The sun. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1833-1916, 1900-02-25

''i'h ontpn'Tu, ana n lnouShTu more Hlhu'
glad the peaceful days or winter evenings. wher
the logs Of hickory roared in the big fireplace al
one end Of the room.
The hou~' contained purified stun by The poets
but these winnowed productions were kept on TN
centre table in the "parlor." no, in the library
proper. Byron was very much purified, indeed
tn" red cloth copy Of him, with a steel engraving
Of him as n irontispicce. did not contaln Don Juan
at all, and the rest 81 him was mangled In tht
frrn,ied manner peculiar to the eNpurgator, whose
high aim II tx b. abstract the substance and leave
the shell. The white. bearded Prisoner Of Chill
Ion" remarks that
oh, God! II Ia a fearful thing.
To see a human soul take wing
But no such strong statement went into the
expurgated Byron intended for the young ladies
Of the family, and bought, probably, AS a gif, book
for one Of them. This revised and muzzled "Ptis.
oner" said
oh, - il is a fearful thing.
To see a human soul take wing
Some effort was made to give an air Of modernity
by the purchase Of newly written books, but il
was a failure. Many were called, but few were
chosen b. a place on those honored shelves. The
planter regarded the moderns as being weak.
knecd Of intellect and decadent in desires. He
said that he could not get any meat out Of them.
Tennyson was his latest concession. Beyond the
author Of "Maude," then in the first flush
II his genius. he would not 60. Swinburne and
Guy de Maupassant had no position with him.
kiping was not born. just after the war a Mrs.
Fisher, Of North Carolina, wrote some novels.
Valerie Aylmer' among others, The women
Rugged them and raved over them. The planter,
busted with the effort TO make a plantation pay
with free labor, which had furnished no more
than he was able to spend when labor was bond,
looked into Valerie Aylmer" and shook his head.
There's a fellow in this book. named Maurice
he said. a faint reminiscent shadow Of the Maui
rice Dering' given TO us by the author Of Guy
Livingston but he won't do. There Is nothing
in him. He is only a bubble. This woman is
only a bubble. Girls, II YOU want to read some
thing, read Pride and Prejudice or even the
Irish Tales Of the Edgeworth Scribbler
So he went back to "lvanhoe" for his romance
and to Nicholas Nickleby" for his fun and. maybe,
TO Piers Ploughman" for his poetry. Mrs. Au-
gusta j. Evans, bursting from obscurity with
st Elmo" bearing in her arms the manuscripts
Of "Vashu" and "Macaria," could no, SUR him from
his calm.
Go to-" he said. Il have Balzac. Is there
not a new enough man in England named Thack.
cray"
So, after the war WAS ended, the man Of the
house added little to his library. lie owned the
oldsters and for the youngsters his stomach was
not good. One Of these plantation libraries, il
1t be found today, will mark with wide cleavage
that which is mellow from that which lacks
the SAVIOR Of age,
As the wide domains have been cut into smaller
farms, the members Of the family have scattered.
Some are dead, some are eking out hard iivings
in unremuneratiye professions, some are digging
gold In Alaska, some reap wheat on the uplands
OF the Dakotas, some have gone into trade"
There are many Of these latter and, though the
uses Of barter are not theirs in h~ereditament,
they are doing well, With their scattering the
books have scattered. 1t has happened that
each one who dwelt under the old r~ooftree has
taken such volumes as he or she fancied. II has
happened again that they have been sold at ruin
Gus sacrifice to meet a debt whose principal was
saddled upon the father. possibly in 1853.
When The old library has been kept intact,
however, 1t will be found in the ownership Of some
man Of 40 years or thereabouts, who is like
his sire in many things, or like his grandsire,
for that matter. This man to-day Is the most
modern e~xenplar Of the much be-paragraphed
and much maligned Southern gentleman" a
being with whom our writer's have but slight ac-
quaintance and whom our dramatlsts do not
know at all. Blood and books have made him
what he is -traditons handed down to him, ideals
talked and acted into him. Looking, odd times,
at the black mustached staggering carcature
who treads the mimic boards, and says sab"
and sub, the Southerner longs for these things:
To kick the actor, To kick the dramatist and 10
find some man able and willing to tell the people
who and what a Southern gentleman" is. He is
distinct enough to be painted and his painting |
would pay. He is a creature essentially different
from the buioons OF Hoyt He is a man above
the middle height, with clear-cut features. As
in ninety nine cases out OF a hundred he has not
a drop Of foreign blood in his veins, he looks like
a transplanted Englishman-an Englishman |
modified by some centuries Of climate and e,heh-
allied by a less commercial mode Of life. A long
contact with nature has made him OF healthy
instincts, He does not know the value Of a dollar
So well as he ought to know II, but, to balance that |
defect, he is unacquainted with the many shady
ways Of getting a dollar. He carries himself
unObtrusi yely and leaves the swagger TO the negro |
out for a Sunday holiday. He and the New
Highlander, who is his antithesis In many things,
speak the best English TO BE- found on this side Of
the Atlantic. With the Southerner the accent
is somewhat soft and slurring and there is some
thing too much Of consonant elision, but il has a
pleasing sound and he does not burr his RS until
they rattle like castanets, as Is the case in many
parts Of the West
Coming Of agricultural stock, the Southern
gentleman" is used TO woods and fields and horses
and dogs. He is devoted to the chase and IL
good shot. Excep, in cities he does not bestrlde
the bicycle, but he sits his saddle firmly, he has
the huntsman's seat toes in and he rides from
the knee, not from the stirrup. Woodcraft he
estecms as q noble craft and the art Of yenery
AZ one oi the fine arts. His a~ppcttes are born Of
the fresh air, and they are sound. He has poetry
in him and he finds much Of II in nature. animate
and inanimnte. The song Of the birds, the clear
belling Of the deer. the saddening cry Of wild fowl
In the night, all speak TO him in q language he
made his own. Though its varied liquid
notes have been familiar to him since infancy,
he is never tired Of The music Of Knockers from
green thrones pouring, a music tina, pours through
all Of the moonlit nights, floating, rising. falling,
laughing around him as he sits with his
books in the old library" while soft airs are steal.
ing through the French windows"
1t is a boast handed from father to son that his
word is as good as his bond. All Of his recent
in a commercial way has not been able
to grind this out OF him, Instances are not infre-
quent of the surrender Of homcs,eads in pa yrnent