may,' answered the priest, rising as he spoke.

A day later, and I too sailed away, As the steamer bore me southward, 'Father, your blessing,' said the little looked back toward the island with a sigh. hostess in a low tone, after a quick glance Half hidden in its wild green garden I toward the many windows through which 5 saw the old Agency; first I could distinthe bulwarks of Protestantism might be guish its whole rambling length; then I gazing. But all was dark, both without lost the roofless piazza, then the dormer and within, and the father gave his bless- windows, and finally I could only discern. ing to both of us, fervently, but with an the white chimneys, with their crumbling apostolic simplicity. Then he left us, and 10 crooked tops. The sun sank into the I watched his tall form, crowned with silvery hair, as he passed down the cherry-tree avenue. Later in the evening the moon came out, and I saw a Mackinac boat skimming by the house, its white 15 sails swelling full in the fresh breeze.

Strait off Waugoschance, the evening gun flashed from the little fort on the height, the shadows grew dark and darker, the island turned into green foliage, then a blue outline, and finally there was nothing but the dusky water.

The Galaxy, December, 1874

SIDNEY LANIER (1842-1881)

Of the younger group of Southern poets, those who began their work after 1870, the leader was Sidney Lanier, of Macon, Georgia. As with Timrod and Hayne, the current of his life was changed utterly by the outbreak of the war. He had been gently reared in a refined home amid books and literary conversation. His father, a lawyer, a man of the older classical culture, sent his son to Oglethorpe College, not far from his home, and saw him graduate at eighteen with a scholastic record that won for him an appointment as tutor in languages for the following year. There were dreams of German universities, of advanced courses, and a career as a scholar, but in April of his first year as a teacher there came to the little college the sudden call of war. Four years of soldiering followed, ending in capture by the enemy and four months in a Federal prison. Then in the spring of 1865, with permanently shattered health, the veteran of twenty-three went back to Georgia, to find poverty and desolation, his mother dying of consumption, and his own career almost hopeless. School teaching was his only resource. A brief period of this, and he broke down almost completely with the disease that had taken his mother. The remaining fifteen years of his life was a bitter fight with consumption, the odds completely against him. He spent a winter in Texas, and, falling in with a rare group of musicians, was made aware that he had a gift for music that amounted to genius. Later he was able to secure a position as flute-player in Thomas's orchestra, New York, and at length was called to Baltimore to take part in the Peabody Symphony concerts conducted by Hamerik. It is the testimony of musicians that Lanier was unquestionably the most inspired flute-player America has produced. Now it was that he began to turn again to poetry, the passion of his boyhood. The poem Corn' in Lippincott's attracted the attention of Bayard Taylor who gave him encouragement and secured for him the commission to write the Centennial cantata which made him a national figure. In 1877 he issued a volume of poems, and shortly afterwards was called to the faculty of Johns Hopkins University as a lecturer on literature. He was ready now to reap the rewards of his success, and began eagerly, excitedly, to pour out the message that was within him. But it was too late. The disease he had fought so long could no longer be denied; he died in the Southern pines at the age of thirty-nine.

Although the greater part of Lanier's published work is in prose, it is as a poet that he will endure, if he is to endure, for we must say at the start that he was not a poet of the first rank. To turn the pages of his small collection is to be impressed with its fragmentariness and, in the case of much of it, its immaturity. His early handicaps, his constant ill health when merely to live required his best effort, and his impetuous, highly imaginative temperament all tended to make his output sporadic and excited. He was essentially an improvisatore, a maker of splendid fragments, of rhapsodic outbursts, of tip-toe glimpses.' In his best pieces like Sunrise' and 'The Marshes of Glynn,' and 'The Symphony' he attempted with considerable success to blend music and poetry in harmonious word symphonies. What he might have done had he lived we can only conjecture. We know that his last work was by far his best. His Sunrise' he wrote while literally on his death bed, with temperature at high fever rate, and his voice weakened to a whisper. Surely the silencing of a gift of music at such a pitch of melody and spiritual uplifting must be counted as one of the tragedies of our American literature. Some of his realistic pictures of Southern life in his early novel TigerLilies, made several years before the advent of Harte and his school, place him among the pioneers in what we realize now is an important area of American literature.

CAIN SMALLIN

Cain Smallin was the most indefatigable of scouts. He was always moving; the whole country-side knew him. His good-natured face and communicative habits procured for him a cordial welcome at every house in that quiet country, where as yet only the distant roar of the

war had been heard, where all was still and sunny and lonesome, where the household talk was that of old men and women, of girls and children, whose sons and 5 brothers were all away in the midst of that dimly-heard roaring. In this serene land a soldier's face that had been in front of cannon and bullets was a thing to be looked at twice, and a soldier's talk

was the rare treasure of a fireside. The
gunboats in the river, upon which these
neighbors looked whenever they walked
the river bank, had ceased to be objects
of alarm, or even of curiosity. They lay
there quietly and lazily, day after day,
making no hostile sign; and had lain so
since Norfolk fell. And as for the eve-
ning-gun at Fortress Monroe — that had
boomed every sunset for many a year 10 muttered to himself,-
before the war.

He walked rapidly, and aimlessly. The
cruel torture would not permit him to
rest; his grief drove him about; it lashed
him with sharp thongs. Across fields and
5 marshes, through creeks and woods, with
bent head, with hands idly hanging, with
unsteady
step, he circled. A tear
emerged from his eye. It stopped in a
furrow, and glistened. Occasionally he

On his way to the Point which terminates between Burwell's Bay and Smithfield Creek, and which afforded store of succulent grass and clover for the horses, 15 Cain Smallin passed the house of a neighbor who had particularly distinguished himself in kindness to our little party of scouts. The old gentleman was seated in the open doorway, in the midst of a pile 20 of newspapers.

'Good mornin'! Mr. Smallin. Could n't stand it any longer, you see, so I sent Dick away up to Ivor yesterday to try and get some papers. Here's another 25 stinger in the Examiner. Sit down here; I want you to read it.'

'Thank 'ee, sir, don't care if I do rest a leetle; tollubble warm walkin' this mornin',' replied the mountaineer, and fell 30 to reading a slow operation for him whose eye was far more accustomed to sighting a rifle than deciphering letters.

'We was poor. We ain't never had much to live on but our name, which it was good as gold. An' now it ain't no better 'n rusty copper; hit 'll be green an pisenous. An' who's done it? Gorm Smallin! Nobody but Gorm Smallin! My own brother, Gorm Smallin! Gorm,

Gorm.' He repeated this name a hundred times, as if his mind wandered and he wished to fix it.

The hours passed on and still the mountaineer walked. His simple mountainlife had known few griefs. This was worse than any sorrow. It was disgrace. He knew no sophistries to retire into, in the ostrich-fashion wherewith men avoid dishonor. He had lost all. Not only he, but all whom he loved would suffer.

'What will the Sterlin's say? Old John Sterlin'; him that stuck by us when corn was so scurce in the Cove? an' Philip! him that I've hunted with an' fished with an' camped with, by ourselves, in yan mountains? And Miss Felix! Miss Fe

Massy me!' said he, after some silence, our men's desertin' mighty fast, 35 lix!' up yan, f'om the army. Here's nigh to a whole column full of "Thirty Dollars Rewards" for each deserter. Let's see if I know any of 'em.'

Cain's lips moved busily, in what might 40 well have been called a spell of silence. Suddenly he dropped the paper and looked piteously upward.

'May be I spelt it wrong, le 'm me look again,' muttered he, and snatched the 45 paper up to gaze again upon that dreadful Thirty Dollar column.

The man dwelt on this name. His mind became a blank, except two luminous spots which were rather feelings than thoughts. These were, a sensation of disgrace and a sensation of loveliness: the one embodied in the name Gorm, the other in the name Felix. He recoiled from one; he felt as if religion demanded that he should also recoil from the other. He suffered more than if he had committed the crime himself. For he was innocence, and that is highly tender and sensitive, being unseared.

At length the gathering twilight at50 tracted his attention. He looked around, to discover his locality. Leaping a fence he found himself in the main road, and a short walk brought him to a low house that stood in a field on the right. He 55 opened the gate, and knocked at the door.

Here's whar he said he 'd stay,' he muttered. Gorm himself came to the door.

'Put on your hat, Gorm!' The stern tone of his voice excited his brother's surprise.

'What fur, Cain?'

'I want you to, walk with me, a little piece. Hurry!' 'Gorm took down his hat and came out.

'Whar to, brother Cain?'

'Follow me,' replied Cain, with a motion of displeasure at the wheedling tone to of his brother.

Leaving the road, he struck into a path leading to the Point from which he had wandered. As he walked his pace increased, until it required the most strenu- 15 ous exertions on the part of his companion to keep up with his long and rapid strides.

'Whar the devil air you gwine to, Cain? Don't walk so fast, anyhow; I'm a'most out o' breath a'ready!'

The mountaineer made no reply, but slackened his pace. He only muttered to himself: 'Hit's eight miles across; ye'll need your strength to git thar may 25 be.'

The path wound now amongst gloomy pines, for some distance, until suddenly they emerged upon the open beach. They were upon the extreme end of the lonely 30 Point. The night was dark; but the sand-beach glimmered ghastly white through the darkness. Save the mournful hooting of an owl from his obscure cell in the woods, the place was silent. 35 Hundreds of huge tree-stumps, with their roots upturned in the air, lay in all fantastic positions upon the white sand, as the tide had deposited them. These straggling clumps had been polished white 40 by salt air and waves. They seemed like an agitated convention of skeletons, discussing the propriety of flesh. A small boat rested on the beach, with one end secured by a 'painter' to a stake driven 45 in the sand.

voice, have ye ever know'd me to say I'd do anything an' then not to do it?'

'II no, I have n't,' stuttered the deserter, cowering with terror and sur5 prise.

'Remember them words. Now answer my questions, and don't say nothin' outside o' them. Gorm Smallin, whar was you born?'

'What makes you ax me sich foolish questions, Cain? I was born in Tennessy, an' you know it!'

Answer my questions, Gorm Smallin! Who raised you, f'om a little un?' 'Mother an' father, o' course.' 'Who's your mother and father? What's ther name?'

Cain, air you crazy? Ther name's Smallin.'

Gorm Smallin, did you ever know any o' the Smallins to cheat a man in a trade?'

'No, Cain; we 've always been honest.' 'Did ye ever know a Smallin to swar to a lie afore the Jestis?'

'No.'

'Did ye ever know one to steal another man's horse, or his rifle, or anything?'

'No.'

'Did ye ever know one to sneak out f'om a rightful fight?'

'No.'

'Did ye ever know one to '— the words came like lightning with a zigzag jerk'to desert f'om his rigiment?

The flash struck Gorm Smallin. He visibly sank into himself like a jointed cane. He trembled, and gazed apprehensively at the pistol in his brother's right hand which still towered threateningly aloft. He made no reply.

-

'Ye don't like to say yes this time!' continued Cain. Gorm Smallin, altho' I say it which I'm your brother, ye lied every time ye said no, afore. You has cheated in a dirty trade; you has swore to a lie afore God that's better than the Jestis; you has stole what's better 'n any

'Little did I think, when I found it in the marsh this mornin' an' brought it thar, thinkin' to git it round to camp to-night, what use I was gwine to put it to,' said 50 rifle or horse; you has sneaked out f'om Cain Smallin to himself.

As he led the way to the boat, suddenly he stopped and turned face to face with his recreant brother. His eyes glared into Gorm's. His right hand was raised, 55 and a pistol-barrel protruded from the long fingers.

Gorm Smallin,' he said, with grating

the rightfullest fight ye ever was in; you has deserted f'om your rigiment, an' that when yer own brother an' every friend ye had in the world was fightin' along with

ye.

Gorm Smallin, you has cheated me, an' ole father an' mother an' all, out of our name which is it was all we had; you has

SIDNEY LANIER

10

swore to a lie, for you swore to me 'at the colonel sent you down here to go a-scoutin' amongst the Yankees; you has stole our honest name, which it is more than ye can ever make to give to your wife's baby; you has sneaked out f'om a fight that we was fightin' to keep what was ourn, an' to pertect them that has been kind to us an' them that raised us; you has deserted f'om your rigiment which it has fought now gwine on four year an' fought manful, too, an' never run a inch. Gorm Smallin, you has got your name in the paper 'ith thirty dollars reward over it, in big letters; big letters, so 'at father's 15 ole eyes can read it 'ithout callin' sister Ginny to make it out for him. Thar it is, for every man, woman, and child in the whole Confederacy to read it, an' by this time they has read it, may be, an' 20 every man in the rigiment has cussed you for a sneak an' a scoundrel, an' wonderin' whether Cain Smallin will do like his brother!

'But I cain't shoot ye, hardly. The same uns raised us an' fed us. I cain't do it; an' I'm sorry I cain't!

5 git down on 'em all the way. Listen to 'You air 'most on yer knees, anyhow; me. God A'mighty's a-lookin' at you out o' the stars yan, an' He's a-listenin' at you out o' the sand here, an' He won't git tired a-lookin' at ye to-morrow all day. Now by mornin' but He'll keep a-listenin' an mind ye, I'm gwine to put ye in this boat here, an' you can paddle across to yan side the river, easy. Ef ye 'll keep yer eye Bullitt Pint, ye'll strike t'other shore on yan bright star that 's jest a-risin' over about the right place. Ef ye paddle out o' the way, the guard on yan gunboat'll be apt to fire into ye; keep yer eye on the side, an' lay down under a tree an' sleep star. Ye'll git to the beach on t'other til mornin'- ef ye can sleep. In the mornin' ye 'll walk down the road, an' the Yankee pickets 'll see yer gray coat an' Head-quarters 'll examine ye, an' when take ye to Head-quarters. The officer at you tell him you air a deserter he 'll make ye take the oath, an' ef he know'd how many oaths ye 've already broke I think ever, I'm gwine to do the same foolishhe would 'n' take the trouble! Howsumdness, for it's all I kin do. Now when ye take the oath the officer 'll likely make ye sign yer name to it, or write yer name that name ye shall not write your own somewhar. Gorm Smallin, when ye write name; ye must write some other name. Swar to it, now, while ye air kneelin' buffore God A'mighty! Raise up yer hands, write some other name in the Yankee both of 'em; swar to it, that ye'll deserter-book or I'll shoot ye, thar right down.'

Gorm Smallin, you has brung me to 25 that, that I hain't no sperrit to fight hearty an' cheerful. Ef ye had been killed in a fa'r battle, I mought ha' been able to fight hard enough for both of us, for I cried a-thinkin' of you, I'd ha' been 30 every time twice as strong an' twice as clear-sighted as I was buffore. But sich things as these the mountaineer wiped off a tear with his coat-sleeve - burns me an' weakens me an' hurts my eyes that bad that I 35 kin scarcely look a man straight forrard in the face. Hit don't make much diff'ence to me now, whether we whips the Yanks or they whips us. What good 'll it do ef we conquer 'em? Everybody 'll be 40 a-shoutin' an' a-hurrahin' an' they 'll leave us out o' the frolic, for we is kin to a deserter! An' the women 'll be a-smilin' on them that has lived to git home, one minute, an' the next they 'll be a-weepin' 45 for them that's left dead in Virginy an' Pennsylvany an' Tenessy,- but you won't git home, an' you won't be left dead nowher; they cain't neither smile at you nor cry for you; what'll they do ef anybody 50 speaks yer name? Gorm Smallin, they'll lift their heads high an' we'll hang ourn low. They'll scorn ye an' we 'll blush for

ye.

'Had n't ye better be dead? Had n't I 55 better kill ye right here an' bury ye whar ye cain't do no more harm to the fambly name?

Cain had placed the muzzle of his pistol against his brother's forehead.

The oath was taken.

'Don't git up yet; kneel thar. Hit would n't do to put any other man's name in the deserter-book in place o' yourn, for fambly of ther good name.. Le''s see. ye mought be robbin' some other decent We must git some name that nobody ever was named afore. Take a stick thar an' write it in the sand, so you won't forgit ence. it. The fust name don't make no diff Write Sam'l.'

It was written in great scrawling letters. Now write J, an' call out as you write, so you won't forgit it. For I'm gwine to