassed, on any field of any war."
Alas! why must it be that grief and glory always go hand in hand? Up
through the heavy clouds which hid the face of nature that terrible
day sped hundreds of gallant souls, straight to the light wherein was
made clear _to them_ the awful Providence which even now disquiets our
hearts and clouds our earthly vision. Among them, one whose sudden
taking off filled every breast with gloom, and wrested from the
Confederacy the fruits of a splendid victory.
So many and so grand are the eulogies which have been pronounced upon
Albert Sydney Johnston that nothing remains for me to add. Who does
not remember the sorrow of a nation at his death? Who can forget the
lava tide of indignation which spread over our land when the
"conquered" were forbidden to mourn their fallen hero, when a stricken
people were compelled to "lay their hands upon their mouths, their
mouths in the dust," when even the mournful voices of the bells were
silenced?
Viewed in the glorious light of to-day, how like a prophecy fulfilled
appear the beautiful lines of Father Ryan,--
"There's a grandeur in graves, there's a glory in gloom,
For out of the gloom future brightness is born,
As after the night looms the sunrise of morn,
And the graves of the dead, with grass overgrown,
May yet form the footstool of Liberty's throne."
Years of bitter strife have left sad traces all over this beautiful
Southland. In lovely valleys, upon every hillside, in the majestic
forests, lie, side by side, the Gray and the Blue. The sun clothes
every mound with equal glory, the sky weeps over all alike. Standing
beside these graves, angry passions die in the hearts of brave men;
"one touch of nature" moistens manly eyes, softens obdurate hearts.
Involuntarily hands meet in a firmer clasp, which expresses respect as
well as sympathy.
The soldiers on both sides have learned to appreciate and understand
each other, so, in spite of those who would fain prolong the strife,
the long-oppressed people of the South are free to mourn their dead,
and
"The graves of the dead, with grass overgrown,"
indeed
"Form a footstool for Liberty's throne."
To-day the veterans who met and fiercely battled at Shiloh unite in
doing honor to the memory of General Johnston and of the men who, with
him, won immortality upon that bloody field.
To-day imperishable laurels bloom afresh upon the upturned brows of
the men who hail with loud acclaim the image of their chieftain placed
here to guard forever
"War's richest spoil,--the ashes of the dead."
It is fitting that, on this day of memory, rich strains of martial
music should awaken long-silent echoes in this city of the
dead,--fitting that nature should be despoiled of her floral treasures
to deck this sacred place which, indeed, is "not so much the _tomb_ of
virtue as its shrine."
The flowers that yield their beauty and fragrance to grace this scene
will fade and die. Yon radiant sun will set, but not before it has
burned an indelible record upon the young hearts of thousands to whom,
ere long, we must trust this precious spot.
Of the remnant of the once magnificent Army of Tennessee gathered here
it will soon be said,--
"On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread."
But the figure of their chieftain will be left to tell the story of a
patriotic purpose long cherished in faithful hearts, at last
accomplished by patient hands.
"Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor Time's remorseless doom,
Can dim our ray of holy light
That gilds this glorious tomb."
CHAPTER V.
A WOMAN'S RECORD.[5]
(From the _Southern Bivouac_.)
[5] Written in 1883 by Major McDonald, of Louisville, Kentucky,
then editor _Southern Bivouac_.
This record will be found to substantiate in every particular my own
history of the period referred to.
Being inspired by an ardent zeal or a high sense of duty, not a few
noble women during the war arose conspicuous to view. Their gentle
deeds, though done in humble spheres, yet shone like "a bright light
in a low world."
Fair exemplars they were of patriotic virtue, whose acts of devotion
helped much to enshrine in our memories a melancholy past; and they
should not be forgotten. In the March number of the _Bivouac_ was
given a short sketch of a lady who, during the war, tenderly cared for
the sick and suffering Confederates in a Northern prison. It is now
proposed to give the record of one who, animated with a romantic love
for the cause of the South, left a luxurious home and spent nearly
four years in nursing the sick and wounded in Confederate hospitals.
Mrs. Fannie A. Beers was a native of the North, and the child of fond
parents, who gave her every educational advantage, and the means of
acquiring all the accomplishments usual in refined circles.
When very young she was married to her present husband, and before the
war came South to reside at New Orleans. By nature ardent and
susceptible, she readily adapted herself to the surroundings of her
new life, and soon grew to love the people and the land of her
adoption. A few years of happiness passed and then came the sectional
storm. Pull well she knew that it threatened to sunder cherished ties,
but it did not move her from the side of her choice.
When the struggle came at last, and her home was broken up in New
Orleans by the absence of her husband in the field, she returned to
the parental roof, to beguile the time in the companionship of her
mother. But the separation, with the anxiety it brought, became
intolerable; besides, from the positiveness of her opinions and the
warmth of her zeal, she soon became ill at ease in the land of her
birth. So, with her mother's approval, she resolved to face all
perils, and to return and share the fortunes of the Confederacy.
Taking her little boy she set out for "Dixie," and, after many trials,
arrived at Richmond, Virginia, just after the battle of Bull Run. Here
she was kindly cared for by some old acquaintances, among whom was
Commodore Maury, a friend of her family, and who had dedicated his
"Geography of the Sea" to her uncle, George Manning, of New York.
Through his introduction she made many dear friends among the ladies
of Richmond, some of whom pressed her to come and dwell with them; but
she neither needed nor was seeking roof and shelter. If she so wished,
she might have found them with her husband's relatives in Alabama.
What she felt the want of was occupation,--work in behalf of the cause
to which, in spite of selfish reasons, she felt impelled to devote
herself.
In order that she might have this work, and at the same time be where
assistance could be rendered her husband and friends at the front, she
asked to be appointed a hospital matron.
Commodore Maury for some time protested against such a step, saying
that she was too young, and had been too tenderly raised; but she
persisted, so he finally yielded, as appears from the following letter:
"RICHMOND, August 10, 1861.
"MY DEAR FANNY,--You bear the heart of a true and tender woman, in
the breast of a noble patriot. I will no longer oppose your wishes,
and mean to help you all I can. Command me at any and all times.
"Yours truly,
"MATTHEW F. MAURY."
At first she assisted in a private hospital maintained by some
Richmond ladies, who, by turns, sent in all the food required.
Permission was applied for to enter the Louisiana hospital, but it was
refused.
In a few weeks she was appointed matron-in-charge of the Second
Alabama Hospital, with liberty to receive a limited number of her
friends, who might be taken care of there.
Soon after she entered upon her regular duties the sick and wounded
began to pour in, and from this time forward she was constantly
employed till within a few weeks of the battle of Shiloh. With the
departure of her husband's command to Tennessee, she was disposed for
a like change of field-duty. She now left Richmond, and for a few
weeks only was occupied with a visit to her husband's relatives. Then
she resumed her hospital work at Gainesville, Alabama.
Her subsequent career is best related in the following letters from
surgeons of high rank, and whose official positions gave them abundant
opportunities of estimating the work she performed and the strength of
the spirit which animated her. The letters were called from their
authors in the spring of 1883, nearly twenty years after the close of
the war, upon the occasion of a musical and literary entertainment
being tendered Mrs. Beers by her soldier friends in New Orleans. So
profound was the gratitude for her former services to sick and wounded
Confederates, that all the military organizations exerted themselves
to make it a success, and at the meeting of the members of the "Army
of Tennessee," complimentary resolutions were passed, and the letters
read.
"NEW ORLEANS, March 8, 1883.
"JUDGE ROGERS:
"DEAR SIR,--Understanding that the members of the 'Army of
Tennessee' have tendered Mrs. F.A. Beers an entertainment, I feel
anxious to aid in securing its success.
"I am well qualified to testify to the valuable and disinterested
services which this lady rendered in the Confederate hospital
during the late war. In truth, aside from officers and soldiers who
may be now living and still holding in remembrance the kind and
skilful nursing which she gave them personally while wounded or
sick, I know of only four persons whose positions made them fully
cognizant of the heroism, devotion, and self-sacrifice which she
brought to the discharge of her duties. These are, first, Dr. T.H.
McAllister, now of Marion, Alabama, in whose admirably-conducted
hospital she was the only matron during the greater part of the
war; second, Dr. C.B. Gamble, now of Baltimore; third, Dr. S.H.
Stout, now of Roswell, Georgia, medical director of hospitals of
the Army of Tennessee; fourth, the writer.
"I know that I can venture to speak in behalf of these gentlemen
and for myself in declaring that the skill and efficiency with
which she nursed and fed our sick and wounded soldiers, and the
coolness and bravery with which she faced danger in discharge of
these duties do merit suitable recognition from the survivors of
those rapidly-diminishing numbers who fought under the Confederate
flag.
"Very respectfully,
"S.M. BEMISS, M.D.,
"Late Assistant Medical Director and Medical Director of Hospitals,
Army of Tennessee."
"MARION, ALABAMA, March 11, 1888.
"Dr. S. BEMISS, New Orleans,--Having heard an entertainment was to
be given in your city on March 29 for the benefit of Mrs. Fannie A.
Beers, I feel it to be my duty, as well as pleasure, to add my
testimony to her worth and to the part she played in the late war.
"During the three years she was with me as a Confederate hospital
matron, she conducted herself as a high-toned lady in the strictest
sense of the term, and to every word I may say of her there are
hundreds, yea, thousands, of Confederate soldiers scattered all
over the South who would cheerfully testify to some facts if
opportunity were offered them.
"After the battles of Shiloh and Farmington, and then the
evacuation of Corinth, I was ordered to establish hospitals (in
June or July, 1862) for the sick and wounded of General Bragg's
army, at Gainesville, Alabama. With scarcely any hospital supplies
I began preparations for the same, and in answer to a card
published in the Selma (Alabama) papers, asking for supplies and a
suitable lady to act as matron, she promptly responded. At first
sight her youthful, delicate, refined, and lady-like appearance,
showing she had never been accustomed to any hardships of life,
caused me to doubt her capacity to fill the position of matron.
"She said she desired to do something while her husband was at the
front defending our Southern homes. I soon found what she lacked in
age and experience was made up in patriotism, devotion to the
Southern cause, constant vigilance, and tenderness in nursing the
Confederate sick and wounded. I soon learned to appreciate her
services and to regard her as indispensable.
"She remained with me as hospital matron while I was stationed at
Gainesville, Alabama, Ringgold, Georgia, Newnan, Georgia, and Port
Valley, Georgia, embracing a period of nearly three years. She was
all the time chief matron, sometimes supervising more than one
thousand beds filled with sick and wounded, and never did any woman
her whole duty better. Through heat and cold, night and day, she
was incessant in her attentions and watchfulness over the
Confederate sick and wounded, many times so worn down by fatigue
that she was scarcely able to walk, but never faltering in the
discharge of her duties.
"At one time, while at Newnan, Georgia, the Federal forces under
General McCook were advancing on the town, and it became necessary
for every available man--post officers, surgeons, convalescents,
and nurses--to leave the town and wards in order to repel the
invading enemy. I was much affected while hurrying from ward to
ward giving general orders about the care of the sick during my
absence in the fight, to see and hear the maimed begging Mrs. Beers
to remain with them, and they could well testify to how well she
acted her part in remaining with them and caring for their many
wants, while the able-bodied men of all grades went to battle for
all they held dear.
"At the same time, all the citizens and officers' wives sought
refuge in some place of safety. After the battle, which resulted in
victory to the Confederates, and the wounded of both armies were
brought to our wards, and the Federal prisoners (about one
thousand) to the town, her attention and kindness was, if possible,
doubly increased, extending help and care as well to the boys in
blue as to those in gray. In her missions of mercy she made no
distinction. There she was daily seen with her servant going into
the prison of the Federal soldiers with bandages and baskets of
provisions to minister to the wants of such as were slightly
wounded or needed some attention. Many a Federal officer and
soldier would doubtless bear willing testimony to these acts of
unselfish kindness.
"While Atlanta was invested and being shelled she, contrary to my
advice and urgent remonstrance, took boxes of provisions to her
husband and comrades in the trenches when the shot and shell fell
almost like hail. While at Fort Valley her courage and patriotism
were put to the severest test in an epidemic of smallpox.
"When all who could left, she remained and nursed the Confederate
soldiers with this loathsome disease. I desire to say she was a
voluntary nurse, and did all her work from patriotism alone, until
it became necessary for her to remain as a permanent _attaché_ of
the hospitals that her name should go upon the pay-rolls. After
that she spent her hard earnings in sending boxes to the front and
dispensing charity upon worthy objects immediately under her care.
"She was with me as voluntary nurse, or matron, for more than three
years, and during that time she conducted herself in every respect
so as to command the respect and esteem of all with whom she came
in contact, from the humblest private to the highest in command,
and the citizens of every place where she was stationed gave her a
hearty welcome, and invited her into the best of society.
"Feeling this much was due to one who suffered so many privations
for 'Dear Lost Cause,' I send it to you for you to use as you think
proper in promoting her good. You know me well, and can vouch for
anything I have said.
"Very respectfully,
"WM. T. McALLISTER, M.D.,
"Late Surgeon P.A.C.S."
After such testimonials of worth and work, anything more would seem
out of place. Yet we cannot refrain from mentioning some of the
sayings of soldiers who, though forgotten, yet recall her with
affection for the tender nursing received at her hands. Says one, "She
was the moving spirit in the hospital, officially and practically. The
first object of her ministrations was to relieve suffering and save
life. The next was to fit men for service. When health was restored
she would brook no shirking, but with the power of kindly words
impelled patients to the field. Her zeal sprang from profound
convictions of the righteousness of the Cause, and with the vehemence
of sincerity she wielded a great influence over those who had
recovered under her care."
Another declares that he has seen her "not only bathing the heads of
soldiers, but washing their feet."
So the evidence accumulates, and it is no wonder she is called by many
"The Florence Nightingale of the South."
THE END.
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--------
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----------
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Home Ins. Co., New York 7,803,711
Hartford Fire Ins. Co., Hartford 5,005,946
Springfield Fire and Marine Ins. Co., Massachusetts 3,044,915
Lion Fire Ins. Co., London 4,504,155
Sun Fire Office, London 1,706,268
Commercial Ins Co., California 500,000
Employers Liability (Accident), London. 763,078
Metropolitan Plate Glass Ins. Co., N.Y., 220,000
P.O. Box 667. LOSSES ADJUSTED AND PAID IN NEW ORLEANS, LA.
E.C. FENNER,
CARRIAGE REPOSITORY,
Bicycles, Tricycles, Velocipedes, and Lawn Tennis, Baby Carriages,
Harness, Whips, Robes, and Carriage Trimmings,
105 AND 107 GRAVIER STREET,
NEW ORLEANS, LA.
[Illustration: Carriage]
JOSEPH SCHWARTZ,
Nos. 41, 43, 45, and 47 Perdido St.
THE LARGEST
Carriage and Wagon
Repository and Manufactory in the South,
And Dealer in Carriage, Wagon, and Cane Cart Materials.
Agent for the Celebrated Tennessee and Studebaker Farm Wagons,
and Coldwater Road Cart.
P.O. Box 3365. NEW ORLEANS.
T.H. STAUFFER. B.F. ESHLEMAN. WALTER R. STAUFFER.
STAUFFER, ESHLEMAN & CO.,
SUCCESSORS TO STAUFFER, MACKREADY & CO.,
IMPORTERS AND DEALERS IN HARDWARE,
Cutlery, Guns, Pistols, Iron, Nails, Tin and Leaded Plates, Metals,
Oils, Paints, and Cordage.
AGRICULTURAL IMPLEMENTS.
No. 103 Chambers St., New York.
Nos. 11 to 23 Dorsier, 52 and 54 Customhouse Streets,
and 71 Canal Street,
NEW ORLEANS.
C.M. SORIA, Pres. JNO S. RAINEY, Vice-Pres. F.W. RAINEY. Sec. and Treas.
STANDARD GUANO AND CHEMICAL MANUFACTURING CO.,
Successors to Sterns Fertilizer and Chemical Manufacturing Co.
Manufacturers of Super-Phosphates, Pure Ground Bone, Animal Charcoal,
and Chemicals. Special Fertilizers for Cotton, Sugar, Grain, Fruit,
and Vegetables.
Highest Standard Guaranteed.
_P.O. Drawer 442. 14 Union St., New Orleans._
ERNEST MlLTENBERGER, H. GALLY, SCOTT McGEHEE.
PRESIDENT. VICE-PRESIDENT. SECRETARY.
Southern Insurance Company
OF NEW ORLEANS,
No. 54 CAMP STREET.
CASH CAPITAL $300,000
ASSETS, JAN. 1, 1888 440,000
CRESCENT INSURANCE COMPANY.
NEW ORLEANS.
Incorporated as a Mutual Company in 1849.
Reorganized as a Stock Company in 1880.
CASH CAPITAL $400,000.
_Has Paid over Ten and One-Half Millions for Losses since 1849._
ANNUAL AND TERM POLICIES ISSUED ON DESIRABLE FIRE BUSINESS.
W.R. LYMAN, Pres't. JOSEPH BOWLING, Vice-Pres't.
CHAS. E. RICE, Secretary.
ESTABLISHED 1875.
A.J. GIURANOVICH,
Jeweler and Practical Diamond Setter,
126 ROYAL STREET,
Between St. Louis and Toulouse Sts. NEW ORLEANS, LA.
Nine Years with Mr. I.C. LEVI, New Orleans, La.
Three Years with Mr. VERAX, Paris, France.
BOOTS AND SHOES.
E. MARQUEZE & CO.,
MANUFACTURERS, BOSTON, MASS.
SOUTHERN JOBBING HOUSE,
No. 75 CANAL STREET,
NEW ORLEANS, LA.
E.F. BRAKENRIDGE,
DEALER IN
Pine and Cypress Lands,
_No. 20 ST. CHARLES STREET_,
NEW ORLEANS, LA.
R.J. DOWNEY,
SLATE ROOFER.
Contracts taken in this and all adjoining States.
SEND FOR PRICES AND ESTIMATES.
OFFICE, 109 ST. CHARLES ST.,
P.O. Box 3106. NEW ORLEANS, LA.
A. McDERMOTT,
MANUFACTURER OF
ARTIFICIAL LIMBS,
TRUSSES, AND SURGICAL APPLIANCES,
Crutches and Elastic Hosiery,
_900 St. Charles, between Julia and St. Joseph Streets_,
NEW ORLEANS, LA.
A. BALDWIN & CO.,
74 Canal St., New Orleans, and 77 and 79 Broad St., New York.
91. 93, AND 95 COMMON STREET,
NEW ORLEANS, LA.
Importers and Dealers in Foreign and domestic
HARDWARE,
CUTLERY, GUNS, PISTOLS,
Barbed Fence Wire, and Agricultural Implements.
Souby Art Gallery
113 CANAL STREET,
NEW ORLEANS, LA.
Crayon, with Frame, $15.00.
Pictures on Watch Dials a Specialty.
Imitation Porcelain Picture, with. Frame, $1.50.
A Good Photograph at $1.50 per Dozen.
_Give us a call. No trouble to show specimens and prices._
CORRESPONDENCE SOLICITED.
A.T. TERRY. E.J. MACK
TERRY & MACK,
MEN'S FURNISHING GOODS,
_No. 9 Carondelet Street (near Canal)_,
NEW ORLEANS.
G.W. DUNBAR'S SONS,
Packers of Semi-Tropical Products,
FRESH GULF SHRIMP,
Potted Shrimp, Green Turtle, Preserved Figs, Orange Preserve, Figs in
Cordial, Okra, etc.
_Manufacturers of French Cordials and Fruit Syrups._
Office and Salesroom, No. 3 Tchoupitoulas Street, NEW ORLEANS.
A.O. PESSOU,
Office, 71 Carondelet St., Warehouse, 487 and 489 Calliope St.,
NEW ORLEANS.
_Corrugated Iron, Steel Wire Nails, Bricks, Sand, Lime, Cement,
Plaster, Hair, and Laths, Ready-Mixed Paints, Sewer Pipe._
SOLICITS COUNTRY ORDERS.
DAVID LEMLEY
Copper, Tin, and Sheet-Iron Worker,
192 ST. CHARLES STREET, NEW ORLEANS, LA.
LEMLEY'S PATENT RAIN-WATER CUT-OFF,
_THE ONLY BEST._
ROOFING, GUTTERING, SLATING, ETC., ETC.
Repairs Executed with Dispatch.
BERGER PATENT TEN-FOOT GUTTER
ANNOUNCEMENT FOR 1888.
The complete novels that have already been arranged for to appear in
LIPPINCOTTS MONTHLY MAGAZINE
for 1888 are as follows:
"CHECK AND COUNTER-CHECK." By BRANDER MATTHEWS and GEORGE H. JESSOP
(January).
"THE SPELL OF HOME." After the German. By Mrs. A.L. WISTER (February).
"HONORED IN THE BREACH." By JULIA MAGRUDER (March).
"THE QUICK OR THE DEAD?" By AMÉLIE RIVES (April).
This series of novels, it will readily be seen, will be of great
literary value and interest. Miss Amélie Rives has excited universal
admiration by the short stories and poems that she has contributed to
current magazines, and a novel from her pen will be eagerly welcomed
by a wide circle. Edgar Saltus, a brilliant young author, whose "Mr.
Incoul's Misadventure" was excellent in itself and gave promise of
still more brilliant performance in the future, is another rising
name. William H. Bishop and Brander Matthews have an established
position among contemporary novelists, and the new novels from their
pen will be equal to any of their former work. Mrs. A.L. Wister's
adaptations are known to all readers of American fiction. Miss Julia
Magruder, whose "Across the Chasm" and "At Anchor" (in Lippincott's
Magazine) were hailed as among the most charming of modern Southern
novels, is another writer with an audience already created. Miss M.
Eliott Seawell is the author of "Maid Marian," a delightful little
extravaganza in the December, 1886, number of Lippincott's, and the
novel which she has written for this magazine will add another star to
the galaxy of Southern novelists.
In addition, Albion W. Tourgee will contribute a notable series of
stories, illustrating the interesting and exciting phases of the legal
profession, under the general title of "With Gauge & Swallow." Each
story will be complete in itself, though all will revolve around a
common centre of interest.
Stories, essays, and poems may be expected from Amélie Rives, Edgar
Fawcett, Thomas Nelson Page, H.H. Boyesen, Joaquin Miller, Walt
Whitman, Will Carleton, M.G. McClelland, Helen G. Cone. Mrs. S.M.B.
Piatt, J.J. Piatt, C.L. Hildreth, Will H. Hayne, Lucy C. Lillie, Edith
M. Thomas, and many others; and autobiographical articles, dealing
with interesting phases of their career, from Lotta, Fanny Davenport.
H.H. Boyesen, Edgar Saltus, Clara Barton, Belva Lockwood, Frances E.
Willard, etc., etc.
A number of ideas new to periodical literature will be exploited
during the year. For example, the February number will be written
entirely by women for women, and will contain a novel by Mrs. Wister;
a novelette by Miss Amélie Rives; poems by Mrs. Piatt, Helen G. Cone,
Edith M. Thomas, and Ella Wheeler-Wilcox; autobiographical sketches by
Belva Lockwood, Fanny Davenport, etc.; and articles of general
interest by other famous women of the country,
Subscription per Annum, $3.00. Single Number, 25 Cents.
J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers,
715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia.
FIRE. RIVER. MARINE.
Incorporated April, 1857.
Reorganized April, 1882.
HOPE
Insurance Company
OF
NEW ORLEANS,
No. 188 Gravier Street.
Cash Capital $250,000.00
Assets 403,766.98
PROGRESSIVE AND LIBERAL.
J.A. CHALARON, President. MAURICE STERN, Vice-President.
LOUIS BARNETT, SECRETARY.