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MRS. MARY A. McCRIMMON.
RS. MCCRIMMON has done much for Southern letters; has been editress of several literary journals; in 1859, edited the "Children's Department," in the "Georgia Temperance Crusader," and during the war, edited an "Educational Monthly" at Lumpkin, Georgia, her then residence. She was also among the prominent contributors to the "Southern Illustrated News," her sketches and poems being much admired by the readers of that journal, which had an extensive circulation in camp as well as at the firesides of the readers of the "Southern Confederacy."
Since the close of the war, Mrs. McCrimmon, we are informed, has married a Mr. Dawson, and removed to Arkansas.
As one of the constant "workers in the mine of literature," we could not well omit the name of this lady, although obliged to furnish such an incomplete notice as this.
Birds of richest music love thee;
Flowers than Eden's hues more bright; And love. young love, so fresh and fair, Fills with his breath thy gentle air.
Oh, land of beauty - clime of flowers
Thine are the happy "by-gone hours "
But, land of beauty, blooming ever 'Neath the fairest summer-sky,
I may see thee more
Never hear thy soft wind's sigh;
Yet in my heart thou evermore must dwell;
Then land- dear land of beauty, fare thee well!
MRS. AGNES JEAN STIBBES.
UTH FAIRFAX, a favorite contributor of novelettes, poems, and sketches to Father Ryan's paper, the "Banner of the South," published in Augusta, is known by a few friends to be Mrs. Stibbes, at the present time residing in Savannah. Mrs. Stibbes was born in South Carolina. She commenced writing for publication when about sixteen years of age, and was married at seventeen years to a gentleman of Georgia.
Until the late war, her life was one bright scene; but, in common with her Southern sisters, all of her property was swept away, her home desolated, and wanting the "necessaries of life," she wrote the first chapters of the "Earls of Sutherland" (afterward published in the "Banner of the South ") to pass away in pleasant thoughts the hours that were otherwise so frightfully real. During the war, she contributed novelettes and sketches to the "Field and Fireside," under the nom de plume of "Emma Carra."
REV. A. J. RYAN,
THE GOLDEN-TONGUED ORATOR.
I have seen him, the poet, priest, and scholar! I have seen him — yea, and not only sat with hundreds of others listening to the holy words of love that fell from his lips, not only made one of many to whom his words were addressed, but I have listened to words of kindness and admonition, addressed to me alone; and this is not all. I have clasped his hand, gazed into the unfathomable depths of those clear blue eyes, seeing there a blending of the tenderest pity and almost superhuman love with the shadow of a deep
The majesty of his holy office loses nought of its mysterious grandeur when explained by his lips. As he cries, "Ours is the royal priesthood!" behold that radiant smile! It illumines his pale face as does a sunbeam the pure and graceful lily, and the glorious thoughts, fresh from his soul, breathe sweet incense to our hearts! Would that mine were the privilege of daily
kneeling at his feet, and, while his hand rests on my bowed head, have him invoke God's blessing upon me.
I listened lingeringly to the last words that fell from his lips, treasuring them up in my heart, and then turned away, grieving that I could see him, hear him no longer; and yet I bore away with me, fresh from his lips, a fervent "God bless you!" that has hovered round me like a halo of glory, brightening my pathway through the weary world.
The earth has seemed greener, the sky bluer, the sun brighter since my interview with him; and still, in imagination, I can see his delicate pale face, the beautiful brown, waving hair, and glowing, soul-lit eyes — eyes that look down into one's heart, seeking the real feelings of the soul eyes that tell of holy thought, of tender love for all mankind— eyes that speak of a strong soul struggling with the frail tenement of clay, beating her wings, longing to be free!
I can even now see him before me, as he stood then, his hands clasped, his head thrown back, and a smile of rare beauty brightening his pure face as he exclaimed, with a ring of holy exultation in his voice; "And upon this rock will I build my Church, and the gates of hell shall never prevail against it."
This is no fancy-sketch, but a bright reality, and yet I have not done justice to him of whom I speak.
MISS FANNY ANDREWS.
HIS record of "Southland Writers" would be incomplete without mention of a young lady, the daughter of an able legal gentleman of Washington, Georgia, and herself born and educated in the State, who has, since the close of the war, been a frequent contributor to the periodical literature of the country, under the pseudonym of "Elzey Hay.”
Until recently, “Elzey Hay" was "Elzey Hay" merely.
Miss Andrews believes that "the great beauty of anonymous writing is to protect one against bores and the other annoyances of a small reputation, till one can claim the advantages of a great one.'
Her identity was published to the world without her knowledge, and she feels diffident in appearing among "Southland Writers” with that mask which separated her from the public thrown aside.
As she expresses the matter in a recent article, we prefer to use her words:
'Under all circumstances, it is wisest to feel one's ground first, before advancing boldly upon it, and for a timid or reserved person there is nothing like a pseudonym, which throws a veil over one's identity, and stands like a tower of defence to shield one's private life from the invasions of public curiosity. If by the public were meant merely that vague assembly of individuals which makes up the world at large, one would care very little about it, save in so far as one's interest was concerned in pleasing its taste; but each one of us has a little world of his own, bounded by the circle of his personal acquaintance, and it is the criticism of this public that literary novices dread. Within this circle there is always some one individual who, to young female writers in particular, is the embodiment of public opinion. One could not write a line without wondering what this person would think of it, if the blessed anonymous did not come to one's aid. Safe behind this shield the most timid writer may express himself with boldness and independence.”
From my first acquaintance with the articles of "Elzey Hay," I felt the identity of such a sparkling, piquant writer could not long remain concealed.