Without, all was splendor and winter and night; For sunshine streamed down from the bright lamps, that swung Through rich damask curtains, with roseate glow That rippled like threads of spun gold, when unbound, Her well-moulded head: her small pearl-cut ear, Here would we might pause. Strange that aught should mar Woe, woe, that the mandates of fashion should rule! Let an angel be sent to a French boarding-school, Its feet placed in stocks, its wings laced in stays, Poor Melanie's mother and she were twin-born, For ten pleasant years, the child scarce had known She woke with the flowers at earliest dawn, Ten years of her girlhood, and then what a sin! The first year was spent in training her feet- First her heels, then her head: the bow for a friend, No bowing to God, no kneeling in prayer To Him who had made her young life his fond care. The heels, and the head and then the poor heart, With its pure aspirations, was fashioned by art. The gushing affections were thoroughly pruned Those wonderful harp-strings with new music tuned; Love impulses murdered and buried from sight; And carved out a statue from warm, breathing clay. Six long, moulding years, and one finishing term, She could sing cavatinas with opera trill, She could dance the Cachuca and waltz the Sylphide, Could paint and embroider, powder and crochet, To that outward-bound heart no word had been given. And thus she returned to her proud peerless home, She ne'er thought of blessing, just lived to be blessed; To all of life's crosses and cares "Not at home." "Not at home" to the sorrow that needed her aid; "Not at home" to the stricken, with blood-crosses weighed; "Not at home" to the poor, whose blessings would braid Fresh stars for her crown in heaven inlaid, Fresh notes for the harp that each god-child sweeps In time to the music that leaps from his lips. "Not at home" to her friends, save she thought it worth while To curve a fresh dimple, or light a fresh smile; "Not at home," For habit makes conscience both careless and weak, Why barter thy birthright, life's lease of bright hours, When, though thorns and roses are pressing our feet, Who would not far rather, in careless undress, Come forth to the light—ay, brave the whole world— The accusing angel read sorrowingly: "She has bartered her soul for a fashionable lie: Depart, nevermore with the blessed to roam; I called, but no answer; ye were not at home." 30 CARRIE BELL SINCLAIR. CHARLESTON journal calls Miss Sinclair "one of the sweetest By her many patriotic poems she is best known, although she possesses the qualities requisite for a superior novel-writer. Miss Sinclair has passed nearly all of her life in Georgia, which is her native State, having been born in Milledgeville, the capital of the State. Her father, the Rev. Elijah Sinclair, a Methodist minister, was a native of South Carolina, as was her mother, and had just entered upon his ministerial labors as a member of the Georgia Conference when Carrie was born. The Rev. Mr. Sinclair was of Scotch descent, his mother being a sister of Robert Fulton, the inventor of the first steamboat. He labored faithfully as a minister of the gospel until within a few years of his death, when failing health compelled him to leave the pulpit. At the time of his death, the Rev. Mr. Sinclair was teaching a school for young ladies in Georgetown, S. C. He left his widow and eight daughters- the eldest only married. Carrie Bell was a child at this time, and felt this great sorrow as only one who is possessed of a poetic temperament can feel. Some three years after the death of her father, a younger sister died, and his grave was opened that the child's dust might mingle with his. It was upon this occasion that Carrie Bell penned her first rhymes, telling her childish sorrow in song. Soon after, her mother removed to Augusta, and then she commenced her literary career, writing because she could not resist the spell that lingered around her, and not that she had any desire to venture upon the road to fame. Her first appearance in print was in a weekly literary paper published in Augusta, "The Georgia Gazette," under signature of "Clara." In 1860, she published a volume of poems in Augusta, of which says a reviewer: "Here and there the poetical element glitters through like the sunlight between fresh green leaves, and shows that she possesses some of the elements necessary for success. "If the mind with clear conceptions glow, |