relieved of everything they carried with them to Montgomery and Selma Mr. Martin being at the latter place, and Mrs. Martin at the former, when they fell into the possession of Federal troops. Mr. Martin, having been in the Confederate service for three years, was in Selma with the "Chattanooga Rebel,"* designing to bring out the novelette of "Lalla De Vere" in book-form. His paper, binding, etc., and his person, were captured, and for many weeks his wife was ignorant of his fate. "Lalla De Vere" was published in the "Ladies, Home Gazette," a journal published in Atlanta, (1867.)

As a writer, Mrs. Martin's style is chaste and elegant, never flippant. Her essays are superior to her narratives; but as she is yet very young, we anticipate something brilliant, true, and of lasting merit, from her pen.

A series of articles, entitled, "The Women of France," composed of sketches of "Madame Roland and the Empress Josephine," "Joan d'Arc and Charlotte Corday," "Héloise and Marie Antoinette,' that appeared in "Scott's Magazine," are, we think, the best articles that have appeared from the pen of "Sibyl."

CHARLOTTE CORDAY.

In Charlotte Corday we find none of the religious enthusiasm which supported Joan d'Arc. If she believed in God at all, it was a sentiment wholly separated in her mind from any connection with her earthly mission. She did not feel herself called by any superior power to lay down her life for her country. The mighty power to do so lay in her own individual strength. Think what stern resolve must have gathered day by day in her mind, as she sat with her father in the assembly of the exiled deputies, where, without one thought that her striking beauty was calling forth admiration, she was slowly but surely nerving her heart and hand to strike the blow which should rid France of a tyrannical monster!

So little did she value her life in comparison to the welfare of her country that, after she had sheathed her blade in the cruel and wicked heart of the hideous Marat, rather than lose the opportunity of witnessing with her own eyes the effect this deed would have upon the people for whose good it was executed, she made no attempt whatever to escape, though she might readily have done so. It was a grand, a noble sight, to see a beautiful woman of twenty-five selling her own life that she might take that of an old and loath

* A daily journal of considerable reputation and ability.

some wretch whose race was wellnigh run. There was no fire, no impulse in the cool, deliberate act for which she had calmly made every preparation, as well as for the consequences. There was no battle-cry of "On to victory and glory," to lead her on; but only the "still small voice" within her own heart, of "Liberty to France!" Ah! little did she dream that her apt reply to the president of the tribunal before which she was tried, would be handed down from one generation to another! He asked how it was that her first blow reached the heart of Marat if she had been practising beforehand. “Indignation," she calmly said, "had roused my heart, and it showed me the way to his." It was so quietly, so simply expressed, yet spoke such volumes. So absorbed was she in her own patriotic devotion to the cause of liberty, that she was not even aware of the deep and glowing passion which her beauty and valor awakened in the breast of the unfortunate Adam Lux, who deemed no life so sweet as the death which his beloved had suffered, and so prayed that he might but perish as she did, which happiness to him was granted.

The scaffold, the cord, the block, had no terror for the heroic Charlotte. Only her womanly delicacy suffered at the exposure of her person to the vulgar gaze of the crowd. Even when her beautiful head, with its wealth of matchless hair, was severed from the body, the still soul-lit eyes opened and cast a look of indignation upon the ruthless executioner who dared to buffet her now lifeless cheek. Well did she win the name of heroine. Justly is she entitled to rank among the illustrious women of her country.

THIS

CLARA LE CLERC.

HIS young lady is favorably known in a limited circle as a charming writer of tales." She is an Alabamian by birth, although the early years of her childhood were passed in Mississippi. Several months after her ninth birthday, her parents moved to the "Empire State," (Georgia,) and in one of the many pleasant little towns of the noble old State has she ever since resided.

Entering school at the age of eleven, she remained a close student until she graduated, a few days before her eighteenth birthday. During her scholastic life, every spare moment was devoted to her pen, and oftentimes her vacations were passed in scribbling.

Her first story was entitled, "Popie Weston." Very few of her writings have ever found their way into print. When she was fifteen years of age, Dabney Jones, the great temperance lecturer, begged a short story, which appeared in "The Temperance Crusader," then edited by Mrs. Mary E. Bryan.

In 1865, she wrote a series of "Reveries" for the "Southern Literary Companion," under the signature of "Harry Holt; " also replies, “Old Maid Reveries," by "Polly Holt." Since that time she has contributed to "Scott's Magazine," "Miss Barber's Weekly," "Child's Delight," and "Burke's Weekly for Boys and Girls." Some of her friends affirm that she possesses the faculty of pleasing children to a greater extent than almost any one of the present day.

Miss Le Clerc has been, as assistant teacher, sheltered beneath the wing of her alma mater since her graduation, which alma mater is "College Temple," at Newnan, Georgia.

MEMORIES.

"They come ! those memories of the buried Past,

And in my solitude they seem to cast

A shadow o'er me."

I do but lift the curtain that shrouds the Then from the Now, and they come thronging about me, peering into my face with their wistful eyes of

the "long ago those memories of childhood, of hope, of love, and buried joys. Back! back to your homes, O ye weird spirits of the past! Your presence casts a shadow o'er me, your mournful gaze fills my soul with sadness. Away, away! I would not dream of the past. Alas! it may not be. Their forms still haunt my mourning heart; and here, in the dimness of the summer twilight, while the great heart of the world throbs quietly after the weary toils of the day; while aching hearts soothe their sorrow in the calm'ness of nature's repose; with the vista of the past — that shadow-land of the heart — opening to my view, and with its multiplicity of memories pleading for place in my wearied heart, tired hands are folded listlessly, an aching head reclines upon the window-sill; and with the tiny stars - heralds of night's glowing train - peering from the twilight clouds upon me, I dream of the past.

DREAM OF THE BABY.

The cold, chilly November winds of 18- had carpeted the ground, and filled every little rut and crevice with withered flowers and brown forestleaves. The squirrel had ensconced himself in his snug little burrow for the winter, and the tiny brown bird hopped from leafless boughs to the one small spot of green before a wee cottage-door" of a Southern home. The winter was unusually severe, and the honeysuckle and star-jasmine — which had decked the piazza during the summer months - now, like the rest of fair nature's flowers, slept their winter's sleep, leaving only the bare, brown vines as marks of their former beauty. Within the cottage, all was cheerful and warm. Bright crimson curtains shaded the windows; a brown carpet, with crimson berries scattered temptingly over it, covered the floor, and a bright fire burned upon the neat hearth; upon the rug before the fire lay a large white cat—a perfect “Kittie White;" and a little French clock ticked merrily upon the mantel. Upon a snowy bed in one corner of the pleasant room was a young and beautiful woman. Near by stood a crib - a dainty affair; and amid ruffles, and muslins, and soft, silky blankets could be seen a baby-face a tiny baby-face.

Presently the door opened softly, and a lady in the prime of life entered the room. "Has baby wakened since I left you, daughter?" What measureless love there was in the voice! And as the young mother replied in the negative, “grandmother" approached, and bent lovingly over the crib. Byand-by the door opened again, and two gentlemen entered on tiptoe. One asked, "How are you now, my daughter?" The other, "How are you and baby, dear Addie?" In the next breath, "What shall we call her? Do help me decide upon a name for baby. She is now a week old, and yet without a name!" And a look of distress, quite amusing to behold, settled upon the young father's brow. "Let us call her Carrie," suggested the grandfather. "C, for constant, candid, and careful; A, for amiable, attractive,

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and artless; R, for respectful, right, and religious; I, for industrious, ingenious, and irresistible; E, for earnest, eagle-eyed, and endearing. What think you of Carrie for the 'wee ladie's' name?" And the grandfather bent lovingly over the rosewood crib. “Bravo, father!" exclaimed the younger of the gentlemen, clapping his hands softly together. Carrie let it bethat is, if Addie agrees," and he passed his hand caressingly over the bands of shining hair. A willing assent was given, and little Carrie was set apart as something pure, sacred, and beloved by that devoted household band.

A MEMORY OF CHILDHOOD.

A soft, hazy light of a June sunset; a cool, open piazza, with honeysuckle and star-eyed jasmine wreathing the pillars; a small table, with a snowy cover, in the centre of the floor; upon the table, a miniature tea-set, candy, a large orange, a tiny sponge-cake, and a small pitcher of lemonade.

"Oh, yes, Roland dear! come on, and drink tea, or rather lemonade, with your little Carrie!" and a wee sprite of ten years comes down the length of the piazza, leading by the hand a handsome youth of eighteen. The child is plain no marks of beauty about her; yet a peculiar charm rests upon her open face and in her gray eyes. The young man- - for such he is in form, if not in years — is a true type of young manly beauty; with his tall, elegant form, dark, silky hair, and deep blue eyes, wherein lurked a world of fun, wit, and love. Yes, ma petite, Cousin Roland will drink tea with • your little ladyship." And he very gallantly placed her in the chair at the head of the table, and seated himself opposite.

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The little lady proceeded, with all due dignity and decorum, to fill the miniature cups with the delicious beverage, and passed one to the young gentleman opposite. He meanwhile cut the orange and cake, and, in his turn, waited upon Carrie. "How cosy we are, Carrie dear! Don't you think it is nice?" And the youth fixed his beautiful eyes upon the tiny figure of the little girl. Certainly, it's nice, Roland. Grandma never makes any cakes but nice ones!" And the little maiden folded her hands and raised her heavy eyebrows as she looked with astonishment upon the young gentleman. “Oh, fie, Carrie darling! I did not mean the cake; I had reference to our being here alone, with this nice little table, and everything so neat and nice. When I get to be a man, and you a young lady, we will have a home all our own, where I shall be lord and you ‘ladie-faire,' and you shall be with me always, won't you, ma belle ?” And a look came into the beautiful eyes of the boy which seemed to say that he very much wished that future and its pleasures. "Yes, Cousin Roland, won't that be nice? I can be your little housekeeper, and fix up things ever so nice for you!" 'But, Carrie darling, I'll want you for my little wife. Promise me now that you will be my little wife!" And, in his eagerness, Roland left his chair, came to the little girl's side, and placed his arm caressingly over her shoulder.

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