had killed in all, up to that time, fifty-eight bears, during the fall and winter. As soon as the time came for them to quit their houses and come out again in the spring, I took a notion to hunt a little more, and in about one month I had killed forty-seven more, which made one hundred and five bears I had killed in less than one year from that time. Motto.-Be sure you are right—then go ahead. RICHARD HENRY WILDE. RICHARD HENRY WILDE was a native of Ireland but was brought to this country when a child of nine. His father died in 1802 and the widowed mother took up her residence in Augusta, Georgia. He studied law and became a successful practitioner. He was Attorney-General of the State, and served also in the Legislature and in Congress. He spent the years 1834-40 in Europe studying chiefly Italian literature; in his researches he discovered some old documents relating to Dante and a portrait of him painted by Giotto on a wall which had become covered over with whitewash. On his return to America he settled in New Orleans and became professor of Law in the University of Louisiana. He died there of yellow fever. He began an epic poem, suggested by the life and adventures of his brother, James Wilde, in the Seminole war. But it was never finished: all that remains of it now is the fine lyric, "My Life is Like the Summer Rose." This song was translated by Anthony Barclay into Greek and announced to be a newly discovered ode of Alcaeus. This claim was soon disproved by the scholars, and to Mr. Wilde RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 179 was given his due meed of poetic authorship. It appears in Stedman's "Library of American Literature," as dedicated to Mrs. White-Beatty, daughter of Gen. John Adair, of Ky., the beautiful "Florida White" of "Casa Bianca," Florida. See Life, Labors, and Grave of Wilde, by C. C. Jones, Jr. WORKS. Conjectures and Researches concerning the Love, Madness, and Imprisonment of Tasso, (containing translations of poems.) Petrarch. Poems, original and translated. MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. My life is like the summer rose, My life is like the autumn leaf Which trembles in the moon's pale ray, Restless, and soon to pass away; Yet when that leaf shall fall and fade, My life is like the prints which feet Soon as the rising tide shall beat Their trace will vanish from the sand; Yet still as grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea; But none, alas! shall mourn for me! AUGUSTUS BALDWIN LONGSTREET. 1790-1870. AUGUSTUS BALDWIN LONGSTREET was born in Augusta, Georgia. He became first a lawyer and was elected to the State Legislature in 1821 and judge of the Superior Court in 1822. Later he became a clergyman in the Methodist Church and president of Emory College, Georgia, being afterwards successively president of Centenary College, Louisiana, of the University of Mississippi, and of South Carolina College. His best-known book, "Georgia Scenes," seems in his later days to have troubled his conscience and he tried to suppress it entirely. But sketches so amusing and so true to life would not be suppressed. See Sketch in Miss Rutherford's American Authors, (Atlanta). WORKS. Essays and Articles in various magazines. Letters to Clergymen of the Northern Methodist Church. Letters from Georgia to Massachusetts. Georgia Scenes, Characters, Incidents, in the First Half Century of the Republic, by a Native Georgian. Master William Mitten. NED BRACE AT CHURCH. (From Georgia Scenes, first edition, 1835.*) [Ned Brace was a real personage, Judge Edmund Bacon, born in Virginia, 1776, lived in Edgefield, South Carolina, and died there in 1826. He was of very social, hospitable nature, a practical joker, and, as Dr. Maxcy called him, "a perfect Garrick" in his conversation. He was a lawyer of great ability; and when very young and a student at Augusta he was appointed to deliver an address of welcome to Washington on his Southern tour. If the following anecdotes are not true, they might well have been, as Judge Longstreet says.] This being the Sabbath, at the usual hour Ned went to Church, and selected for his morning service one of those *By special kindness of Mr. Charles Edgeworth Jones, Augusta, Ga. Churches in which the pews are free, and in which the hymn is given out and sung by the congregation, a half recitative. Ned entered the Church, in as fast a walk as he could possibly assume; proceeded about half down the aisle, and popped himself down in his seat as quick as if he had been shot. The more thoughtless of the congregation began to titter, and the graver peeped up slily, but solemnly at him. The pastor rose, and, before giving out the hymn, observed that singing was a part of the service, in which he thought the whole congregation ought to join. ing, he gave out the first lines of the hymn. As soon as the tune was raised, Ned struck in, with one of the loudest, hoarsest, and most discordant voices that ever annoyed a solemn assembly. Thus say "I would observe," said the preacher, before giving out the next two lines, "that there are some people who have not the gift of singing; such, of course, are not expected to sing." Ned took the hint and sang no more; but his entrance into church, and his entrance into the hymn, had already dispersed the solemnity of three fifths of the congregation. As soon as the pastor commenced his sermon, Ned opened his eyes, threw back his head, dropt his under jaw, and surrendered himself to the most intense interest. The preacher was an indifferent one; and by as much as he became dull and insipid, by so much did Ned become absorbed in his discourse. And yet it was impossible for the nicest observer to detect anything in his looks or manner, short of the most solemn devotion. The effect which his conduct had upon the congregation, and their subsequent remarks, must be left to the imagination of the reader. I give but one remark: "Bless that good man who came in the church so quick," said a venerable matron as she left the church door, "how he was affected by the sarment." Ned went to church no more on that day. About four o'clock in the afternoon, while he was standing at the tavern door, a funeral procession passed by, at the foot of which, and singly, walked one of the smallest men I ever saw. As soon as he came opposite the door, Ned stepped out and joined him with great solemnity. The contrast between the two was ludicrously striking, and the little man's looks and uneasiness plainly showed that he felt it. However, he soon became reconciled to it. They proceeded but a little way before Ned inquired of his companion who was dead. "Mr. Noah Bills," said the little man. “Nan?” said Ned, raising his hand to his ear in token of deafness, and bending his head to the speaker. "Mr. Noah Bills," repeated the little man, loud enough to disturb the two couples immediately before him. "Mrs. Noel's Bill!" said Ned with mortification and astonishment. "Do the white persons pay such respect to niggers in Savannah? I sha'n't do it." So saying, he left the procession. The little man was at first considerably nettled; but upon being left to his own reflections, he got into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, as did the couple immediately in advance of him, who overheard Ned's remark. The procession now exhibited a most mortifying spectacle—the head of it in mourning and in tears, and the foot of it convulsed with laughter. Mrs. Shad. A SAGE CONVERSATION. (From Georgia Scenes, first edition, 1835.) [Three old women over their pipes.] The old man likes a joke yet right well, the old man does; but he's a mighty good man, and I think he |