Part 25
Let us note, at this point, the fact, obvious enough but generally overlooked, that in perception the result depends far more upon the percipient mind than upon the object perceived. To a ploughboy, a pebble is an insignificant thing, suggestive possibly of some discomfort in walking, and fit only to shy at a bird, may be; but to the geologist it appears worthy a volume, and speaks to him of strata may be a million of years old, of glacial attrition, of volcanic action, of chemical constituents, of mineralogical principles, and crystallogenic attraction, of mathematical laws and geometric angles, and of future geognostic changes. That is to say, the pebble contracts and expands, as it were, with the faculties and the prejudices of the person--of the mind--that sees it.
Or, again: The crescent moon is visible in the clear sky. _A_ sees a bright convenience which enables him to walk better--not so good a light as the full moon would be, but valuable as far as it goes. _B_ sees a lovely luminary to light him to his lady-love, a hallowed eye half shut that watches with protecting radiance over her slumbers. _C_ reckons the intervening 238,000 miles, its diameter of 2,162.3 miles, and his mind busies itself with orbits, radii, ellipses, eclipses, azimuth, parallax, sidereal periods, satellitic inclinations, and synodic revolutions. _D_, with a turn for symbols and history, sees in it something of the "ornaments like the moon" that Gideon captured from the Sheikhs Zebah and Zalmunna, something of Byzantine siege, Ottoman ensign, the Crusades, the Knighthood of Selim, the battle of Tours, and the city of New Orleans. . . . . . . . .
The Beautiful . . . . is a relation between the man that sees and the object seen. A perfectly harmonious relation brings perfect beauty.
The Poetical . . . . is the beautiful; and this may be expressed either in prose or in poetry. . . . . . . . . .
Poetry, more closely defined, is the poetical expressed in rhythmical language.
FOOTNOTE:
[33] By permission of the author.
CHARLES COLCOCK JONES, JR.
~1831=1893.~
CHARLES COLCOCK JONES, JR., was born at Savannah, Georgia, and made his literary fame by special study of the history of Georgia and the life of the Southern Indians. He was by profession a lawyer, was colonel of artillery in the Confederate Army, and from 1865 to 1877 lived and practised law in New York City. Since 1877 his home was "Montrose" near Augusta, Georgia, where he left a fine library and large collections of Indian curiosities and of portraits and autographs. His style is full and flowing, and the following list shows his great activity with his pen.
WORKS.
Indian Remains in Southern Georgia. Ancient Tumuli and Structures in Georgia. Dead Towns of Georgia. Last Days of Gen. Henry Lee. Life, Labors, and Neglected Grave of Richard Henry Wilde. Negro Myths from the Georgia Coast. Histories of Savannah and Augusta. English Colonization of Georgia. _Edited_ his father's works. History of Georgia. Sketch of Tomo-chi-chi. Antiquities of the Southern Indians. Life of Jasper: of Tatnall: of De Soto: of Purry: of Jenkins: of Habersham: of Gen. Robert Toombs: of Elbert: of John Percival. Addresses to Confederate Association, and Historical Society, and on Greene, Pulaski, Stephens.
Colonel Jones is the most prolific author that Georgia has produced and his works place him at the head of her historical writers.
SALZBURGER SETTLEMENT IN GEORGIA.
(_From History of Georgia._[34])
During the four years commencing in 1729 and ending in 1732, more than thirty thousand Salzburgers, impelled by the fierce persecutions of Leopold, abandoned their homes in the broad valley of the Salza, and sought refuge in Prussia, Holland, and England, where their past sufferings and present wants enlisted the profound sympathy of Protestant communities. In the public indignation engendered by their unjustifiable and inhuman treatment, and in the general desire to alleviate their sufferings, Oglethorpe and the trustees fully shared. An asylum in Georgia was offered.
. . . . . . .
Forty-two men with their families, numbering in all seventy-eight souls, set out on foot for Rotterdam. They came from the town of Berchtolsgaden and its vicinity. . . . On the 2d of December they embarked for England. On the 8th of January, 1734 (O. S.), having a favorable wind, they departed in the ship _Purisburg_ for Savannah.
. . . . . . .
. . . Upon the return of Mr. Oglethorpe and the commissary, Baron Von Reck, [sent to examine the site of the new colony] to Savannah, nine able-bodied Salzburgers were dispatched, by the way of Abercorn, to Ebenezer, to cut down trees and erect shelters for the new colonists. On the 7th of April the rest of the emigrants arrived, and, with the blessing of the good Mr. Bolzius, entered at once upon the task of clearing land, constructing bridges, building shanties, and preparing a road-way to Abercorn. Wild honey found in a hollow tree greatly refreshed them, and parrots and partridges made them "a very good dish." Upon the sandy soil they fixed their hopes for a generous yield of peas and potatoes. To the "black, fat, and heavy" land they looked for all sorts of corn. From the clayey soil they purposed manufacturing bricks and earthenware.
On the first of May lots were drawn upon which houses were to be erected in the town of Ebenezer. The day following, the hearts of the people were rejoiced by the coming of ten cows and calves,--sent as a present from the magistrates of Savannah in obedience to Mr. Oglethorpe's orders. Ten casks "full of all Sorts of Seeds" arriving from Savannah set these pious people to praising God for all his loving kindnesses. Commiserating their poverty, the Indians gave them deer, and their English neighbors taught them how to brew a sort of beer made of molasses, sassafras, and pine tops. Poor Lackner dying, by common consent the little money he left was made the "Beginning of a Box for the Poor." . . . . . . . . By appointment, Monday, the 13th of May, was observed by the congregation as a season of thanksgiving. . . . .
Of the town of Savannah, the Baron Von Reck favors us with the following impressions: "I went to view this rising Town, _Savannah_, seated upon the Banks of a River of the same Name. The Town is regularly laid out, divided into four Wards, in each of which is left a spacious Square for holding of Markets and other publick Uses. The Streets are all straight, and the Houses are all of the same Model and Dimensions, and well contrived for Conveniency. For the Time it has been built it is very populous, and its Inhabitants are all White People. And indeed the Blessing of God seems to have gone along with this Undertaking, for here we see Industry honored and Justice strictly executed, and Luxury and Idleness banished from this happy Place where Plenty and Brotherly Love seem to make their Abode, and where the good Order of a Nightly Watch restrains the Disorderly and makes the Inhabitants sleep secure in the midst of a Wilderness.
"There is laid out near the Town, by order of the Trustees, a Garden for making Experiments for the Improving Botany and Agriculture; it contains 10 Acres and lies upon the River; and it is cleared and brought into such Order that there is already a fine Nursery of Oranges, Olives, white Mulberries, Figs, Peaches, and many curious Herbs: besides which there are Cabbages, Peas, and other European Pulse and Plants which all thrive. Within the Garden there is an artificial Hill, said by the Indians to be raised over the Body of one of their ancient Emperors.
"I had like to have forgot one of the best Regulations made by the Trustees for the Government of the Town of _Savannah_. I mean the utter Prohibition of the Use of Rum, that flattering but deceitful Liquor which has been found equally pernicious to the Natives and new Comers, which seldoms fails by Sickness or Death to draw after it its own Punishment."
FOOTNOTE:
[34] By permission of Mr. Charles Edgeworth Jones.
MARY VIRGINIA TERHUNE.
~ca. 1831=----.~
MRS. TERHUNE, better known as "Marion Harland," was born in Amelia County, Virginia, where her father, Samuel P. Hawes, a merchant from Massachusetts, had made his home. She began writing at the early age of fourteen. In 1856, she was married to Rev. E. P. Terhune and since 1859 has lived in the North. Her novels, dealing chiefly with Southern life, are very popular and have made her well known North and South. "The Story of Mary Washington" was written in order to aid the enterprise for a monument to the mother of Washington, which was happily consummated May 10, 1894, by its unveiling at Fredericksburg, on which occasion Mrs. Terhune was present, an honored guest.
WORKS.
Alone. Moss Side. Nemesis. Husbands and Homes. Helen Gardner's Wedding-Day. Ruby's Husband. At Last. Empty Heart. Judith, a Chronicle of Old Virginia. Hidden Path. Miriam. Husks. Sunnybank. Christmas Holly. Phemie's Temptation. Common Sense in the Household. Eve's Daughters. A Gallant Fight. Story of Mary Washington.
LETTER DESCRIBING MARY [BALL] WASHINGTON WHEN A YOUNG GIRL.
(_From Story of Mary Washington._[35])
"WMSBURG, _ye 7th of Octr, 1722_.
"_Dear Sukey_, Madam Ball of Lancaster and Her Sweet Molly have gone Hom. Mamma thinks Molly the Comliest Maiden She Knows. She is about 16 yrs old, is taller than Me, is very Sensable, Modest and Loving. Her Hair is like unto Flax, Her Eyes are the color of Yours, and her Chekes are like May blossoms. I wish you could see her."
We do seem to see her in lingering over the portrait done in miniature in colors that are fresh to this day. It is, as if in exploring a catacomb, we had happened upon a fair chamber adorned with a frescoed portrait of a girl-princess of a legendary age. Romancist and biographer are one as we study the picture line by line. The brush was dipped in the limner's heart and wrought passing well.
MADAM WASHINGTON AT THE PEACE BALL.
(_From the Same._)
Her only public appearance as the hero's mother was at the Peace Ball given in Fredericksburg during the visit of Washington to that town. With all her majestic self-command, she did not disguise the pleasure with which she received the special request of the managers that she would honor the occasion with her presence. There was even a happy flutter in the playful rejoinder that "her dancing days were pretty well over, but that if her coming would contribute to the general pleasure she would attend."
. . . A path was opened from the foot to the top of the hall as they appeared in the doorway, and "every head was bowed in reverence." It must have been the proudest moment of her life, but she bore herself with perfect composure then, and after her son, seating her in an armchair upon the daïs reserved for distinguished guests, faced the crowd in prideful expectancy that all his friends would seek to know his mother. She had entered the hall at eight o'clock, and for two hours held court, the most distinguished people there pressing eagerly forward to be presented to her. . . . From her slightly elevated position, she could, without rising, overlook the floor, and watched with quiet pleasure the dancers, among them the kingly figure of the Commander-in-Chief, who led a Fredericksburg matron through a minuet.
At ten o'clock, she signed to him to approach, and rose to take his arm, saying in her clear soft voice, "Come, George, it is time for old folks to be at home." Smiling a good-night to all, she walked down the room, as erect in form and as steady in gait as any dancer there.
One of the French officers exclaimed aloud, as she disappeared:
"If such are the matrons of America, she may well boast of illustrious sons!" . . . . .
Lafayette's report of his interview to his friends at Mt. Vernon was: "I have seen the only Roman matron living at this day!"
FOOTNOTE:
[35] By permission of author and publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston.
AUGUSTA EVANS WILSON.
~1835=----.~
MRS. WILSON was born at Columbus, Georgia, but early removed to Mobile, Alabama. Her first novel was "Inez: a Tale of the Alamo," published in 1855. She was married to Mr. L. M. Wilson of Mobile in 1868, and they had a delightful suburban home at Spring Hill. Since Mr. Wilson's death, she resides in Mobile. Her novels, especially "St. Elmo," have made a great sensation in the reading world: they evince great ability and learning. See Miss Rutherford's "American Authors."
WORKS.
Inez: a Tale of the Alamo. Macaria. Vashti. At the Mercy of Tiberius. Beulah. St. Elmo. Infelice.
"_St. Elmo_ contains a description of that marvel of oriental architecture, the Taj Mahal at Agra in India,--a marble tomb erected to perpetuate the name of Noormahal, whom Tom Moore has immortalized in his 'Lalla Rookh.' A recent traveller visiting Agra in 1891 writes that he was surprised to find a Parsee boy almost in the shadow of the Taj Mahal reading a copy of the London edition of Mrs. Wilson's _Vashti_. . . . Her style has been severely criticised as pedantic, but certainly this charge may with equal justice be brought against George Meredith, Bulwer, and George Eliot, and it is well established that Mrs. Wilson's books have in many instances stimulated her young readers to study history, mythology, and the sciences, from which she so frequently draws her illustrations."--Miss Rutherford.
A LEARNED AND INTERESTING CONVERSATION.
(_From St. Elmo._[36])
Edna had risen to leave the room when the master of the house entered, but at his request resumed her seat and continued reading.
After searching the shelves unavailingly, he glanced over his shoulder and asked:
"Have you seen my copy of De Guérin's Centaur anywhere about the house? I had it a week ago."
"I beg your pardon, sir, for causing such a fruitless search; here is the book. I picked it up on the front steps where you were reading a few evenings since, and it opened at a passage that attracted my attention."
She closed the volume and held it toward him, but he waved it back.
"Keep it if it interests you. I have read it once, and merely wished to refer to a particular passage. Can you guess what sentence most frequently recurs to me? If so, read it to me."
He drew a chair close to the hearth and lighted his cigar.
Hesitatingly Edna turned the leaves.
"I am afraid, sir, that my selection will displease you."
"I will risk it, as, notwithstanding your flattering opinion to the contrary, I am not altogether so unreasonable as to take offense at a compliance with my own request."
Still she shrank from the task he imposed, and her fingers toyed with the scarlet fuchsias; but after eyeing her for a while, he leaned forward and pushed the glass bowl beyond her reach.
"Edna, I am waiting."
"Well, then, Mr. Murray, I should think that these two passages would impress you with peculiar force."
Raising the book, she read with much emphasis:
"'Thou pursuest after wisdom, O Melampus! which is the science of the will of the gods; _and thou roamest from people to people, like a mortal driven by the destinies_. In the times when I kept my night-watches before the caverns, I have sometimes believed that I was about to surprise the thoughts of the sleeping Cybele, and that the mother of the gods, betrayed by her dreams, would let fall some of her secrets. But I have never yet made out more than sounds which faded away in the murmur of night, or words inarticulate as the bubbling of the rivers.' . . . 'Seekest thou to know the gods, O Macareus! and from what source, men, animals, and elements of the universal fire have their origin? The aged ocean, the father of all things, keeps locked within his own breast these secrets; and the nymphs who stand around sing as they weave their eternal dance before him, to cover any sound which might escape from his lips, half opened by slumber. Mortals dear to the gods for their virtue have received from their hands lyres to give delight to man, or the seeds of new plants to make him rich, but from their inexorable lips--nothing!'
"Mr. Murray, am I correct in my conjecture?"
"Quite correct," he answered, smiling grimly.
Taking the book from her hand he threw it on the table, and tossed his cigar into the grate, adding in a defiant, challenging tone:
"The mantle of Solomon did not fall at Le Cayla on the shoulders of Maurice de Guérin. After all he was a wretched hypochondriac, and a tinge of _le cahier vert_ doubtless crept into his eyes."
"Do you forget, sir, that he said, 'When one is a wanderer, one feels that one fulfils the true condition of humanity?' and that among his last words are these, 'The stream of travel is full of delight. Oh! who will set me adrift on this Nile?'"
"Pardon me if I remind you, _par parenthèse_, of the preliminary and courteous _En garde!_ which should be pronounced before a thrust. De Guérin felt starved in Languedoc, and no wonder! But had he penetrated every nook and cranny of the habitable globe, and traversed the vast zaarahs which science accords the universe, he would have died at last as hungry as Ugolino. I speak advisedly; for the true Io gad-fly, _ennui_, has stung me from hemisphere to hemisphere, across tempestuous oceans, scorching deserts, and icy mountain ranges. I have faced alike the bourrans of the steppes, and the Samieli of Shamo, and the result of my vandal life is best epitomized in those grand but grim words of Bossuet: '_On trouve au fond du tout le vide et le néant!_' Nineteen years ago, to satisfy my hunger, I set out to hunt the daintiest food this world could furnish, and, like other fools, have learned finally, that life is but a huge mellow golden Ösher, that mockingly sifts its bitter dust upon our eager lips. Ah! truly, _on trouve au fond du tout le vide et le néant_!"
"Mr. Murray, if you insist upon your bitter Ösher simile, why shut your eyes to the palpable analogy suggested? Naturalists assert that the Solanum, or apple of Sodom, contains in its normal state neither dust nor ashes; unless it is punctured by an insect, (the Tenthredo), which converts the whole of the inside into dust, leaving nothing but the rind entire, without any loss of color. Human life is as fair and tempting as the fruit of 'Ain Jidy,' till stung and poisoned by the Tenthredo of sin."
All conceivable _suaviter in modo_ characterized his mocking countenance and tone, as he inclined his haughty head and asked:
"Will you favor me by lifting on the point of your dissecting knife this stinging sin of mine to which you refer? The noxious brood swarm so teasingly about my ears that they deprive me of your cool, clear, philosophic discrimination. Which particular Tenthredo of the buzzing swarm around my spoiled apple of life would you advise me to select for my _anathema maranatha_?"
"Of your history, sir, I am entirely ignorant; and even if I were not, I should not presume to levy a tax upon it in discussions with you; for, however vulnerable you may possibly be, I regard an _argumentum ad hominem_ as the weakest weapon in the armory of dialectics--a weapon too often dipped in the venom of personal malevolence. I merely gave expression to my belief that miserable useless lives are sinful lives." . . .
FOOTNOTE:
[36] By permission of the author, and of the publisher, G. W. Dillingham, N. Y.
DANIEL BEDINGER LUCAS.
~1836=----.~
DANIEL BEDINGER LUCAS is a native of Charlestown, West Virginia, and has reputation as a lawyer, orator, and judge. He was a soldier in the Confederate Army and wrote his fine and best known poem, "The Land Where We Were Dreaming," in 1865. He has served in the State Legislature. His sister was also a poet and her verses are included in the "Wreath of Eglantine."
WORKS.
Memoir of John Yates Bell. Maid of Northumberland. Ballads and Madrigals. Wreath of Eglantine, and other Poems.
THE LAND WHERE WE WERE DREAMING.
(_From The Land We Love._[37])
Fair were our nation's visions, and as grand As ever floated out of fancy-land; Children were we in simple faith, But god like children, whom nor death Nor threat of danger drove from honor's path-- In the land where we were dreaming.
Proud were our men as pride of birth could render, As violets our women pure and tender; And when they spoke, their voices' thrill At evening hushed the whip poor-will, At morn the mocking bird was mute and still, In the land where we were dreaming.
And we had graves that covered more of glory Than ever taxed the lips of ancient story; And in our dream we wove the thread Of principles for which had bled And suffered long our own immortal dead, In the land where we were dreaming.
. . . . . . .
Our sleep grew troubled, and our dreams grew wild; Red meteors flashed across our heaven's field, Crimson the moon, between the Twins Barbed arrows flew in circling lanes Of light, red comets tossed their fiery manes O'er the land where we were dreaming.
. . . . . . .
A figure came among us as we slept-- At first he knelt, then slowly rose and wept; Then gathering up a thousand spears, He swept across the field of Mars, Then bowed farewell, and walked among the start, From the land where we were dreaming.
We looked again--another figure still Gave hope, and nerved each individual will; Erect he stood, as clothed with power, Self-poised, he seemed to rule the hour With firm, majestic sway--of strength a tower-- In the land where we were dreaming.
As, while great Jove, in bronze, a warder god, Gazed eastward from the Forum where he stood, Rome felt herself secure and free-- So, Richmond! we on guard for thee, Beheld a bronzèd hero, god-like Lee, In the land where we were dreaming.
. . . . . . .
Woe! woe is us! the startled mothers cried; While we have slept, our noble sons have died. Woe! woe is us! how strange and sad, That all our glorious visions fled Have left us nothing real but our dead In the land where we were dreaming.
"And are they really dead, our martyred slain?" No, dreamers! Morn shall bid them rise again From every plain, from every height On which they seemed to die for right; Their gallant spirits shall renew the fight In the land where we were dreaming.
. . . . . . .
FOOTNOTE:
[37] By permission of the author.
JAMES RYDER RANDALL.
~1839=----.~
JAMES RYDER RANDALL was born in Baltimore, and his fame rests upon his stirring war-song, "Maryland, my Maryland," which has been called the "Marseillaise of the Confederacy." It was written in 1861 and set by Mrs. Burton Harrison to the tune of the old college song "Lauriger Horatius," on the wings of which it quickly flew all over the South.
His profession is that of an editor, and his delicate health has compelled his residence in a warmer latitude than his native city, in Louisiana and Georgia.
WORKS.
Fugitive Poems: Maryland, My Maryland, Sole Sentry, Arlington, Cameo Bracelet, and others.
MY MARYLAND.
The despot's heel is on thy shore, Maryland! His torch is at thy temple door, Maryland! Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, And be the battle-queen of yore, Maryland, my Maryland!
Hark to an exiled son's appeal, Maryland! My Mother-State, to thee I kneel, Maryland! For life and death, for woe and weal, Thy peerless chivalry reveal, And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, Maryland, my Maryland!