Adventure | Science Fiction | Ghost stories | Poetry | Children | History BookOpen Original Text this man runneth not to the
contrary. All the strong love of her simple and faithful nature seemed
bestowed on 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 was!
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!
FOOTNOTE:
[30] As in the case of the gentleman for whom Senator Vance's native
county was named. He had over his front door the inscription:
"Buncombe Hall,
Welcome all!"
ALBERT PIKE.
~1809=1891.~
ALBERT PIKE was born in Boston, but after his twenty-second year 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.
WORKS.
Hymns to the Gods.
Prose Sketches and Poems.
Reports of Cases in the Supreme Court of Arkansas.
Works on Freemasonry.
Nugae, (including Hymns to the Gods).
The following poem is one of the best on that wonderful 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
Of these green solitudes; and all the clear,
Bright joyance of their song enthralls the ear,
And floods 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 Æolian 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 a bright 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, like a rich flood of light.
WILLIAM TAPPAN THOMPSON.
~1812=1882.~
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.
WORKS.
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.
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