MRS. BETTIE M. ZIMMERMAN.

"Southern Illustrated News," published at the capital of the

TuConfederate States, was an excellent "war literary journal,” though not much of the "illustrated!" In this paper many excellent articles appeared from writers hitherto unknown to the public, and many writers made their début therein. As some one has remarked, many ladies turned to writing as a refuge from anxiety." Several of the writers of the "News," whose first effusions appeared in its columns, are now 'high" on the steps of "fame's ladder," and are not only welcome, but well-paid contributors to Northern literary journals.

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It was in 1863 that the "News" contained creditable poems by "Mrs. B. M. Z" and the following year, the "Southern Field and Fireside" (Augusta) published some poems from the same pen.

Mrs. Zimmerman is by birth a North-Carolinian, and daughter of the late Rev. Thomas Meredith, an eminent divine of the Baptist denomination. Some years since she was married to R. P. Zimmerman, of Georgia, since which time she has resided in that State. For several years she made the beautiful city of Augusta her home, but the shadow of death there fell upon her life, clouding its brightness; for in its lovely, peaceful "city of the dead" sleeps her boy, to whom she alludes in the beautiful poems, "Three Years in Heaven" and "Christmas Tears." During and since the close of the war she has lived in Atlanta "that monument of a conqueror's wrath," which is now, phœnix-like, rising from the ashes of desolation in renewed youth and beauty.

Mrs. Zimmerman possesses a taste and talent for literature, and writing, with her, has been a pleasing pastime merely, she only lacking the study and application to make a name in the "book of Southern literature."

CHRISTMAS TEARS.

But one little stocking hangs to-night

Upon my chimney wall,

Swinging its little, nerveless foot,

Where the fitful shadows fall.

But one to-night! Seven years gone by,
Another hung in the light-
Another heart throbbed by my side
On each happy Christmas-night.

But one little sock for Santa Claus
To fill with his bright gifts rare-
One pair of hands at early dawn

Now searching for treasure there!

The mated socks lie folded away,
And the darling feet are cold;
The little hands, like lily-leaves,
Lie hid in the grave-yard old.

The radiant eyes, and warm, red lips,
To dust have mouldered away:

The glad, young heart will greet no more
The light of a Christmas-day.

Then, is it strange that my heart will turn,
With its weight of unwept tears,
And yearn with a ceaseless longing
For the light of by-gone years?

That a shadow comes with the dawning
Of each happy Christmas-time,
Marring the perfect melody

Of this age-resounding chime?

Alas! my heart must ever be sad,

And the blinding tear-drops fall,

When I miss the little stocking
Once hung on the Christmas-wall.

SECOND LOVE.

Suggested by reading a poem entitled, "First Love."

Oh! tell me not that hope is vain,

And life forever blighted,

When once the star of love has set

In passion unrequited;

That like a simoom o'er the soul,
Or fierce, volcanic river,

It sweeps away the joys of life,
To bloom no more forever.

They tell me that in hopeless love
The tender heart is broken;
That, one by one, the strings are rent
By cruel, light words spoken,
Till, like a lute with riven cords,
By master-hand forsaken,
Its voice is hushed, and melody
It ne'er again shall waken.

God never made that mystic flame,
The purest e'er was lighted,
To glow but as a meteor-flash,

So soon to be benighted.

'Twas made to kindle up through life

The sparks of hope and pleasure,
And not to live in hidden gloom,
Like miser's golden treasure.

'Tis true, some ruthless hand may sweep
The strings, till, torn and bleeding,
They give back but a wailing voice
Of vain and tearful pleading,
And day will lose its purest charm,
And life its sweetest pleasure;
But time will teach them to forget,
And wake again love's measure.

They say not true who tell that hearts
Love only once can cherish,-

That, should the first sweet dream of hope
In disappointment perish,

No other love can e'er relight

The dying, tear-stained embers,
No second worship fill the soul,
Where first love still remembers.

Ah, no! the heart may thrill and throb
With first love's fondest dreaming;

The eyes may wear that tender light

Which speaks love's warmest beaming;

But yet that heart can love again,

Another idol enter

These flowery niches of the soul,

Where earth and heaven centre.

HE

THE

MRS. SALLIE M. MARTIN.

following extracts from an article on "American Novels," published in the first number of "Scott's Monthly Magazine," (Atlanta, 1865,) by Mrs. Martin, under the pseudonym of "Sibyl," is an error as regards "American writers" at large, but very true of "Southern writers":

"Tupper says: To think rightly is of knowledge; to speak fluently is of nature; to read with profit is of care; but to write aptly is of practice.' And this is the great drawback to American progress in literature - want of practice."

"Everybody writes, but nobody makes a business of writing. That is wherein the error lies; not for want of capacity to ennoble, elevate, purify, and refine our style of novel literature. Most of our best authors write merely for pastime or recreation - often amid the press of other businessbecause urged to do so nearly always in the true American style of doing everything hurriedly; and hence the brilliant coruscations of wit and talent that flash out and sparkle amid their effusions are more the offspring of native genius than of cultivation.

"All other professions are studied, practised, and perfected. But who sits down patiently, untiringly, and perseveringly, to make a lifetime business of writing books, especially of that fascinating order which are always readily devoured?"

Again she says, very truly:

Many of our female authors write a great deal and write well; yet, they do not do so so much from a desire to excel in writing as with the desire and hope to win fame. Hence they crowd their productions one after another upon the public, until they surfeit it and exhaust themselves, and sink by the way, from a waste of energies, which, if rightly husbanded, controlled, and directed, might, in time, have procured for them the highly coveted boon. Fame, to be real, must be lasting; must stand the test of time, going down from one generation to another; must be strong enough and lively enough to bear comparison with the master-spirits of each.

"Another essential requisite is ability and willingness to bear criticism.

Those who shrink from the critic's pen as they would from the probe or knife, may not hope or expect to attain any superior degree of material excellence."

Many writers of our "Southland" are very averse to criticism, and seem to act on the principle, that, because their work is Southern, it should be praised indiscriminately; and this is why "Southern books" are called "feeble, trashy," by Northern critics, before they open the

same.

What can be worse than undeserved praise?

Sallie M. Martin is a native of South Carolina, the first and only child of Elnathan L. and Jane Wallace Davis. Her father died when she was an infant, leaving her to the care of his early bereaved and youthful widow. To the careful and loving training of her mother is due whatever she may accomplish in the future, whether of literary fame, or the successful practising of domestic virtues.

After the death of Mr. Davis, his widow and daughter resided with her grandfather, Rev. William Holmes, a gentleman of means and influence, not only in Fairfield District, his home, but throughout many portions of the State.

"Sallie" was instructed nearly entirely by her mother at home, for it was only at intervals and for short periods at a time that she was sent to school. When she was ten years of age, her grandfather became unfortunate in business, so as to cause an almost entire loss of property, and removed to Georgia, accompanied by Mrs. Davis and her daughter. Having resided in Georgia the larger part of her life, she is as much devoted to her adopted as to her native State.

In 1860, she was affianced to Mr. George W. Martin, a gentleman of talent, connected with the press of Atlanta, and then, for the first time, turned her attention to literature; at his solicitation, publishing short articles in 1861. In 1863, she was married a youthful for she is very young, and has, we hope, a long and brilliant I future before her.

bride

She contributed to various journals of the "Confederacy," over the signature of "Sibyl." Her most ambitious effort was a novelette, entitled, "Lalla De Vere," written in 1864.

When exiled from Atlanta by General Sherman, the effects of Mrs. Martin were scattered, and they literally lost everything in the shape of property; for not only did they find on their return to Atlanta all they had left there demolished, but were so unfortunate as to be