ALBERT PIKE.

1809-1891.

ALBERT PIKE was born in Boston, but after his twentysecond year made his home in the South.

He was a student 1831, he went to

at Harvard and taught for a while; in 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.

WORKS.

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 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.

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 sphe èd 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 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.

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.

MAJOR JONES'S CHRISTMAS PRESENT TO MARY STALLINGS. (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.

louder nor a kitten, for fear he'd find me out; and after a while he quit barkin.

The wind begun to blow bominable cold, and the old bag kept turnin round and swingin so it made me sea-sick as the mischief. I was afraid to move for fear the rope would break and let me fall, and thar I sot with my teeth rattlin like I had a ager. It seemed like it would never come daylight, and I do believe if I didn't love Miss Mary so powerful I would froze to death; for my heart was the only spot that felt warm, and it didn't beat more'n two licks a minit, only when I thought how she would be supprised in the mornin, and then it went in a canter. Bimeby the cussed old dog came up on the porch and begun to smell about the bag, and then he barked like he thought he'd treed something.

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"Bow! wow! wow!" ses he. Then he'd smell agin, and try to git up to the bag. "Git out!" ses I, very low, for fear the galls mought hear me. "Bow! wow!" ses he. Begone! you bominable fool!" ses I, and I felt all over in spots, for I spected every minit he'd nip me, and what made it worse, I didn't know wharabouts he'd take hold. "Bow! wow! wow!" Then I tried coaxin-" Come here, good feller," ses I, and whistled a little to him, but it wasn't no use. Thar he stood, and kep up his everlastin barkin and whinin, all night. I couldn't tell when daylight was breakin, only by the chickens crowin, and I was monstrous glad to hear 'em, for if I'd had to stay thar one hour more, I don't believe I'd ever got out of that bag alive.

Old Miss Stallins come out fust, and as soon as she seed the bag, ses she: "What upon yeath has Joseph went and put in that bag for Mary? I'll lay it's a yearlin or some live animal, or Bruin wouldn't bark at it so."

She went in to call the galls, and I sot thar, shiverin all over so I couldn't hardly speak if I tried to,-but I didn't say nothin. Bimeby they all come runnin out on the porch.