The sun. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1833-1916, 1899-10-23

Southern contemporary complained the
other day OF the prejudice OF the editors
OF Northern magazine against Southern
contributions and contributors. These edl-
tors, It is true, don't know that they have
bias against meridional literature; but IL
they have not, why do we find so many and
30 beautiful specimens OF that literature
in Southern newspapers and so few
IN Northern magazinesH 1t may be
said that the magazines are small
and infrequent while the newspapers
are spacious and frequent; but this Is no
answer. The favorite literary production
OF the South seems to be sentimental
poetry, and yet not OF the South only.
North East and West, million pens are
scratching lyrics and sonnets OF true love,
hopeless suffering broken hearts and the
like. There should be magazines Of senti-
mental verse There should be, II neces-
sary, a Southern Sentimental Magazine, al
though no man or woman OF feeling will
welcome the introduction OF geography
into these delicate matters. The Atlas
is no congenial mate OF the Rhyming
Dictionary.
We are led TO make these remarks by a
very behutllul potIh Cdlitu lHe Doul-
Tryst," printed by our esteemed contem-
porary, the New Orleans Times Democrat,
an earnest patron OF American, and espe-
cially OF Southern. literature. The authors
name s LULAH RAGsDALE, a name full OF
harmonious suggestion and euphony. In
the first stanza she is making a soul call:
'Lstenl It is my soul
That knocks at the caneIn emit Of thine
Dark is the night. and no shine
Lighted me on to my goal
1t is etiquette for spirits to rap, not
knock, but this is an unimportant detail.
Easement" like "tryst," is n word OF art.
an Indispensable piece OF poetical furniture,
and as such probably repulsive to the phleg-
matte editors Of the magazines. Poetry and
fact are both straight as trivet. The soul
Of the party Of the first part is knocking at
the window OF the soul Of the party of the
second part and there Is no light outside or,
apparently, in the window. On such a night
telepathy, soul telegraphy or something Of
that sort seems preferable to an actual call;
but poet Is entitled to take and make all
the trouble he chooses.
1t really Is bad night for calling.
"Bilows Of Cloud" are in circulation,
turbulent, wrathy and dark" Notice tho
strength and beauty OF the word wrathy,"
like "brainy, noble vocable. THE wind,
like a werewolf" was out. Not like mere
wolf, but like a lycanthrope. A bitter as
we'll as snarler. Not the kind OF wind
anybody but a poet would care to go call
ing in Well. 1t Is bitter night and the
poet is justified in asking the proprietor Of
tho easement to "open and take me IN"
In the final stanza, the knocking grows more
imperlous. The werewolf, a truly accom-
plished animal Is Kissing and the soul
caller has no umbrella:
Open the winds are h.hiss;
The rain starts with shivering drtps.
oh. distance may runder the lips.
But It cannot enhinder the kissl"
With every disposition to be liberal in
constituting the terms OF poetical licenses,
we must protest against the opinion ex-
pressed in the last two lines. "Enhinder 4"
is delightful word and new to this part of
the country, but distance does not lend
charms to OSCILLATION. Much may be par
doned to mysticism and to poetry; but
there are truths that even soul-trysters
cannot we'll defy. Yet the appearance in a
Northern magazine of such a poem as
THE Soul-Tryst would be a remarkable
event in tho annals OF literature.