Southern Literature From 1579-1895 Part 53

The first college established for girls was opened in Georgia. No naturalist has surpa.s.sed Audubon; no geographer equalled Maury; and Sims and McDonald led the world of surgery in their respective lines.

It was Crawford Long, of Georgia, who gave to the world the priceless blessing of anaesthesia.

The wealth acc.u.mulated by the people was marvellous. And, though it is held that slavery enriched the few at the general expense, Georgia and Carolina were the richest States, per capita, in the Union in 1800, saving Rhode Island. Some idea of the desolation of the war may be had from the fact that, in spite of their late remarkable recuperation, they are now, excepting Idaho, the poorest States, per capita, in the Union. So rich was the South in 1860, that Mr. Lincoln spoke but common sentiment when he said: "If we let the South go, where shall we get our revenues?"

In its engaging grace--in the chivalry that tempered even Quixotism with dignity--in the piety that saved master and slave alike--in the charity that boasted not--in the honor held above estate--in the hospitality that neither condescended nor cringed--in frankness and heartiness and wholesome comradeship--in the reverence paid to womanhood and the inviolable respect in which woman's name was held--the civilization of the old slave _regime_ in the South has not been surpa.s.sed, and perhaps will not be equalled, among men.

And as the fidelity of the slave during the war bespoke the kindness of the master before the war, so the unquestioning reverence with which the young men of the South accepted, in 1865, their heritage of poverty and defeat, proved the strength and excellence of the civilization from which that heritage had come. In cheerfulness they bestirred themselves amid the ashes and the wrecks, and, holding the inspiration of their past to be better than their rich acres and garnered wealth, went out to rebuild their fallen fortunes, with never a word of complaint, nor the thought of criticism!

FOOTNOTE:

[45] By permission of "New York Ledger," Robert Bonner's Sons, N. Y.

THOMAS NELSON PAGE.

~1853=----.~

THOMAS NELSON PAGE was born at "Oakland," Hanover County, Virginia, of distinguished ancestry. He was educated at Washington and Lee University, studied law, and settled in Richmond. His first writings were poems and stories in the Virginia negro dialect, some of them in connection with Armistead Churchill Gordon. He is now (1894) editor of "The Drawer" in Harper's Monthly, and stands high as one of the younger writers of our country.

WORKS.

In Ole Virginia, [stories in negro dialect].

Two Little Confederates.

Elsket, and other Stories.

Essays on the South, its literature, the Negro question, &c., in magazines.

Befo' de Wa', (with A. C. Gordon).

On New Found River.

Pastime Stories, [written for "The Drawer"].

Among the Camps, [stories].

[Ill.u.s.tration: ~Agricultural and Mechanical College of Mississippi.~]

Mr. Page delineates finely the old Virginia darkey and his dialect, as Mr. Harris does the darkey of the Carolinas and Georgia. There is a marked difference between them.

"The naturalness of his style, the skill with which he uses seemingly indifferent incidents and sayings to trick out and light up his pictures, the apparently unintentional and therefore most effective touches of pathos, are uncommon."

Ma.r.s.e CHAN'S LAST BATTLE.

(_From Ma.r.s.e Chan: In Ole Virginia._[46])

"Well, jes' den dey blowed boots an' saddles, an' we mounted: an' de orders come to ride 'roun' de slope, an' Ma.r.s.e Chan's comp'ny wuz de secon', an' when we got 'roun' dyah, we wuz right in it. Hit wuz de wust place ever dis n.i.g.g.e.r got in. An' dey said, 'Charge 'em!' an' my king! ef ever you see bullets fly, dey did dat day. Hit wuz jes' like hail; an' we wen' down de slope (I 'long wid de res') an' up de hill right to'ds de cannons, an' de fire wuz so strong dyar (dey had a whole rigiment of infintrys layin' down dyar onder de cannons) our lines sort o' broke an' stop; de cun'l was kilt, an' I b'lieve dey wuz jes' 'bout to bre'k all to pieces, when Ma.r.s.e Chan rid up an' cotch hol' de fleg, an' hollers, 'Foller me!' and rid strainin' up de hill 'mong de cannons.

"I seen 'im when he went, de sorrel four good lengths ahead o' ev'ry urr hoss, jes' like he use' to be in a fox-hunt, an' de whole rigiment right arfter 'im. Yo' ain' nuvver hear thunder! Fust thing I knowed, de roan roll' head over heels an' flung me up 'g'inst de bank, like yo' chuck a nubbin over 'g'inst de foot o' de corn pile. An' dat's what kep' me from bein' kilt, I 'spects. Judy she say she think 'twuz Providence, but I think 'twuz de bank. O' c'ose, Providence put de bank dyah, but how come Providence nuver saved Ma.r.s.e Chan?

"When I look 'roun' de roan wuz lyin' dyah by me, stone dead, wid a cannon-ball gone 'mos' th'oo him, an' our men had done swep' dem on t'urr side from de top o' de hill. 'Twan' mo'n a minit, de sorrel come gallupin' back wid his mane flyin', an' de rein hangin' down on one side to his knee. 'Dyar!' says I, 'fo' G.o.d! I 'spects dey done kill Ma.r.s.e Chan, an' I promised to tek care on him.'

"I jumped up an' run over de bank, an' dyar, wid a whole lot o' dead men, an' some not dead yit, onder one o' de guns, wid de fleg still in he han', an' a bullet right th'oo he body, lay Ma.r.s.e Chan. I tu'n him over an' call him, 'Ma.r.s.e Chan!' but 'twan' no use, he wuz done gone home, sho' 'nuff. I pick 'im up in my arms wid de fleg still in he han's, an' toted' im back jes' like I did dat day when he wus a baby, an' ole marster gin 'im to me in my arms, an' sez he could trus' me, an' tell me to tek keer on 'im long ez he lived.

"I kyar'd 'im 'way off de battle-fiel' out de way o' de b.a.l.l.s, an' I laid 'im down onder a big tree till I could git somebody to ketch the sorrel for me. He wuz cotched arfter a while, an' I hed some money, so I got some pine plank an' made a coffin dat evenin', an' wrapt Ma.r.s.e Chan's body up in de fleg, and put 'im in de coffin; but I didn' nail de top on strong, 'cause I knowed ole missis wan' see 'im; an' I got a' ambulance, an' set out for home dat night. We reached dyar de nex'

evenin', arfter travellin' all dat night an' all nex' day."

FOOTNOTE:

[46] By permission of author, and publishers, Charles Scribner's Sons, N. Y.

MARY NOAILLES MURFREE.

"CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK."

MISS MURFREE was born at "Grantlands," near Murfreesboro, Tennessee, the family home inherited from her great-grandfather, Colonel Hardy Murfree, for whom the town was named. Her youth was spent here and in Nashville, the summers being pa.s.sed in the Tennessee Mountains: shortly after the Civil War, her father removed to St. Louis, and it was there that she began to write.

Her stories are laid mainly in the mountains of Tennessee and describe vividly and truly the people, life, and exquisite scenery of that region.

WORKS.

In the Tennessee Mountains, [short stories].

Down the Ravine.

In the Clouds.

Despot of Broomsedge Cove.

Phantoms of the Foot-Bridge.

Where the Battle Was Fought.

Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains.

Story of Keedon Bluffs.

In the "Stranger People's" Country.

THE "HARNT" THAT WALKS CHILHOWEE.

(_From In the Tennessee Mountains._[47])

[Ill.u.s.tration: ~A Summer and Winter View of the University of Tennessee, Knoxville, Tenn.~]

June had crossed the borders of Tennessee. Even on the summit of Chilhowee Mountain the apples in Peter Giles' orchard were beginning to redden, and his Indian corn, planted on so steep a declivity that the stalks seemed to have much ado to keep their footing, was crested with ta.s.sels and plumed with silk. Among the dense forests, seen by no man's eye, the elder was flying its creamy banners in honor of June's coming, and, heard by no man's ear, the pink and white bells of the azalea rang out melodies of welcome. . . . . . . .

Then the two men tilted their chairs against the little porch in front of Peter Giles' log cabin, and puffed their pipes in silence. The panorama spread out before them showed misty and dreamy among the delicate spiral wreaths of smoke. But was that gossamer-like illusion, lying upon the far horizon, the magic of nicotian, or the vague presence of distant heights? As ridge after ridge came down from the sky in ever-graduating shades of intenser blue, Peter Giles might have told you that this parallel system of enchantment was only "the mountings"; that here was Foxy, and there was Big Injun, and still beyond was another, which he had "hearn tell ran spang up into Virginny." The sky that bent to clasp this kindred blue was of varying moods. Floods of sunshine submerged Chilhowee in liquid gold, and revealed that dainty outline limned upon the northern horizon; but over the Great Smoky mountains, clouds had gathered and a gigantic rainbow bridged the valley. . . . . . . . . Simon Burney did not speak for a moment. . . . "That's a likely gal o' yourn," he drawled, with an odd constraint in his voice,--"a likely gal, that Clarsie." . . .

"Yes," Peter Giles at length replied, "Clarsie air a likely enough gal. But she air mightily sot ter havin' her own way. An' ef 't ain't give to her peaceable-like, she jes' takes it, whether or no."