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her mistress' children, which she was not permitted to give to her own, long, long ago left behind and dead in “ole Varginney.” Oh! the wonderful and touching stories of them, and a hundred other things, which she has poured into my infant ears ! How well do I remember the marvellous story of the manner in which she obtained religion, of her many and sore conflicts with the powers of darkness, and of her first dawning hopes in that blessed gospel whose richest glory is, that it is preached to the poor, such as she
From her lips, too, I heard my first ghost-story! Think of that! None of your feeble make-believes of a ghost-story either, carrying infidelity on its face; but a real bona-fide narrative, witnessed by herself, and told with the earnestness of truth itself. How my knees smote together, and
my hair stood on end, “so called”-as I stared and startled, and declared again and again with quite a sickly manhood indeed, that I wasn't scared a bit!
Perhaps the proudest day of my boyhood was when I was able to present her with a large and flaming red cotton handkerchief, wherewith in turban style she adorned her head. And my satisfaction was complete when my profound erudition enabled me to read for her on Sabbath afternoons that most wonderful of all stories, the Pilgrim's Progress. Nor was it uninstructive, or a slight tribute to the genius of the immortal tinker-could I but have appreciated it-to observe the varied emotions excited within her breast by the recital of those fearful conflicts by the way, and of the unspeakable glories of the celestial City, within whose portals of pearl I trust her faithful soul has long since entered!
ALBERT PIKE was born in Boston, but after his twentysecond
made his home in the South. He was a student at Harvard and taught for a while; in 1831, he went to Arkansas, walking, it is said, five hundred miles of the way, as his horse had run away in a storm.
He became an editor and then a lawyer, cultivating letters at the same time, and wrote the “ Hymns to the Gods." He served in the Mexican and Civil Wars, with rank in the latter of Brigadier-General in the Confederate army. He afterwards made his home in Washington City, where he at first practised his profession, but later gave his attention mostly to literature and Freemasonry.
Hymns to the Gods.
Reports of Cases in the Supreme Court of
Works on Freemasonry.
The following poem is one of the best on that wonderfui bird whose song almost all Southern poets have celebrated. It has a classic ring and reminds one of Keats' Odes on the Nightingale and on a Grecian Urn.
TO THE MOCKING-BIRD.
Thou glorious mocker of the world! I hear :
Thy many voices ringing through the glooms
And foods the heart. Over the spherèd tombs
Of vanished nations rolls thy music-tide;
No light from History's starlit page illumes
O’er me, perhaps, as now thy clear notes ring
Glad scorner of all cities! Thou dost leave
The world's mad turmoil and incessant din,
Where misery gnaws the maiden's heart within:
Where, with thy flood of music, thou canst win Their heart to harmony, and where intrudes
No discord on thy melodies. Oh, where,
Among the sweet musicians of the air,
Ha! what a burst was that! The Æolian strain
Goes floating through the tangled passages
Of glassy music under echoing trees,
With a bright harmony of happiness,
Thin waves of crimson flame; till we become
With the excess of perfect pleasure, dumb,
I cannot love the man who doth not love,
As men love light, the song of happy birds; For the first visions that my boy-heart wove To fill its sleep with, were that I did rove
Through the fresh woods, what time the snowy herds Of morning clouds shrunk from the advancing sun
Into the depths of Heaven's blue heart, as words From the Poet's lips float gently, one by one,
And vanish in the human heart; and then
I revelled in such songs, and sorrowed when, With noon-heat overwrought, the music-gush was done. I would, sweet bird, that I might live with thee,
Amid the eloquent grandeur of these shades,
Of human life until existence fades
Through the thick woods and shadow-checkered glades,
The brilliance of thy heart; but I must wear,
As now, my garments of regret and care,-
Have overshadowed Life's green paths with gloom?
To welcome me within my humble home;
The darkness of existence to illume.
Over the spirit, my cold bones shall rest
Beneath these trees; and, from thy swelling breast,
WILLIAM TAPPAN THOMPSON.
WILLIAM TAPPAN THOMPSON was a native of Ravenna, Ohio, the first white child born in the Western Reserve, He removed to Georgia in 1835, and became with Judge A. B. Longstreet editor of the “States Rights Sentinel" at Augusta. He was subsequently editor of several other papers, in one of which, the “Miscellany,” appeared his famous humorous “Letters of Major Jones."
From 1845 to 1850 he lived in Baltimore, editor with Park Benjamin of the “ Western Continent;" but he returned to Georgia and established in Savannah the “Morning News" with which he was connected till his death.
He served in the Confederate cause as aide to Gov. Joseph E. Brown, and later as a volunteer in the ranks.
Major Jones's Courtship.
The Live Indian: a Farce.
by his daughter.
The titles of these books describe their contents, and the following extract gives their style. The scenes are laid in Georgia ; and even when Major Jones travels, he remains a Georgian still.
MAJOR JONES'S CHRISTMAS PRESENT TO MARY STALLINGS.
(From Major Jones's Courtship.*) They all agreed they would hang up a bag for me to put Miss Mary's Crismus present in, on the back porch ; and about ten o'clock I told 'em good-evenin' and went home.
I sot up till midnight, and when they wos all gone to bed, I went softly into the back gate, and went up to the porch, and thar, shore enough, was a great big meal-bag hangin' to the jice. It was monstrous unhandy to git to it, but I was terinined not to back out. So I sot some chairs on top of a bench, and got hold of the rope, and let myself down into the bag; but jist as I was gittin in, it swung agin the chairs, and down they went with a terrible racket; but nobody din't wake up but Miss Stallinses old cur dog, and here he come rippin and tearin through the yard like rath, and round and round he went, tryin to find out what was the matter. I scrooch'd down in the bag, and didn't breathe
* By permission of T. B. Peterson and Brothers, Philadelphia.