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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.
Prose Sketches and Poems.

Reports of Cases in the Supreme Court of

Works on Freemasonry.
Nugae, (including Hymns to the Gods).

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.


Thou glorious mocker of the world! I hear :

Thy many voices ringing through the glooms
Of these green solitudes; and all the clear,
Bright joyance of their song enthralls the ear,

And foods the heart. Over the spherèd tombs

Of vanished nations rolls thy music-tide;

No light from History's starlit page illumes
The memory of these nations; they have died:
None care for them but thou; and thou mayst sing

O'er me, perhaps, as now thy clear notes ring Over their bones by whom thou once wast deified.

Glad scorner of all cities! Thou dost leave

The world's mad turmoil and incessant din, Where none in other's honesty believe, Where the old sigh, the young turn gray

and grieve, Where misery gnaws the maiden's heart within: Thou fleest far into the dark green woods,

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,
Is one so dear as thou to these old solitudes?

Ha! what a burst was that! The Eolian strain
Goes floating through the tangled passages
Of the still woods, and now it comes again,
A multitudinous melody,-like a rain

Of glassy music under echoing trees,
Close by a ringing lake. It wraps the soul
With brig harmony of happiness,
Even as a gem is wrapped when round it roll
Thin waves of crimson flame; till we become
With the excess of perfect pleasure, dumb,
And pant like a swift runner clinging to the goal.

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,
Alone with nature,—but it may not be;
I have to struggle with the stormy sea

Of human life until existence fades
Into death's darkness. Thou wilt sing and soar
Through the thick woods and shadow-checkered glades,
While pain and sorrow cast no dimness o'er

The brilliance of thy heart; but I must wear,
As now, my garments of regret and care,—
As penitents of old their galling sackcloth wore.

Yet why complain? What though fond hopes deferred
Have overshadowed Life's green paths with gloom?
Content's soft music is not all unheard;
There is a voice sweeter than thine, sweet bird,

To welcome me within my humble home;
There is an eye, with love's devotion bright,
The darkness of existence to illume.

Then why complain? When Death shall cast his blight
Over the spirit, my cold bones shall rest

Beneath these trees; and, from thy swelling breast,
Over them pour thy song, llke a rich flood of light.


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.
Major Jones's Chronicles of Pineville.
Major Jones's Sketches of Travel.

The Live Indian : a Farce.
John's Alive, and other Sketches, edited

by his daughter.
Dramatized The Vicar of Wakefield,

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.


(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 termined 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.

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