have vied with each other in leaving the army in order to protect their homes from insult worse than that which produced secession.

VI

"Gallant Black Tom" and Treacherous Isaac

The friendly relations between the races were for the most part undisturbed. Where the Federal army passed, 'however, some change was noticed. Some few servants became insolent, and a good many were unwilling to work as usual. Large numbers on the other hand, clung to their "white folks" with noble fidelity. "I'll eat dirt and sleep in de leaves, 'fore I'll leave my ole Mistis and my young Missy," said gallant "black Tom" one morning, when told by the Federals that he was free. Of treachery worthy of an Indian, however, we had some cases, notably that of Gilmore Simms's body-servant Isaac. Though South Carolina was doomed beforehand to havoc and destruction, orders were given by the promoters of the brave "March through Georgia" to spare Simms's house, on the ground that he did not belong to the South alone, but to the whole country. This order was obeyed. The house and library were spared by the enemy. A few months later, however, before Mr. Simms could bring his family home, it was burned by Isaac, to whom the great littérateur had ever been a kind and a hu

mane master.

One of the marvels of history is the fidelity of the Southern negro to his master during that awful era. This fidelity

is appreciated in the South, and makes the relations between many old colored people and their white neighbors very tender. The old colored women, not being politicians, seem to feel closer to the whites. To meet "old Mammy" is a great treat to many of this writer's generation; and the good creature's eye glistens as she tells her friends, "This is one of my white chillun." Unfortunately these old mammies are dying off, and their places are being left vacant.

VII

War Poets of the South

As Greece had her Tyrtaeus and Germany her Arndt, Körner, and others to stir their soldiers with patriotic odes, so the South had her Timrod, her Hayne, her Thompson, her McCabes, her Randall, her Simms, her Cooke, her Ryan, and other poets. Women also touched the lyre, and thrilled the Southern heart. Catherine Warfield, Margaret Preston, Fanny Downing, Mary B. Clarke, and other gifted women wrote songs that were worth many regiments to the Confederate armies. Many of their poems stir our pulses even in these piping days of peace, and they are invaluable to the student of that fearful revolution. They should be read and memorized by our children and our children's children. As every English child knows the Battle of the Baltic, the Revenge, and many other such ballads; as German children know the Sword Song, What Is the German's Fatherland?, and other heroic songs; so our Southern child

ren should know Maryland, My Maryland, the Sword of Lee, Catherine Warfield's Manassas, the Song of the Snow, Somebody's Darling, and other poems that compress into a few lines whole libraries of history and whole centuries of

woe.

VIII

"Starvation Parties"

All shadow and no sunshine would make a nation of idiots and madmen. Relief there must be or the o'ercharged heart will break, and reason forsake her seat. In self-defense, therefore, the younger women of the South, wherever possible, and when no fresh sorrow prevented, used to come together to sing, play games, talk and dance with one another, or with the beardless boys of fifteen or sixteen, slurred as "trundle-bed trash" after the return of peace made them no longer needed. If one or two of the soldier boys happened to be at home on a furlough or on sick leave, what a charm would be added to the entertainment! What a hero in the parlor! How the fair maids would hang upon his lips as he graphically described his last battle, told how he captured a "whole company of Yankees," and, like Goldsmith's old soldier, "shouldered his crutch, to show how fields were won." If he had a voice, how beautifully his baritone or his tenor would blend with Lucy's soprano, Julia's alto, and Alice's contralto. While the dancing was going on, the old folks did not come into the parlor;

for many hearts were too anxious and too sad to care for dancing. But

"Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast,

To soften rocks or bend a knotted oak,"

as the poet says; and soon the old gentleman, the old lady, the maiden aunt, the sick cousin from the country, a good many neighbors, not forgetting the Rev. Dr. Hipkins, kissing pastor of half the pretty girls in the neighborhood— all came pouring in to hear the music. When This Cruel War is Over, Maryland, My Maryland, the Bonnie Blue Flag, Dixie, Her Bright Smile Haunts Me Still, Lorena, Stonewall Jackson's Way, and other favorite melodies, kept the whole neighborhood awake until an unearthly hour between night and morning.

Rarely was that music stopped by a call to supper. Those singers neither wet their whistles nor filled up the vacuum below the diaphragm. Those were "water parties," or "starvation parties." It was always Lent; self-denial, fasting, was the order of the day. Happy were those people that had had two decent meals, "let alone" expecting anything after supper.

Sometimes, however, there would be a sort of subscription party, each family interested contributing one or two dishes, puddings, and so forth. "Sorghum puddings?" do you ask? Goodness gracious! Or one of those delicious puddings that a South Carolina lady who refugeed in Charlotte, North Carolina, during the war called a "master