Part 15

Dr. Thomas Holley Chivers, the eccentric Southern poet, and maker of most unusual verse forms, was born near Washington, Georgia, December 12, 1807. He was instructed in the classics by his mother, and, choosing medicine as his vocation, he went to Lexington, Kentucky--most probably making the long journey on horse-back--and entered the medical school of Transylvania University. Chivers matriculated in November, 1828, and took up his abode at the old Phoenix Hotel, as his father was wealthy and liberal with him. He took one ticket and made it during his first year. The college records show that he returned for the fall session of 1829, and that, during his second year, he took two tickets, graduating on March 17, 1830. The thesis he submitted for his degree of Doctor of Medicine was _Remittent and Intermittent Bilious Fever_. Kentucky was the birthplace of the first poems Chivers wrote, and, very probably, the birthplace of his first book, _Conrad and Eudora, or The Death of Alonzo_ (Philadelphia, 1834). This little drama, intended for the study, was set in Kentucky, and founded upon the Beauchamp-Sharp murder of 1825, which was still the chief topic of conversation in the State when the poet reached Lexington in 1828. Chivers's second book of poems, called _Nacoochee_ (New York, 1837), contained two poems written while a student of Transylvania, entitled _To a China Tree_, and _Georgia Waters_. A short time after the publication of this book Chivers and Edgar Allan Poe became acquainted; and the remainder of their lives they were denouncing and fighting each other. It all came about by Chivers claiming his _Allegra Florence in Heaven_, published in _The Lost Pleiad_ (New York, 1845), as the original of _The Raven_. Of course, the world and the critics have smiled at this claim and let it pass. After Poe's death Chivers claimed practically everything the Virginian did to be a plagiarism of some of his own poems. His most famous work was _Eonchs of Ruby_ (New York, 1851). This was followed by _Virginalia_ (Philadelphia, 1853); _Memoralia_ (Philadelphia, 1853); _Atlanta_ (Macon, Ga., 1853); _Birth-Day Song of Liberty_ (Atlanta, Ga., 1856); and _The Sons of Usna_ (Philadelphia, 1858). Bayard Taylor, in his famous _Echo Club_, mentioned _Facets of Diamond_ as one of the poet's publications, but a copy of it has not yet been unearthed. Dr. Chivers died at Decatur, Georgia, December 19, 1858. No more pathetic figure has appeared in American letters than Chivers. Had he been content to write his poetry independently of Poe or any one else, he would have left his name clearer. He was a wonderful manipulator of verse-forms, but he was not what Poe was--a world-genius.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _In the Poe Circle_, by Joel Benton (New York, 1899); _The Poe-Chivers Papers_, by G. E. Woodberry (_Century Magazine_, Jan., Feb., 1903); _Representative Southern Poets_, by C. W. Hubner (New York, 1906); _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, Georgia, 1909, v. ii).

THE DEATH OF ALONZO

[From _Conrad and Eudora_ (Philadelphia, 1834)]

_Act III. Scene IV. Frankfort. Time, midnight._ Conrad _enters from the tavern, walks the street, dressed in dark clothes, with a masque on his face, and, with difficulty, finds_ Alonzo's _house_.

_Conrad._ This is the place,--and I must change my name.

(_Goes to the door and knocks. Puts his hand in his bosom. A female voice is heard within--the wife of_ Alonzo.)

_Angeline._ I would not venture out this time o' night.

(_Conrad knocks_.)

_Alonzo._ Who's there?

_Conrad._ A friend.

_Angeline_ (_within_). I would not venture out, my love!

_Alonzo._ Why, Angeline!--thy fears are woman's, love.

(_Knocks again._)

_Alonzo._ Who is that?--speak out!

_Conrad._ Darby--'tis thy friend! He has some business with thee--'tis of weight! Has sign'd a bond, and thou must seal the deed!

_Alonzo._ What does he say?

_Angeline._ Indeed I do not know--you'd better see.

(_Knocks again and looks round._)

_Alonzo._ Who can this be--so late at night?

(_Opens the door and steps back._)

_Conrad._ Behold! (_Throws off his masque and takes him by the throat._) Look in my face, and call my name!

_Alonzo._ Conrad!--Conrad! do not kill me, have mercy!

_Conrad._ Where is my wife? Now, villain! die!--die!--die!

(_Stabs him._)

Now, pray! if thou canst pray, now pray--now die! Now, drink the wormwood which Eudora drank.

(_Stamps him._ Alonzo _dies_.)

(Conrad _rushes out and is seen no more_. Angeline, Alonzo's _wife, runs in the room, screams, and falls upon his breast_.)

_Angeline._ 'Tis he--'tis he--Conrad has kill'd Alonzo! Oh! my husband! my husband! thou art dead! 'Tis he--'tis he--the wretch has kill'd Alonzo!

(_The doctor_, Alonzo's _brother, rushes in, crying "Murder!--murder!" Watchmen and citizens rush in, crying "Murder! murder!_ Alonzo's _dead_! Alonzo's _dead_!")

_Citizens._ Who, under God's heaven, could have done this deed?

_Angeline._ 'Tis he--'tis he! Conrad has kill'd Alonzo!

_Watchmen._ Who did it? Speak! speak! Conrad kill'd Alonzo?

_Angeline._ Conrad--'twas Conrad, kill'd my husband! Dead! Oh! death--death--death! What will become of me?

_Doctor._ Did you see his face? My God! I know 'twas he!

_Angeline._ I saw his face--I heard his voice--he's gone!

(Angeline _feels his pulse, while the rest look round_.)

Oh! my husband!--my husband!--death, death! Speak, Alonzo! speak to Angeline--death! Oh! speak one word, and tell me who it was!

(_Kisses him._)

No pulse--my husband's dead! He's gone!--he's gone!

(_Faints away on his breast. The watchmen and citizens take her into an adjoining room, bearing her husband with her--asking, "Who could have kill'd him? Speak_, Angeline--_speak_!")

_Curtain falls. End of Act III._

GEORGIA WATERS

[From _Nacoochee_ (New York, 1837)]

On thy waters, thy sweet valley waters, Oh! Georgia! how happy were we! When thy daughters, thy sweet-smiling daughters, Once gathered sweet-william for me. Oh! thy wildwood, thy dark shady wildwood Had many bright visions for me; For my childhood, my bright rosy childhood Was cradled, dear Georgia! in thee!

On thy mountains, thy green purple mountains, The seasons are waiting on thee; And thy fountains, thy clear crystal fountains Are making sweet music for me. Oh! thy waters, thy sweet valley waters Are dearer than any to me; For thy daughters, thy sweet-smiling daughters, Oh! Georgia! give beauty to thee.

Transylvania University, 1830.

JEFFERSON DAVIS

Jefferson Davis, the first and only president of the Confederacy, was born in Christian, now Todd, county, Kentucky, June 3, 1808. During his infancy his family removed first to Louisiana and afterwards to Mississippi, locating near the village of Woodville. When but seven years old he was mounted on a pony and, with a company of travelers, rode back to Kentucky. He entered St. Thomas College, a Roman Catholic institution, near Springfield, Kentucky. This tiny, obscure "college" was presided over by Dominicans, and Davis was the only Protestant boy in it. He spent two years at St. Thomas, when he returned home to be fitted for college. In October, 1821, when in his fourteenth year, Jefferson Davis arrived in Lexington, Kentucky, and matriculated in the academic department of Transylvania University. Horace Holley, surrounded with his famous faculty, was in charge of the University during Davis's student days. His favorite professor was Robert H. Bishop, afterwards president of Miami University, Oxford, Ohio; and his fellow students included David Rice Atchison, George Wallace Jones, Gustavus A. Henry, and Belvard J. Peters, all subsequently in Congress or on the bench. When Davis was in the United States Senate he found five other Transylvania men in the same body. He made his home with old Joseph Ficklin, the Lexington postmaster, and three of the happiest years of his life were spent in the "Athens of the West." He left Transylvania at the end of his junior year in order to enter West Point, from which he was graduated in 1828. As Lieutenant Davis he was in Kentucky during the cholera-year of 1833, and he did all in his power to bury the dead and watch the dying. Near Louisville, on June 17, 1835, Davis was married to Miss Sarah Knox Taylor, second daughter of President Taylor, but within the year the fair young girl died. Davis was in the lower House of Congress, in 1845, as a Democrat; but in the following year he enlisted for service in the Mexican War, through which he served with great credit to himself and to his country. From 1847 to 1851 he was United States Senator from Mississippi; and from 1853 to 1857 he was Secretary of War in President Pierce's cabinet. Davis was immediately returned to the Senate, where he continued until January 21, 1861, when he bade the Senators farewell in a speech that has made him famous as an orator. Four weeks later he was inaugurated as provisional president of the Confederate States. On February 22, 1862, he was elected permanent president, and settled himself in the capitol at Richmond, Virginia. President Davis was arrested near Irwinville, Georgia, May 10, 1865, and for the next two years he was a prisoner in Fortress Monroe. He died at New Orleans, December 6, 1889, but in 1893 his body was removed to Richmond. As an author Davis's fame must rest on his _The Rise and Fall of the Confederate Government_ (New York, 1881, two vols.).

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Jefferson Davis: A Memoir by his wife_, Mrs. V. Jefferson Davis (New York 1890, two vols.); _Belford's Magazine_ (Jan., 1890); _Southern Statesmen of the Old Regime_, by W. P. Trent (New York, 1897); _Jefferson Davis_, by W. E. Dodd (Philadelphia, 1907); _Statesmen of the Old South_, by W. E. Dodd (New York, 1911). Prof. W. L. Fleming, of Louisiana State University is now preparing what will be the most comprehensive and, perhaps, the definitive biography of Davis.

FROM FAREWELL SPEECH IN UNITED STATES SENATE ON JANUARY 21, 1861

[From _The Rise and Fall of the Confederate Government_ (New York, 1881, v. i.)]

It has been a conviction of pressing necessity, it has been a belief that we are to be deprived in the Union of the rights which our fathers bequeathed to us, which has brought Mississippi to her present decision. She has heard proclaimed the theory that all men are created free and equal, and this made the basis of an attack upon her social institutions; and the sacred Declaration of Independence has been invoked to maintain the position of the equality of the races. That Declaration of Independence is to be construed by the circumstances and purposes for which it was made. The communities were declaring their independence; the people of those communities were asserting that no man was born--to use the language of Mr. Jefferson--booted and spurred, to ride over the rest of mankind; that men were created equal--meaning the men of the political community; that there was no divine right to rule; that no man inherited the right to govern; that there were no classes by which power and place descended to families; but that all stations were equally within the grasp of each member of the body politic. These were the great principles they announced; these were the purposes for which they made their declaration; these were the ends to which their enunciation was directed. They have no reference to the slave; else, how happened it that among the items of arraignment against George III was that he endeavored to do just what the North has been endeavoring of late to do--to stir up insurrection among our slaves? Had the Declaration announced that the negroes were free and equal, how was the Prince to be arraigned for raising up insurrection among them? And how was this to be enumerated among the high crimes which caused the colonies to sever their connection with the mother country? When our Constitution was formed, the same idea was rendered more palpable; for there we find provision made for that very class of persons as property; they were not put upon the footing of equality with white men--not even upon that of paupers and convicts; but, so far as representation was concerned, were discriminated against as a lower caste, only to be represented in the numerical proportion of three fifths.

Then, Senators, we recur to the compact which binds us together; we recur to the principles upon which our Government was founded; and when you deny them, and when you deny to us the right to withdraw from a Government which, thus perverted, threatens to be destructive of our rights, we but tread in the path of our fathers when we proclaim our independence and take the hazard. This is done, not in hostility to others, not to injure any section of the country, not even for our own pecuniary benefit; but from the high and solemn motive of defending and protecting the rights we inherited, and which it is our sacred duty to transmit unshorn to our children.

I find in myself, perhaps, a type of the general feeling of my constituents towards yours. I am sure I feel no hostility towards you, Senators from the North. I am sure there is not one of you, whatever sharp discussion there may have been between us, to whom I cannot now say, in the presence of my God, I wish you well; and such, I am sure, is the feeling of the people whom I represent towards those whom you represent. I, therefore, feel that I but express their desire when I say I hope, and they hope, for peaceable relations with you, though we must part. They may be mutually beneficial to us in the future, as they have been in the past, if you so will it. The reverse may bring disaster on every portion of the country; and, if you will have it thus, we will invoke the God of our fathers, who delivered them from the power of the lion, to protect us from the ravages of the bear; and thus, putting our trust in God and in our own firm hearts and strong arms, we will vindicate the right as best we may.

In the course of my service here, associated at different times with a great variety of Senators, I see now around me some with whom I have served long; there have been points of collision; but, whatever of offense there has been to me, I leave here. I carry with me no hostile remembrance. Whatever offense I have given which has not been redressed, or for which satisfaction has not been demanded, I have, Senators, in this hour of our parting, to offer you my apology for any pain which, in heat of discussion, I have inflicted. I go hence unencumbered of the remembrance of any injury received, and having discharged the duty of making the only reparation in my power for any injury offered.

Mr. President and Senators, having made the announcement which the occasion seemed to me to require, it only remains for me to bid you a final adieu.

WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER

William Davis Gallagher, poet and critic, was born at Philadelphia, August 21, 1808. When he was but eight years old he removed to Cincinnati with his mother, a widow. In 1821 he was apprenticed to a Cincinnati printer. At the age of twenty years Gallagher journeyed through Kentucky and Mississippi, and his letters concerning the country and the people won him his first fame as a writer. In 1831 he became editor of the Cincinnati _Mirrow_, the fifth or sixth literary journal published in the West. Three years later Thomas H. Shreve joined Gallagher in editing the paper. Like all Western magazines, the _Mirrow's_ high hopes were utterly dashed upon the old rocks of failure from one cause or another. In 1835 Gallagher published _Erato No. I._, and _Erato No. II._, which were two small pamphlets of poems. _Erato No. III._ was published at Louisville, two years later. The chief poem in this was upon a Kentucky subject. Gallagher's anthology of Western verse, without biographical or critical notes, entitled _The Poetical Literature of the West_ (Cincinnati, 1841), the first work in that field, was well done, and it strengthened his claim as a critic. In 1854 he became one of the editors of the _Louisville Courier_; but he shortly afterwards purchased a farm near Pewee Valley, Kentucky, some twelve miles from Louisville, and as a Kentucky farmer he spent the final forty years of his life. He took keen interest in agricultural pursuits, but he made nothing more than a meager living out of his farm. His essay on _Fruit Culture in the Ohio Valley_ attracted the attention of persons interested in that subject. As a poet Gallagher submits his claim upon a rather long pastoral poem, entitled _Miami Woods_. This work was begun in 1839, and finished seventeen years later. This gives the title of his book of poems, _Miami Woods, A Golden Wedding, and Other Poems_ (Cincinnati, 1881). _A Golden Wedding_ is not an overly skillful production, and the poet is best seen in his shorter lyrics. Perhaps _The Mothers of the West_, which appeared in the _Erato No. III._, is the best thing he did, and the one poem that will keep his fame green. Gallagher began his literary career with great promise, and he pursued it diligently for some years, but when he should have been doing his finest work, he was winning some prize from an agricultural journal for the best essay on _Fruit Culture in the Ohio Valley_! He failed to follow the gleam. William D. Gallagher died at "Fern Rock Cottage," Pewee Valley, Kentucky, June 27, 1894.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Poets and Poetry of the West_, by W. T. Coggeshall (Columbus, Ohio, 1860); _Blades o' Bluegrass_, by Fannie P. Dickey (Louisville, 1892).

THE MOTHERS OF THE WEST

[From _Miami Woods, A Golden Wedding, and Other Poems_ (Cincinnati, 1881)]

The mothers of our Forest-Land! Stout-hearted dames were they; With nerve to wield the battle-brand, And join the border fray. Our rough land had no braver In its days of blood and strife-- Aye ready for severest toil, Aye free to peril life.

The mothers of our Forest-Land! On old Kentucky's soil, How shared they, with each dauntless band, War's tempest, and life's toil! They shrank not from the foeman, They quail'd not in the fight, But cheer'd their husbands through the day, And soothed them through the night.

The mothers of our Forest-Land! _Their_ bosoms pillow'd Men; And proud were they by such to stand In hammock, fort, or glen; To load the sure old rifle-- To run the leaden ball-- To watch a battling husband's place, And fill it should he fall.

The mothers of our Forest-Land! Such were their daily deeds: Their monument--where does it stand? Their epitaph--who reads? No braver dames had Sparta-- No nobler matrons Rome-- Yet who or lauds or honors them, Ev'n in their own green home?

The mothers of our Forest-Land! They sleep in unknown graves; And had they borne and nursed a band Of ingrates, or of slaves, They had not been more neglected! But their graves shall yet be found, And their monuments dot here and there "The Dark and Bloody Ground!"

THOMAS H. SHREVE

Thomas H. Shreve, poet and journalist, was born at Alexandria, Virginia, in 1808. In early life he removed to Louisville, Kentucky, and entered mercantile pursuits. In 1834 Shreve became a Cincinnati editor; but four years later he returned to Louisville to again engage in business. Throughout his business career, Shreve was a constant contributor of poems and prose sketches to the best magazines. He finally abandoned business for literature, and he at once became associate editor of the _Louisville Journal_. He was not a rugged journalist of the Prentice type, but a cultured and chaste essayist who should have written from his study window, rather than from such a seething hothouse of sarcasm and invective as Prentice maintained. He was a mild-mannered man, a Quaker, who spent his last months on earth in crossing swords with Thomas Babington Macaulay concerning the character of William Penn. In 1851 Shreve's _Drayton, an American Tale_, was issued by the Harpers at New York. This work won the author much praise in the East as well as in the West, and it started him upon an honorable career, which was soon cut short by disease. Thomas H. Shreve died at Louisville, December 23, 1853. Prentice penned a splendid tribute to the memory of his dead friend and associate; and some years later a collection of his verse was made as a fitting memorial of his blameless life and literary labors.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Poets and Poetry of the West_, by W. T. Coggeshall (Columbus, Ohio, 1860); _History of Kentucky_, by R. H. Collins (Covington, Kentucky, 1882); _The Shreve Family_, by L. P. Allen (Greenfield, Illinois).

I HAVE NO WIFE

[From _The Knickerbocker Magazine_ (August, 1838)]

I have no wife--and I can go Just where I please, and feel as free As crazy winds which choose to blow Round mountain-tops their melody. On those who have Love's race to run, Hope, like a seraph, smiles most sweet-- But they who Hymen's goal have won, Sometimes, 'tis said, find Hope a cheat.

I have no wife--young girls are fair-- But how it is, I cannot tell, No sooner are they wed, than their Enchantments give them the farewell. The girls, oh, bless them! make us yearn To risk all odds and take a wife-- To cling to one, and not to turn Ten thousand in the dance of life.

I have no wife:--Who'd have his nose Forever tied to one lone flower, E'en if that flower should be a rose, Plucked with light hand from fairy bower? Oh! better far the bright bouquet Of flowers of every hue and clime; By turns to charm the sense away, And fill the heart with dreams sublime.

I have no wife:--I now can change From grave to joy, from light to sad Unfettered, in my freedom range And fret awhile, and, then, be glad. I now can heed a Siren's tongue, And feel that eyes glance not in vain-- Make love apace, and, being flung, Get up and try my luck again.

I have no wife to pull my hair If it should chance entangled be-- I'm like the lion in his lair, Who flings his mane about him free. If 'tis my fancy, I can wear My boots unblessed by blacking paste, Cling to my coat till it's threadbare, Without a lecture on bad taste.

I have no wife, and I can dream Of girls who're worth their weight in gold; Can bask my heart in Love's broad beam, And dance to think it's yet unsold. Or I can look upon a brow Which mind and beauty both enhance, Go to the shrine, and make my bow, And thank the Fates I have a chance.

I have no wife, and, like a wave, Can float away to any land, Curl up and kiss, or gently lave The sweetest flowers that are at hand. A Pilgrim, I can bend before The shrine which heart and mind approve;-- Or, Persian like, I can adore Each star that gems the heaven of love.

I have no wife--in heaven, they say, Such things as weddings are not known-- Unyoked the blissful spirits stray O'er fields where care no shade has thrown. Then why not have a heaven below, And let fair Hymen hence be sent? It would be fine--but as things go, _Unwedded, folks won't be content_!

ORMSBY M. MITCHEL