The united opinion. [volume] (Bradford, Vt.) 1881-1970, 1891-03-13
JAMES r. RANDALL
he IS THE AUTHOR OF MARY
LAND, NY MARYLAND"

rs 70 tVe AOIVOH VI MANY
LAND, NY MARYLAND"
II Was Famous Song In War Times,
and edmund Kirke," Who Wrote
"Among the Pines," Writes Most En-
tertsiningly Of Its Writer.
Especial Correspondence
New York. March 5.-Those who are
old enough to remember the first year of
the war cannot have forgotten the STIR
ring lyric Of maryland, My Maryland"
which appeared in the northern papers
early in 1861, directly after the passage
Of the first Massachusetts troops through
the streets of Baltimore. 1t was touched
with true heroic fire, genuine inspira-
ton, worthy of Beranger or Rouget de
Lisle. It sounded through tho south like
the blast of bugle, calling her brave
sons to arms, and, set to music by lady
Of Baltimore, it was sung at the head Of
her regiments as they marched to meet
the northern invaders. Everywhere it was
greeted with universal admiration-in
the north, where Oliver Wendell Holmes
grfeved that he could not indite some such
song for Massachusetts, and throughout
Europe, where titled ladies sang it in
their salons, and told their husbands
that country which could produce so
patriotic strain had right to be free.
At once, and universally, it was recog-
nized as one Of those passionate out
bursts of song that only now and then,
at long intervals, we'll up from the heart
Of a great people. "And who is the
singer whose inspired voice can SO thrill
alike the hearts of friends and ememiesr'
This was the universal question, and in
due time it was answered that he was
native Of Baltimore, a young man Of
scarcely twenty-five, named Randall,
who for couple Of years had been pro-
lessor in Louisiana college, and the
story went, that going to the postofice
on the night the news arrived of the
bloodshed in Baltimore, he had read the
account of it in The New Orleans Delta.
Then, riding back the seven miles to his
home, he had gone to his room and tried
to lose in sleep all thought of the desc
Grafton of his native city, but he could
not sleep. His thoughts would not down,
and rising from his bed he paced up and
down lis room, still brooding upon the
Moody event in Baltimore. From his
64ul went up the cry, "Marylandl My
Marylandr' and suddenly his feeling
tOrmed itself into words, and, sitting
Ydown at his desk, in half an hour he set
kupon paper the inspired lyric, word for
word, just as it was afterward sung in
two worlds by many millions.
On the following day he read it to his
college students when they met for their
after dinner recitation. It seemed to
them wild with patriotic enthusiasm,
and thus encouraged he sent it to The
New Orleans Delta, and within week
it was read in every corner Of the coun-
try, and everywhere it's author was rec
ognized as a genuine poet, Of the high
est-nrder Of lyrical ability, but some
aid, 1T is single poem, like the Burial
81 Sir John Moore and ths Last Rose
of Summer" but this young Randall
quickly disproved by producing one af-
ter another, as the war brought to him
the inspiration, such perfect lyrics as
"Stonewall jackson" and "There's Life
in the Old Land Yet" He could not
fght-a fragile constitution doomed him
to life of bodily inaction-but it is not
too much to say that his stirring lyrics
1did more to inspire his loved "south-
land" than any half dozen of her vic
eories.
The above remarks are preliminary to
he statement that had not been many
hays settled in my New York Office
when one morning a strange gentleman
WAS ushered into my private sanctum.
He was a man of about fifty years, of
klender figure and not above the medium |
height, but his face and eye at once at
tracted my attention, and involuntarily |
rose to receive him. Either the usher
had forgotten his name or had not been
told it, for as the stranger extended his
hand to me he said:
my name is James R. Randall, and
want to know you"
"What!' l exclaimed. "Not Mary
Hand, My Maryland?
q. His smile was affirmative, and at once
q asked him to be seated. Then for two
!. full hours we sat there, discoursing to-
Igether as if we had known each other
for century. The conversation ranged
over a great variety of subjects, but If
should attempt the repeating of any por-
P ton of it I should have to say as the re-
tporter, Attree, once said to the editor of
The New York Herald, when asked for
bis report of a speech by Rufus Choate:
Il have no report, sir. l can't report
chain lightning" Ihave listened to the
eloquence of many gifted men, but I
never before heard logic set on fire, emo
ton crystallized into words that burned
ID the utterance. He spoke not only
With his voice but with his eyes, his
every feature, and even with his gest-
ues. His talk was an impromptu poem.
he announced some peculiar views, but
with statement so clear and logic SO con-
vincing that had to weigh his care
fully before refusing them acceptance.
Somehow the conversation drifted
upon Hamlet, and asked his opinion of
his insanity. Was it real or merely as
sumed? His answer was in substance
that it was real, but that his mind was
Lat at all times unhinged. At times he