CHAPTER I.
LOOKING BACKWARD.
I have surrendered at discretion to vagrant thoughts. Just as the idleschool-boy will pause beside the limpid stream to watch its eddyingwaters as they go on and on, "never hasting, never resting," so I sitto-night in the haze of the years that are dead, with the mind sadlyreminiscent, and I watch the shadows as they seem to sketch upon thememory the familiar faces of our loved and lost, and I hear theirlaughter and songs--grateful echoes from the realm of the long ago. I amgazing again upon the sepulchre of the old South, after the plowshareof war and reconstruction had run the last furrow. In the garnering ofthe red harvest did our men and women of the sixties maintain themselveswith a proper decorum? Were they less patriotic, less self-sacrificing,less ready with heart and hand to divert the destructive revolution ofprinciple than their fathers of '76, who in the upbuilding ofrepublican institutions wavered not in their purpose; when the terrorand ignominy of the scaffold were before them; when they knew theirblood must cement the foundations of the structure they were rearing,and they themselves become the first sacrifice in the temple of liberty,which they were dedicating? In that epoch and since we have been makingthe grand experiment of self-government; not as Rome made it, whenliberty there was only a name for licentiousness; not as Greece made it,when a demagogue swayed the deluded masses and lacked only a throne tomake him a king; but with a constitution that should deserve theencomium of the people, for the unutterable blessings it should bestow;a constitution impervious to unjust exactions and unpatrioticsuggestions, we hoped for a policy dictated in a spirit of compromise;but as I look back upon the eventful past, the first adventure of GilBlas occurs to me. He had been furnished by his uncle with a sorry muleand thirty or forty pistoles, and sent forth to seek his fortune. He setout accordingly, but had not proceeded far from home, when, sitting onhis beast counting his pistoles with much satisfaction, into his hat,the mule suddenly raised its head and pricked up its ears. Gil Blaslooked around to see the cause of its alarm, and perceived an old hatupon the ground in the middle of the road, with a rosary of very largebeads in it. At the same time he heard a voice addressing him in a verypathetic tone, "Good traveler, in the name of the merciful God, and ofall the saints, do drop a few pistoles in the hat." Looking in thedirection from which these words proceeded, he saw to his dismay themuzzle of a blunderbuss projecting through the hedge, and pointingdirectly at his head. Gil Blas, not much pleased with the looks of thepious mendicant, dropped a few pistoles in the hat and scampered away asfast as he could. This slight narrative presents to the mind of thewriter the most perfect emblem of the pacific remedy of reconstructionin its beginning.
To the contemplative mind there is a melancholy pleasure in lookingbackward; as shadows will enter unbidden into the camera obscura,though every portal appears securely guarded; so memories will flitfantastically into the imagination when every approach seems closedagainst intrusion. I am looking backward, as it were, through a smokedglass, for a great sunburst is within the radius of vision, a sunburstthat cheered our tired eyes with its thousand scintillant gleams in thehot days of August A. D. Nineteen Hundred.
Looking backward upon a picturesque civilization--upon the oldhomesteads and plantations of the South, with their hallowedassociations and ideals--with their impedimenta not of human chattels,but of compact masses of freed slaves, the underpinning of thatcivilization in its concrete form.
I have asked the historian, the essayist, the chronicler, theclairvoyant, to aid me in the retrospection, but they answer dubiously.There is no trodden path that I may pursue. No friendly hand that I mayclasp as I stride across fens and brakes, and morasses: even the echoesof receding footsteps, like the laughter of happy voices are hushed anddead "lang syne." There are faded letters however that I may read;broken swords and battered shields hanging upon decaying walls; motheaten uniforms in garret and closet, that will guide me backward. Theline of vision is traversed by unwieldy throngs of dilapidated men, intattered gray clothes, without a federal head, without intelligentmomentum, breaking up and dissolving like icebergs drifting southward;they are coming back home where there is neither grain for the sickle,nor hope for the husbandman: coming back to little cottages where lightsin the windows kept burning for dear papa flickered and spumed, thendied down into the rustic candlesticks, when the little watchful eyes sotired and weary, closed upon the moonlight that shimmered within thehumble chamber.
Looking back over grave yards, where we reverently laid away our jewelsto be placed by the Great Lapidary in His Crown by and by, when we shallall rise from our sleep and shine in His emitted glory. Looking backwardover a strange realm, without boundaries or capitals, where there are nosoldiers and no battle fields, and where every thing is so fragrant andethereal. Here we may fashion pictures and weave around them gossamerdraperies as insubstantial as this golden twilight.
Hard-hitting, rough-riding moss-troopers rode over the subjugateddomains of the bewildered South, with swords that flashed and turnedevery way like Alaric's; rode hither to obliterate the past, itsmonuments, its shrines, its traditions; to scarify the old south withharrows and bayonets; its altars, its homes, its civilization, and tofetter with chains a great warlike people, with a purpose as fatuous asever animated the swart maid of Philistia. Against this senselessvengeance, the South rebelled again with the same old defiance, the sameold manhood. You may prod the wounded lion with pikes and sabres, butyou cannot tread upon it with iron heels without hearing its roar andfeeling its fangs. To these marauders, the old South was but a moor fowlto be plucked and eaten. To us she was dynastic, like Hapsburg,Plantagenet or Hohenzollern. To them the South was a huge incubator, outof which was hatched "Stratagems and treasons:" To us she was a Queen,still wearing the purple, still grasping the sceptre, as in pastevolutions and crises. She was Our Queen when a full century ago, andbefore there was a cabin upon her plantations she pleaded for theemancipation of slaves and was insultingly asked to withdraw herpetition by the Merchant Marine of Massachusetts. She was Our Queenwhen envenomed abolitionists were gathering the aftermath of the "Higherlaw proclamation;" she was Our Queen when Ossawattomie Brown unleashedhis bloodhounds upon a fresher trail at Harper's Ferry; she was OurQueen when Sumpter ran up a flag that had never before fluttered in agale, never before greeted a young nation with its maiden blushes,followed by the hopes, the prayers, the aspirations, faith and loyaltyof ten million men, women and children; Our Queen when "old Traveler"was stripped of his dust covered housings and led ever so weary backinto Old Mars. Bob's stables; Our Queen when the last cavalier wiped theblood from his sabre and scabbarded it forever. God grant she may alwaysbe Our Queen that we may be her liegemen, leal and right trusty in allcatastrophes! Hence we go back to think of her, to write of her, thougha widow bereaved of her husband, and a mother who has buried her firstborn. There is no sword now to gleam like a flash of light over theplumes of charging squadrons: there is no guidon to mark the line ofdirection through defile and mountain pass: no call of the bugle "tosaddle and away," no thanksgiving like that of Jackson; "God crowned ourarms with Victory at McDowell yesterday;" No smile like that of Lee asthe Army of the Potomac with trailing banners was double quicking backto Washington. Ah! no, but the old South through her blinding tears issmiling still; her dear old face re-lighted by a fresher inspiration.
A trifling dash of time between 1860 and 1870, but events have beenpacked away within that decade, that would overlap the four corners ofany other century in the calendar. Within those years were compoundedsomewhere in laboratories all the combustible elements of war andpillage; the casting the projectiles that would destroy a hemisphere.Broken hearts--crushed hopes--desolated homes, an enslaved country,wrongs, indignities, outrages, oppressions, all, all wrought by thecruel instrumentalities of great masters of tragedy. Here is an oldmansion with turrets and esplanades and terraces long neglected andsadly out of repair. Here are great oaks of a century's growth plantedand pruned by hands that have long since forgotten thei
r cunning. Hereare lapping waters singing in low sweet octaves as they did when pouredout of the hollow of His Hand. Here is the old rookery out of which arericochetting birds almost of every voice and plume. Here are cattle, redand dappled, cropping the meadow grass. Here are vast expanses clad inthe refreshing drapery of nature, upheaving their grassy billows. Hereare the crumbling cabins of the old slaves, in silent platoons thatflank the old mansion, the earmarks of a picturesque civilization abusedand denounced. Slaves, many of whom like the paintings of Titian andMurillo and Correggio in the great mullioned halls have come down fromformer generations. In yonder clump of soughing pines stood the littlemeeting house of the "cullud folks" on "Old Marsa's plantation." Herefor decades they worshipped. In the little brook that glides along socheerily singing as it goes, they had baptized adult "bredrin andsisterin." Here many of them had felt the touch of the Master upon theemancipated souls, and heard His voice in their spiritual uplifting,tenderly calling, and there when the gnarled and knotted hands hadceased their toil "Ole Marsa and Ole Misses" had laid them crosswiseupon rigid, lifeless bosoms, that heaved not again with the pangs ofsuffering; and out yonder under the maples, hard by the little babblingbrook, reverent and tender hands white and black had lowered the rudecoffin and covered it up in "God's acre," and here around the littlealtar ole Marster, and Miss Alice and Mars Harry worshipped with them.No master, no mistress, no slave in this consecrated ground; no black,no white, in the invisible Presence; no hard times to come again; notithing men, nor tax gatherers; no snarling, snapping wolf to snatch thegnawed bone from the hungry wife and her starving child. If the larderwere empty the "great house" had an exhaustless supply. If clothes wererent there was "allus stuff in de loom;" If the clouds gathered for snow"ole marsa" would put on his great coat and knock at the doors and ask,"Boys, have you got plenty of good wood for the storm'?" If Joshua hadthe "rheumatics" or Melinda the "shaking ager," or little Jeff thehives, there were ointments and liquids, pills and lotions; and whatphysician was so kind; whose hands so soft and tender, whose voice socomforting and sympathetic as "ole missis's and young missis's?" Therewas the garden from which the negroes would market their vegetables;there was the little "water million" patch where little Jeff and SusanAnn would run out at midday, and thump and thump and thump and would asoften run back with their mouths wide-open like a rift in a black cloud,"Mammy, oh! Mammy, dat great big water million is mo'est ripe--be ripeby Sunday sho," and their little black feet would knock off a jig on thebare floor; then there was the pig sty where Sukey the "sassy poker," inits sleekness and fatness, would grunt and frisk and cavort all the daylong. Then there was "Ole Boatswain," the coon dog, lazily napping inthe door--barking at the treed coon in his sleep; then there were the"tater ridges" and the pumpkins and the cotton patches; then there werethe cackling hens and the pullets, the ducks and geese and guinea-fowls;the eggs that Hannah and Clarissa and Melinda had counted a score oftimes, and knew to a four pence a' penny how much they would fetch inthe town; and "dere was de wagin wid ole Bob an' ole Pete wid pintedyeares, chawin' de bit same as it were fodder, ready to dash off foredey wus ready;" and there were the inventoried assets in trade, "freeforfs Hanna's and two forfs Melinda's and seben forfs Clarissy's," alltumbled in disorder, live stock and dead stock. And then "dere wasMelinda and Judy a settin' a middle ships into de wagin, all agwine tode town." And when the heavy wheels would rattle with its human freightover the hard ground of Ingleside, as the moon was dipping its netherhorn below the line of vision, and Clara Bell and Melinda "a singin' deole ship of Zion," "ole Marster an' Missis an' Miss Alice would runouten de great house jes to see if Ned had fotched us all back safe an'sound. An' den when Christmas would come, de ole turkey gobbler would beturnin' an' twistin' roun' and roun' fore de fire drappin' gravy in dedish, and de barbeku would be brownin' and de lasses a stewin out detaters in great big ubbens, fo de flambergasted cookin' stobes cum aboutto pester folkes. And den dere would be ole Caesar a shufflin' towardsole Marser's room, and little Jeff a sneakin' on tip-toe to ketch oleMarser's Christmas gift fore he seed em, an' Mary an' Polly creepin'like cats in Miss Alice's chamber, to get their stockins that SantyClaus had stuffed from top to toe; and den de clatter in de great dinin'room, when wid bowls of cream, and flagons of mellow ole rye, Clarissaand Melindv would be makin' egg-nog fur de fokeses, white and cullud, onde plantation."
Oh! this golden prime!
There were no black soldiers in greasy uniforms a hep, hep, heppingabout the plantation; no firing of guns by riotous negroes on theroadside; no drunken, revelling wretches to slash and deface portraits,walls and corridors; no lecherous villains to accost and abusedefenceless and inoffensive women; no vigils to keep for fear ofmurders, burglaries and conflagrations; no angry forces and energies toquicken and compound; no wife to say to her husband, "Have you fotchedany wittles back from the conwenshun? 'Fore God de chillun haint hadnarry moufful o' nuffin to eat dis blessed day, nor me nuther."
Ah, no! the blessing that was vouchsafed unto Israel, despite itsrebellion, was all bountiful in this land. "I will give thee peace inthe land, and ye shall lie down, and there shall be none to make theeafraid."
Then war came with its unutterable horrors and tumults. The old tallowcandles were snuffed out, and there were fears and alarms in the mansionand the cabin; the thoroughbred was brought out of the stable withyellow housings on, like the gelding of a knight errant, and the youngsoldier, dressed all in gray with buff revers, rushed out of the houseand vaulted into the saddle. There were kisses and good byes--lostechoes now--as the cavalier, young and happy and handsome, rode away.Yes, rode away in the descending shadows, over the hills, through theglades, to Manassas and to death. Yes, rode away to the deathwrestle--to where the guns were spitting fire.
"Bress yo souls, fokeses," said Uncle Ned one day, as he leaned upon hisstaff like a sheik of the desert, "I looks back now und den, und peerslak I kin see ole missis way back yander in de war times, when de kannonwas a plowin' froo de trees ober at Manassy, same as a sho nuffharrykin, und killin' a million of our federick soldiers at wun time. Iseed her und Miss Alice cum outen de grate house, a fairly toting MarsHarry dat rainy day he rid off to de war, und Mars Harry he looked sameas a gineral in all dem stripes und fedders, und Nelly she wuz jest achompin' de bit und er pawin' de yurth lak she wuz moes afeerd de warwant er gwine to hole out twell she und Mars Harry got dar; und den olemissis looked up in Mars Harry's face, und I seed her laf, do she wuzcrying tu, und den I heerd hur say, 'My brave boy, how kin I ever giv yuup! Will yer git er furlow und cum home arter de battle? Und den MarsHarry he larfed too, und den I heerd him say, 'Oh mother don't bechildish, I'm jest er gwine off fer my helth. I'm gwine to bring yer ayankee sord when we whups em and drives um tuther side o' de Pokomucriver.' Und den ole missis she put her pendence in every word Mars Harrytole her, kase when he rid off I heerd her tell Miss Alice dat her boywant agwine to be gone long, and dat de yankeys was agwine to give upfore dey fit ary battle; but bimeby, when ole missus seed dat Mars Harrymout not git a furlow, she jest gin herself up to die. All de day longpore old missis would walk up und down de piazzy a peekin' froo de treesund axin' me ef I spishioned he was gwine to git kilt, und den when sheheerd dat our fokeses had fit de battle of Manassy, me und ole mississot up all night long, jes a watchin' fer Mars Harry to ride back lak herid off; but no Mars Harry neber didn't come back twell one rainy,grizzly night me und ole missis heerd a clatter down de road, und den weheerd somebody say, 'Wo! und den a passel ov soldiers cum up to missiseasy like, and axed her if Mr. Seymo' lived dere; und when ole missisheerd dat word und seed de kivered wagin, she jes drapped down into deroad dead. Pore ole missis! De soldiers took her up in dere arms undtoted her into de 'grate house,' und dere was her and pore Miss Alicein hysteriks, and ole marser not a sayin' ary wurd but a chokin 'mos todef; und den de soldiers went back to de kivered wagin', and I heered'em a draggin' outen it a great big box, and I seed dem totin it to de'grate house' jes as easy and slow, wid dere milinterry hats
offen dereheds in de rain, und den I node it was Mars Harry. When ole missis cumto, she made de soldiers take de led offen de coffin, und dere was MarsHarry a lyin' dere wid his eyes shot right tight, a smilin debutifullest all to hissef. Ole missis sot dere all dat nite lak a gratebig statu, a runnin her fingers fru his hair an' a talkin' to him jes desame as if Mars Harry had rid back frum de war lak he rid off. An' denole marsa he cum in und looked at Mars Harry a smilin' to hissef, an' Icould see ole marsa shake an' shake, but he didn't say narry a wurd, an'he tuck Mars Harry's sord out of de coffin; den bimeby I heerd him sayhe was agwine to venge his death. Ole missis soon pined erway, causeMars Harry was her eyeballs. I tells ye fokeses, dat was de mostsolemcholly site I ever seed in my born days. Poor ole missis didn'tstay long arter Mars Harry died; she dun gon home too, an' I specks MarsHarry dun tole ole missis all erbout de battle of Manassy, an' how hefit an' how he got kilt; und erbout dat yankey sord he nebber didn'tfotch back."
To a paternal ancestor of Colonel John Walter Seymour has been ascribedthis prayer in battle, "Oh Lord, thou knowest how busy I must be thisday. If I forget Thee, do not Thou forget me." Then rising, he gave thecommand, "Forward, march! On, my lads!"
At eight o'clock on the morning of the 23rd of October, King Charles wasriding along the ridge of Edgehill, and looking down into the valley ofthe Red Horse, a beautiful meadow, broken here and there by hedges andcopses, he could see with his glasses the parliamentary army as theymarched out of the town of Kleinton and aligned their forces in battlearray.
"I never saw the rebels in a body before," said the king. "I will givethem battle here." There were hot words around the royal standard.Rupert, a dashing young general, who had seen the swift, fiery chargesof the fierce troopers in the thirty years war, was backed up by PatrickLord Ruthven and Sir Walter Seymour, among the many Scots who had wonrenown under the great Augustus Adolphus and opposed fiercely by LordLindsey, an old comrade of the Earl of Essex, commander-in-chief of therebel forces, who swore by all the saints in the calendar that he wouldnot serve again in an army under a boy, referring to Prince Rupert, whowas assigned by the king to command the army at Edge Hill that day.
It was to this circumstance that the country was indebted for the prayeraforesaid. The brave soldier, unyielding in his loyalty to the king,resigned his command as a general to command his company, and in sodoing gave affront to Lord Lindsay and the king; but subsequently, atScone, the king said to him, "You shall accompany me to London as aprivy counsellor."
It was from this doughty ancestor of blessed memory that John WalterSeymour lineally descended. I have seen the old corselets, shackbolts,shields and trefoils of that chivalric era that belonged to the oldbaronet. Colonel Seymour had interested himself greatly in theliterature of that institutional era that had so close a connection withthe pomp and power of the Feudal system. He spoke learnedly too of theideal purity of the social and moral code of the age.
The Colonel himself was no ignoble scion of so noble an ancestor. Hehad won his spurs and stars at Malvern Hill, and at the disbanding ofthe army he had covered the faded stars upon his collar with his pockethandkerchief until unobserved he could pluck them one by one and tramplethem underfoot. His haughty spirit could not brook the shame thatoverlaid him like a shroud when his sword passed out of his hands hiltforemost at Appomattox. He had taken the beautiful Alice Glendower froma neighboring estate as his wife twenty-six years ago, and now in theyear 186-, though a shadow darkening and deepening lay athwart heart andhome, the old man was still muttering curses long, loud and deep. He hadfully assimilated the indignant spirit of Coriolanus. "I would they werebarbarians (as they are though in Rome littered), not Romans as they arenot though calved in the porch of the capitol." His only surviving childAlice was now in her twenty-third year. Harry, a princely fellow, ayoung lieutenant of cavalry, had fallen at the battle of Manassas andever since that day the mother had steadily declined until now the endhad almost come. The likeness of the dead boy was photographed vividlyupon her heart and every tender chord was ceaselessly vibrating from thepresence of a grief, that recreated fancies and memories that broughtback to her the vanished idol. God's peace had settled upon the old homeand its hearth stones, one beautiful Sabbath morning, as the Colonel,his daughter and old Clarissa had assembled in Mrs. Seymours's bedchamber. The light of the morning sun shimmered through open windows,and the shadows of the tree boughs like imprisoned fairies danced incotilion upon the polished floor. "The birds are singing so sweetlyto-day," observed the sick lady.
"Yes indeed, they are," replied her husband.
"My dear," she said as she turned her face to him, "I have been greatlytroubled by a horrid dream."
"Land sakes alive ole missis," interrupted Clarissa, "don't yu pesteryoursef to def erbout dreams these outlandish times. Dey is bad enuffgoodness nose widout dreaming dreams. Ned he jumped clean outen de bedtother nite hollering for his ole muskit lak he was agwine to war--hiseyes fairly a sot in his head lak a craw-fish and a tarryfying me to defand hollering 'fire! fire!' and a foaming at the mouf lak a mad dog, undduz yu know what I dun ole missis? when dat drotted nigger holleredfire! fire! I jes retched ober de table an' got de pale of water an' Iput out dat fire fore Ned skovered whay hit war. Dat fool nigger walksperpendikler, now yu heers my racket." She laughed again and again asshe continued: "And Ned he wanted to fight; he was most drounded."
There was little of sentiment and less of diplomacy in the character ofColonel Seymour; though he was exceedingly tolerant toward Clarissa withher little vagaries and superstitions. What the dream of the good ladywas has never been known--the narrative was rudely broken off by theinterruption of Clarissa.
Would you know sweet Alice more intimately? I cannot portray her as shedeserves; her heart was like so many little cells into which wereunceasingly dropping the honey of blue thistle blossoms of charity. Inevery den of wretchedness; in every hovel where squalor and diseasedisputed all other dominions, she was a beam of sunshine, giving warmthand cheer and joy. The little star-eyed daisies in the meadow would turnup their tiny faces to greet her with smiles as she would pass them dayafter day with the little basket upon her arm; God had put her hereamong these poor people--among the deluded negroes as his missionary,and I am quite sure He was pleased with her work. I cannot describe herbeauty and grace of person better than in the natural and characteristiclanguage of Clarissa "Miss Alice," she would say, "Yu is the mostbutifullest white gal I ever seed in de wurrel; yer cheek is jes lakmellow wine-sop apples, und yer eyes is blu und bright lak agatemarbles, und yer teeth as white as de dribben snow, und when yer laffs,pen pon it, even de birds in de trees stops to lisen; und yu is jes assuple und spry as de clown in de show."
Golden tresses like a nimbus of glory adorned her queenly head. Eyes ofblue graduated to the softest tint; cheeks that transfered the deepblush from tender spring blossoms. Something in her there was that setyou to thinking of those "strange back-grounds of Raphael--that hecticand deep brief twilight in which Southern suns fall asleep." With Alicein her presence, Clarissa felt no evil; when the storm came withblinding fire, its fierce thunders, her refuge was by her side. She washer inspiration, her providence. The gentle hand upon the hot brow andthere came relief; an old fashioned lullaby from her sweet lips and thefevered pickaninny in the cradle would turn upon his side and fall intoa grateful slumber. A prayer spoken out of a heart touched by pity orsorrow, and instantly another heart would be uplifted in thanksgiving.She exercised too a power over the freed slaves that made captive to herwill almost all the stubborn and rebellious negroes. Old Ned would haveplucked out his eyes for her and cast them at her feet; so wouldClarissa, so would Clarabel; so would old Caesar and Hannah and Joshua.Only these rebelled against her influence, to wit: Aleck, Miles andEphraim. Clarissa would say to her young mistress so inquisitively,"Miss Alice, why don't yu git married? Peers like child yer is toosweet and pretty to live allus by yer lone, lorn self. Yer aint allersgwine to be 'ticin an butiful like yer is now. By and by de c
row's footis agwine to cum into yer lubly face and dere is gwine to be kurlikusand frowns in yo eyes jes lak yo mammy's; she used to be pretty undlubly jes' lak you, and whar is she now? De boys aint gwine to braktheir necks over you when yer gets ole an' ugly, nuther. Now dey is laka passel ov yallow jackets a swarmin' a-roun my house, and axin me disting an' tuther ting about dare sweetheart, and bress yo dear life I hasto keep a patchin' up de fence whar dey climbs ober to keep de horgs an'cattle beastes out o de crap. Dey is afraid to cum to de 'grate house;'skeert of yu an' ole marser. Ole Mars John aint gwine to be here allus,nuther; see how cranksided he is gettin' an' so ill an' contrawy thatwe das'nt projec' wid him no mo; an' whar wud yu be chile in dis grate,big house und dis grate big plantashun wid de cussed niggers a marchin'an' a beatin' drums an' a shootin' guns lak ole Sherman's army, treadin'down de corn an' 'taters und a momickin' up de chickins und de sheepsesund de cattle beastes? 'Taint agwine to do nohow. Dat it aint. I kincount fourteen portly yung 'uns dat wud jump clean akross de crick feryer any hour God sends."
Alice could only silently hearken to the force of such plain,matter-of-fact reasoning, but poor girl, there was not a single niche inher heart into which she could lift an idol. Within the shrine therewere nothing but soulless effigies, so faded and old and lifeless thatthey recalled only battle-fields and sepulchres. "Will her prince nevercome, into whose eyes she can see mirrored her own self, her soul in itsbeauty, love and happiness?" Do you ask? There is a medallion that hangsby a golden chain across her fair bosom. "How long had she worn itthere," think you? Ever since
"She was a child and he was a child, In his kingdom by the sea; When she loved with a love that was more than love, Alice and Arthur McRae."
The Broken Sword; Or, A Pictorial Page in Reconstruction Page 3