Southern Literature From 1579-1895 Part 39

MRS. DORSEY, daughter of Thomas G. P. Ellis, was born at Natchez, Mississippi, and was a niece of Mrs. Catherine Warfield who left to her many of her unpublished ma.n.u.scripts. She was finely educated and travelled extensively. In 1853 she was married to Mr. Samuel W. Dorsey of Tensas Parish, Louisiana. Here she found scope for her energies in the duties of plantation life. She established a chapel and school for the slaves, and her account of the success of her plans gained her the t.i.tle of "Filia Ecclesiae" from the "Churchman." She afterwards used "Filia" as a pen-name.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ~University of Mississippi, University P. O., Miss.~]

Their home being destroyed during the war in a skirmish which took place in their garden, and in which several men were killed, Mr. and Mrs. Dorsey removed to Texas. They afterwards returned to Louisiana; and in 1875, upon the death of Mr. Dorsey, Mrs. Dorsey made her home at "Beauvoir," her place in Mississippi. Here she spent her time in writing, and also acted as amanuensis to Jefferson Davis in his great work, "Rise and Fall of the Confederacy." At her death, which occurred at New Orleans, whither she had gone for treatment, she left "Beauvoir" by will to Mr. Davis and his daughter Winnie.

Her "Life of Allen" is of great historical and biographical merit.

WORKS.

Recollections of Henry Watkins Allen, of Louisiana.

Lucia Dare, [novel].

Atalie, or a Southern Villeggiatura.

Agnes Graham, [novel].

Panola, a Tale of Louisiana.

A CONFEDERATE EXILE ON HIS WAY TO MEXICO, 1866.

(_From Recollections of Henry W. Allen, Ex-Gov. of Louisiana._[26])

The people wept over Allen's departure. They followed him with tears and blessings, and would have forced on him more substantial tokens of regard than words of regret. They knew he had no money--his n.o.ble estates had long been in possession of the enemy; hundreds of hogsheads of sugar had been carried off from his plundered sugar-houses; his house was burned, his plantation, a wide waste of fallow-fields, grown up in weeds. He had nothing but Confederate and State money. One gentleman begged him to accept $5,000, in gold, _as a loan_, since he refused it as a gift. Allen accepted five hundred.

With this small amount, his ambulance and riding-horses, he started to Mexico. His journey through Texas was a complete ovation, instead of a hegira. Everybody, rich and poor, vied with each other in offering him attention and the most eager hospitality. The roof was deemed honored that sheltered his head for the night. He stopped at Crockett, to say "goodbye."

This conversation occurred whilst we were returning from a visit to Gov. Moore's family. I had driven over to their cottage in a buggy, to invite them to join us at dinner. Allen had accompanied me. . . .

These exiles were personal friends of mine. I suffered in parting with them: for some I suffer still--for those who are still absent and still living! Everything was very quiet and still, nothing audible but the low murmur of our voices, when suddenly arose from the prairie beyond us, one of the beautiful, plaintive, cattle or "salt" songs of Texas. These wild simple melodies had a great attraction for me. I would often check my horse on the prairies, and keep him motionless for a half-hour, listening to these sweet, melancholy strains. Like all cattle-calls, they are chiefly minor. I thought them quite as singular and beautiful as the Swiss _Ranz des Vaches_, or the Swedish cattle-calls. They consisted of a few chanted words, with a cadence and a long _yodl_. Sometimes the yodling was aided by what the Texan boys called "quills"--two or more pipes made of reed--_cane_ (arundinaria macrosperma). This made a sort of limited syrinx, which gave wonderful softness and flute-like clearness to the prolonged tones of the voice, as it was breathed into them. The boy sang one of his saddest "calls." I looked quickly to see if Gov. Allen had noticed the melancholy words and mournful air. I saw he had. He ceased talking, and his face was very grave.

The boy sang:

"Going away to leave you, Ah-a-a-a-- Going away to leave you, Ah-a-a-a-- Going away to-morrow, Ah-a-a-a-- Going away to-morrow, Ah-a-a-a-- Never more to see you, Ah-a-a-a-- Never more to see you, Ah a-a-a."

[Music: Go-ing a-way, Go-ing a-way, Going a-way to leave you, Ah-a-a-a.

Going a-way to leave you, Ah-a-a.]

This had always been an affecting strain to me; it was doubly so under the existing circ.u.mstances. The song died mournfully away. We drove on in silence for a few moments. Gov. Allen roused himself, with a sigh: "That boy's song is very sad."

"Yes, but he sings it very frequently. He knows nothing about you. It is neither a prophecy nor intended to be sympathetic,--you need not make special application of it!"

"No; but it may prove a strange coincidence."

"You shan't say that. I won't listen to such a thought. You'll only spend a pleasant summer travelling in Mexico. We'll see you at the opera in New Orleans, next winter."

"I hope so."

Our conversation reverted now to past years. Allen spoke of his early friends among my relatives; of his whole career in Louisiana; of his wife, with tenderness,--[she had died in 1850], of her beauty and her love for him. His future was so uncertain--that he scarcely alluded to that--never with any hopefulness. It was only in the past that he seemed to find repose of spirit. The present was too sad, the future too shadowy for any discussion of either . . .

During this last visit, I never renewed my arguments against his quitting the country. I had already said and written all that I had to say on that subject . . . . .

Besides, our minds were in such a confused state, we scarcely knew what any of us had to expect from the victorious party, or what would become of our whole people. So that in urging him not to leave Louisiana, I argued more from instinct, which revolted at anything like an abandonment of a post of duty, and from a temperament which always sought rather to advance to meet and defy danger, than to turn and avoid it, than from any well-grounded a.s.surance or hope of security for him, or any one else. I felt more anxiety for his reputation, for his fame, than for his life and freedom. His natural instincts would have induced similar views; but his judgment and feelings were overpowered by the reasonings and entreaties of his friends.

FOOTNOTE:

[26] By permission of J. A. Gresham, New Orleans.

HENRY TIMROD.

~1829=1867.~

[Ill.u.s.tration: ~University of State of Missouri, Columbia, Mo.~]

HENRY TIMROD was born in Charleston, the son of William Henry Timrod, who was himself a poet, and who in his youth voluntarily apprenticed himself to a book-binder in order to have plenty of books to read. His son Henry, the "blue-eyed Harry" of the father's poem studied law with the distinguished James Louis Petigru, but never practiced and soon gave it up to prepare himself for a teacher. He spent ten years as private tutor in families, writing at the same time. Some of his poems are found in the "Southern Literary Messenger" with the signature "Aglaus."

His vacations were spent in Charleston, where he was one of the coterie of young writers whom William Gilmore Simms, like a literary Nestor, gathered about him in his hospitable home. His schoolmate, Paul Hamilton Hayne, was one of these, and their early friends.h.i.+p grew stronger with the pa.s.sing years.

In 1860, Timrod removed to Columbia, published a volume of poems which were well received North and South, and undertook editorial work. Life seemed fair before him. But ill-health and the war which destroyed his property and blighted his career, soon darkened all his prospects, and after a brave struggle with poverty and sickness, he died of pneumonia.

His poems are singularly free from sadness and bitterness. They have been collected and published with a sketch of his life by his friend, Paul Hamilton Hayne.

WORKS.

Poems.[27]

Prose Articles in the "South Carolinian."

Of all our poets none stands higher than Henry Timrod. His singing is true and musical, and his thoughts are pure and n.o.ble. A tardy recognition seems at last coming to bless his memory, and his poems are in demand. One copy of his little volume recently commanded the price of ten dollars.

SONNET.

Life ever seems as from its present site It aimed to lure us. Mountains of the past It melts, with all their crags and caverns vast, Into a purple cloud! Across the night Which hides what is to be, it shoots a light All rosy with the yet unrisen dawn.

Not the near daisies, but yon distant height Attracts us, lying on this emerald lawn.

And always, be the landscape what it may-- Blue, misty hill, or sweep of glimmering plain-- It is the eye's endeavor still to gain The fine, faint limit of the bounding day.

G.o.d, haply, in this mystic mode, would fain Hint of a happier home, far, far away!

ENGLISH KATIE.

(_From Katie._)

It may be through some foreign grace, And unfamiliar charm of face; It may be that across the foam Which bore her from her childhood's home By some strange spell, my Katie brought, Along with English creeds and thought-- Entangled in her golden hair-- Some English suns.h.i.+ne, warmth, and air!

I cannot tell,--but here to-day, A thousand billowy leagues away From that green isle whose twilight skies No darker are than Katie's eyes, She seems to me, go where she will, An English girl in England still!