will continue to be felt, by succeeding generations." (Page 197 from "Was Marshal Ney Executed?")

As different, by contrast, as day is from night was the life of Peter Ney in the new country from that in the old. The forced inaction of the pedagogue's life during the first few years in his new profession and surrounded by wholly dissimilar circumstances, served to make him morbidly restless. However, as time passed he reconciled himself to the inevitable commonplaceness of a foreign environment. His constant communications with those he loved in his home country was the one only privilege that amounted to joy in his lonely existence. These letters came not direct to him, but through a friend in this country.

His last recognition by a foreigner in this country was about six years before his death. While attending court in Statesville, N. C., he met on the street an old German-born soldier who had served under his command in France. The old fellow was then a farmer in Iredell county and had not so much as heard of the mysterious Peter Ney. When he saw him, believing him to be a ghost or something worse, he threw up both hands in the keenest agitation, screamed, "Lordy, God, Marshal Ney!" The schoolmaster gave him a sign to keep silent. Afterwards he looked him up and engaged in conversation with him.

In 1846, while living with Mr. Osborne Foard, Rowan county, Mr. Ney was taker. ill. His malady was not a mortal one and there was no reason why he should not have recovered. But the broken-hearted old exile no longer considered life worth the living. He refused to take the medicine prescribed and gradually grew worse. Throughout his illness he talked of his wife and his children and declared that he could stand it no longer; that he must go back to them. The attending physician, Dr. Locke, one of his old pupils, one morning approached his bedside and said: "Mr. Ney, I have done everything for you that I can do and it grieves me to tell you that I do not think you can get well." Mr. Ney looked at the doctor and responded: "I know it, Matthew, I know it." In the afternoon of the same day the doctor revisited his patient. Finding him perfectly rational he asked of him: "Mr. Ney, we would like to know from your own lips before you die, who you are." On the brink of eternity, the "bravest of the brave" a last time uttered the truth of his identity. "I may as well tell you, I am Marshal Ney, of France." Gradually the old man sank into unconsciousness. A few minutes before the end, from his flighty brain came the sentence that he may have uttered when the cannon still roared and the smoke stifled on Waterloo: "Bessieres is dead and the Old Guard fallen, now let me die." The greatest of warriors entered into everlasting peace.

In Third Creek Church burying ground Marshal Ney sleeps, far from his kindred, but surrounded by friends. A marble slab marks his resting place. The stone bears this simple inscription:

In Memory of

PETER STUART NEY,

A Native of France and Soldier of the French Revolution Under Napo

leon Bonaparte,

Who Departed This Life November 15th, 1846,

Aged 77 Years.

(Comment of T. E. W.)

I admit that Sir William Fraser's account of Ney's execution creates the impression that it was a sham performance. I also admit that there is much plausibility in the claim put forth for the North Carolina school-teacher. Nevertheless, my conviction remains unshaken that Marshal Ney was shot to death, in accordance with the sentence passed upon. him. The following are my reasons:

(1) His family preserve to this day an unquenchable hatred of Wellington and the Bourbons;

(2) There is no

evidence that Peter Stuart Ney ever attempted to communicate with the Neys, of France;

(3) None of the companions in arms of Ney, in their Memoirs, express the slightest doubt that he was put to death.

(4) The Bourbons never denied the execution. The Duchess D'Angouleme, who was very close to Louis XVIII made the wellknown remark-after learning of Ney's heroic conduct in the Retreat from Moscow "Had we known that, we would not have put him to death."

(5) Lord William Pitt, Lennox bears testimony to the execution. He was the son of the Duchess of Richmond who gave the famous ball, on the eve of Quatre Bras. He was on Wellington's staff, a member of his immediate military family, associating most intimately with the Iron Duke, by day and by nignt. It is impossible for Ney to have been saved by Wellington, without the knowledge of young Lennox. In the briefest possible manner as though the subject were disagreeable-he mentions the bare fact and hurries on to something else.

He also alludes to the rumor that the Bourbons were afraid the French soldiers would refuse to fire on Ney; and that

"BETHANY" TOLD SOME TRUTHS.

Dear Sir: One of your books, "Bethany," has an article about the Federal prisoners captured at the battle of Bull Run having brands, or prisoner marks, on them. This book was in the Public Library at Ensley, Ala., until I showed the article to the Librarian, who is a northern woman, and she removed it from the shelf and I supposed destroyed it. There are a great many northern people in Ensley, and they have had full charge and have filled the Library with books and magazines containing articles slanderous to the South. I have copied most of the articles of this kind from the books (a sample of which I send you), but in the magazines they were so numerous and as I was working twelve hours each day I did not have time to copy them. The children of Ensley are reading these books as they find them in the library believe them to be true. If the people of the South could be brought to a realization of the mistake they are making, by allowing their children to read these things, it would be worth thousands of dollars to your magazine. If they could be shown that instead of helping a magazine like yours that defends the South they are paying good money, and in some cases, keeping alive magazines that teach their children that Southern men are traitors and Southern women are prostitutes, so low that they do not even know the difference between virtue and dishonor. In no other library of the South

will you find so many books of this kind, but McClure's Magazine is in almost all of them, and in a great many of them you will find the books. These bound volumes of Little's Living Age (from which I send you some articles), were loaned the library by a Yankee woman from Buffalo, N. Y. Selected from one of the largest private libraries in Birmingham. They

are very valuable on account of their age, and I should think the owner would want to keep them at home where they would be safe. They are sure to be damaged in the library and perhaps lost. But no, they are filled with articles like those I send you, and so must be placed in the library for the children to read. Children who will never be told that they are not true. If you would publish in your magazine an article each month, calling the attention of the people of the South to the crime they are committing by allowing their children to read these books, and keep at it as persistently as you do after the Socialists, the foreign missions and the Catholic church, and by appealing to the patriotism of the Southern people could persuade them to support Southern publications, in a few years you would have more subscribers than any other magazine. The people of the South do not know. Only yesterday I was talking to a Southern man; he is working on the editorial staff of one of the Birmingham papers, about the failure of the TaylorTrotwood and the difficulty of keeping a

Southern magazine alive, and he said they ought to fail. They publish nothing but sectional matters, and I would not read one of them (and I don't believe he ever did). He did not know; if he knew the truth he would be an ardent supporter of Southern publications. I send you some of the articles I have copied from the books in the Ensley library, a most interesting story could be written from them if properly arranged, these articles in one column, and the truth in the next, side by side. Take for instance this article from McClure's about the people in the Tennessee River Valley between Memphis and Chattanooga. I know these people; have lived among them, and I know that nowhere else in the United States will you find fewer white women who are prostitutes, or a people who love truth, honor and virtue more than they. Sam Davis was a type of their manhood, and the men who made Forrest and Wheeler famous came only from the purest womanhood. There are a great many foreigners here, French and Italians, many of them coming here after living for a time in the north. An interesting story could written by representing yourself to them as a northern man and getting their opinion of the Southern people. For instance. there is a Frenchman here in business, making more money in one year than he could make in France in a life time, and being treated in a friendly, sociable manner by the Southern people in Ensley and having a better business than an American would have under the same circumstances. One would think he would speak well of the people here, but having lived for a few years in Ohio before coming to Ensley, he has about the same feeling for the people of Alabama as a Frenchman has for the Germans, and some of this animosity they bring with them when they come to America, getting it by reading translations of such books as Uncle Tom's Cabin and from men who have lived for a time in the north and returned to Europe. Sometimes I think they are more persistent, and find more pleasure in talking about the Southern people than the yankees themselves.

be

If the disposition of these books was left to me I would (and some day it will be done) put these books in a vault so that future historians in writing the history of New England could refer to them, for these scandalous books, instead of being, as they are supposed to be, a history of the South, are really a history of new England, and I would write across the door these words: "The brave are quick to forgive, but the hatred of cowards, like death, hell and the sea, is never full."

This is the article from McClure's, speaking of the people in the Tennessee River Valley between Memphis and Chattanooga:

"On one of my rides I found a lonely

log cabin in the door of which I saw a woman, surrounded by a flock of children, some six or seven of them, of various ages. Being thirsty, I rode up to ask for a drink of water, which she brought me in a gourd from the well, presenting it with a kindly smile and a few words in the local dialect that I did not understand. Although poorly clad and barefooted, she looked rather neat and clean; so did the children, who had evidently been washed that day. She appeared to be about thirty-five years old and the expression on her face was pleasant, frank and modest. I asked her whether these were her children. She answered yes, looking around at them with an expression of obvious pride and pleasure. How many children had she? Thirteen. Some were in the fields, the older ones. Where was her husband; in the army? Husband? She had no husband. Was he dead, leaving her alone with so many children? Without the slightest embarrassment she answered that she had never had any husband, and in response to my further question, whether she had never really been married, she simply shook her head with an expression, not of vexation, but rather of surprise, as if she did not quite understand what I might mean. I left her greatly puzzled. I do not mean to say that these cases portrayed the general state of civilization in a large tract of country. In some of the valleys or cones I found people quite illiterate, indeed, but intellectually far more advanced and more conversant with the moralities of civilized society, but even among them instances such as I have described appeared sporadically, while in some more secluded districts they represented the rule."

Writing of the Confederate soldier: "One source of amusement of the Federal soldiers consisted in the talks with the deserters from the Rebel Army, who came over to us in great numbers. There were so many of them that sometimes when I rose in the early morning I found the space between my headquarters tent filled with a dense crowd. They were a sorry lot, ragged, dirty and emaciated. Among those with whom I talked I found some who were not without a certain kind of rustic wit, but the ignorance of the most of them was beyond belief."

Here are a few of the articles, taken from hundreds of the same kind found in Little's Living Age:

Speaking of the Federal prisoners at Andersonville:

"What other deduction can be drawn than that all this was a predetermined plan, originated somewhere in the rebel counsels for destroying the soldiers of the enemy who had honorably surrendered in the field."

"At the time Kilpatrick made his nearly successful raid on Richmond, the city was thrown into a panic by his approach, and

the prison officials, so the story runs, deliberately prepared a more expeditous way of closing the career of their prisoners, It was somewhat more merciful than starvation, because it substituted instant death for endless agony."

"It will not surprise the reader to hear of the small mortality of the Southern prisoners."

"Washington a great soldier, though he could scarcely be called a great man."

"The starvation of thousands at Andersonville and Salisbury at this hour, tactily justified by the government, at the hands of whose agents they were wrought.'

This History of the United States by Goldwin Smith, written about 1904 is a mass of lies that any school-boy should know are not true. He says that Jefferson Davis was captured rather forcibly, dressed in women's clothes. That Forrest nailed negro soldiers to logs and burned them alive and white men captured with them shared the same fate, and then says the evidence for this seems conclusive. Why should we reject it?

"And the Southern prisoners were well treated. On Thanksgiving Day the table was spread with the good things of the season." He means turkey, I suppose.

I have never seen the following statement before. If it is true the Southern soldiers' reputation for valor is lost: "The South had the advantage of the defensive, which in battle, is reckoned at five to two." A READER.

Alabama.

"THE HORROBOOS."

Morrison I. Swift. The Liberty Press, Boston. Price, $1.00.

The name of the author of "The Horroboos" is not known to us, though the claim of authorship is made by him to "Marriage and Race Death," "The Monarch Billionaire," "Imperialism and Liberty," and several other works.

If the name is not a non de plume, then the lineal descendant of Dean Swift is with us and has found a publisher. "The Horroboos" is a tale of a tale, which in turn is made to be the appendix of still another tale, which turns out to be a crime.

"Colonel Fessendon Brady" is the character about whom the story of one Greyson is woven, and it need only be said that the book will not be suitable for Sunday school libraries.

An evident effort is made to show the political and financial trend of our own times, as Swift did in his "Gulliver's Travels." The story is well told, and for those who may read between the lines there will be found a stinging arraignment on our times and customs.

The denounment is rather startling.

A. L. L.

Virginia, a Tragedy, and Other Poems. By Marion Forster Gilmore. Jno. P. Morton & Co., Louisville, Ky., Publishers.

The comparatively small tragedies are often more lastingly interesting than the great ones. Nobody cares much now about the battle of Actium, but most of us are eager to read anything new about Antony and Cleopatra. Few of us could name any of the medieval captains and admirals of Italy; but none of us are ignorant of Beatrice Cenci. In like manner, we might nod over the story of Hannibal's famous victory at Cannse; but we always read, with deepest commiseration, of the beautiful Roman girl who was lusted after by the powerful Appius, and whose father killed her, because there was no other way to save her.

Often as this episode in Roman history has been written of, Miss Gilmore's contribution to its literature is most welcome. The tragedy is finely conceived, and it is worked out with artistic perfection

"Scene III-In a Garden of Roses," is a perfect love-tryst. It is the night before the tyrant is to seize his prey; and the betrothed lovers, Virginia and Icilious are together, alone.

"Act III, Scene I.-A cloudy morning in the Forum," is also a great piece of work. So also, is the closing scenes.

Among the fugitive poems which follow the Tragedy, I select the following:

Now and then we meet a man who carries us back to Nature, and as we listen to him talk, gesticulate and laugh, we think of the primitive, the innocent, the unconventional, the unsubduable. Such a man could not do a mean thing, a cruel thing or a thing that is cowardly. He may be chock full of egotism, but he is free from conceit. He may deceive you; but not until he has deceived himself.

He may not know the value of a dollar; but he treasures the gold of good will toward men, and he is happy in making others so.

Such a man venerates the grandeurs and beauties of the world in which he lives; honors God in his heart; yearns to lead men upward along the higher paths; is overflowing with sympathy for the sorrowful; and would rather be duped and robbed a thousand times than to lose faith in humanity. That's "Captain Jack,

the Poet-Scout."

There isn't a man in America who has more ideas in his head, a readier tongue, a warmer heart, or a braver spirit.

And he's a poet, too, in the same sense that Robert Burns was one. His appeal is not so much to the mind, as were those of Shelley, Keats and Poe; his song makes for the feelings as do those of Will Carleton.

The cloth-bourd volume which lies on my table throbs with life and emotion.

It richly merits a place along-side the poems of Bret Harte and Joaquin Miller.

"Whar the Hand o' God is Seen" is the typical selection that I shall make from my friend's book; but some other day he must tell us in noble numbers how hand of God is seen in men and women.

Whar the Hand o' God is Seen.

the

Do I like the city, stranger? "Tisn't likely that I would;

'Tisn't likely that a ranger from the border ever could

Git accustomed to the flurry an' the loud unearthly noise

Everybody in a hurry, men an' wimmin, gals an' boys,

All a rushin' like the nation 'mid the rumble an' the jar,

Jes' as if their souls' salvation hung upon their gittin' thar.

Like it? No. I love to wander

'Mid the vales an' mountains green, In the border land out yonder,

Whar' the hand of God is seen.

Nothin' here but bricks an' mortar, towerin' overhead so high

That you never see a quarter o' the overhangin' sky,

Not a tree or grassy medder, not a running' brook in sight,

Nothin' but the buildins' shadder makin' gloom of Heaven's light.

E'en the birds are all imported from away acrost the sea

Faces meet me all distorted with the hand of misery.

Like it? No. I love to wander 'Mid the vales an' mountains green, In the border land out yonder,

Whar' the hand of God is seen.

Roarin' railroad trains above you, streets by workmen all defaced,

Everybody tryin' to shove you in the gutter in their haste.

Cars an' carts an' wagons rumblin' through the streets with deafen'n' roar, Drivers yellin', swearin', grumblin', jes' like imps from Sheol's shore; Factories jinin' in the chorus, helpin' 'long the din to swell;

Auctioneers in tones sonorous, lying 'bout the goods they sell.

Like it? No. I love to wander

'Mid the vales an' mountains green, In the border land out yonder, Whar' the hand o' God is seen.

Yes, I love the Western border; pine trees wavin' in the air,

Rocks piled up in rough disorder, birds a-singin' everywhere;

Deer a playin' in their gladness, elks a feedin' in the glen;

Not a trace o' pain or sadness campin' on the trail o' men.

Brooks o' crystal clearness flowin' o'er the rocks, an' lovely flowers

In their tinted beauty growin' in the mountain dells an' bowers.

Fairer picture the Creator

Never threw on earthly screen, an this lovely home o' Natur' Whar the hand o' God is seen.

Another gem from this treasury is

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep. (Written while alone in the San Mateo Mountains, New Mexico, and while Chief of Scouts under General Edward Hatch, on the trail of Victorio, the Apache chief, ind his murderous band.)

Near the camp-fire's flickering light
In my blanket bed I lie,
Gazing through the shades of night
At the twinkling stars on high;
O'er me spirits in the air

Silent vigils seem to keep
As I breathe my childhood's prayer,
"Now I lay me down to sleep."

Sadly sings the whippoorwill

In the boughs of yonder tree; Laughingly the dancing rill

Swells the midnight melody. Foemen may be lurking near In the valley dark and deep;