After a careful home education, she completed her course under the able direction of Miss Hull, whose seminary at that time had no rival in the confidence of the people of the South. Miss Hull, in speaking of her, said: "She came to me under high encomium from Mrs. M., a friend of mine, who said: 'You will find in her an apt pupil, an eager student, a patient, untiring reader. She possesses talent which will do you much credit.' I next day welcomed the pupil thus introduced, into my seminary, and surveyed her with interest, but with some disappointment. In the pale, slender, delicate child, with stooping shoulders, and grave, unattractive face, only enlivened by a pair of dark, thoughtful eyes, I saw slight indication of the mind, which, however, an early examination into her studies satisfied me was of no ordinary promise." Two years of close application to study, and the advantage of free access to the private library of her preceptress, and to which was added the privilege of unrestrained communication with the finely cultivated mind of her teacher, closed the educational course of Eliza Phillips. She returned home to devote herself to her still secret passion for her pen. Married at the age of seventeen to a son of the Hon. W. W. Pugh, of Louisiana, she passed the first three years of her married life on her husband's plantation; where, in its unbroken solitude, without the solace of her favorite authors, without other companionship than that of her family, she first acquainted her friends with her efforts at authorship. Blelock & Co. published a novel, entitled "Not a Hero," in 1867, which was written by Mrs. Pugh at the beginning of the war, or at the time when the war-cloud was gathering in its wrath. Short sketches, "literary and political," were published in the "New York World," "New Orleans Times," and other journals of less note, under the nom de plume of "Arria." Improved in health and appearance, she now devotes herself to the pursuit which has, from her childhood, taken so strong a hold upon her fancy; but to the exclusion of no single duty, either as daughter, wife, or mother. At the time of the present sketch, Mrs. Pugh is but in the spring season of her womanhood, and, we predict, of her authorship. The quaint, grave child has developed into the gay, sprightly woman, presiding with a graceful hospitality in her unpretending home, endearing herself to her old friends, and recommending herself to new acquaintances, by an engaging manner, quickness of repartee, and a dis play of many of the happiest qualities of heart, which she inherits in no slight degree from her father, while in manner, gesture, and appearance the French extraction unequivocally proclaims itself. Giving all her spare moments to her pen, and to a careful supervision of her only child, she has not permitted her literary life to cast the shadow of an ill-regulated household on those who look to her for their happiness, or to cloud for an instant the sunshine of home. She has not sunk the woman in the author, and has unhesitatingly declared her purpose to relinquish the pleasure of her pen should a word of reproach from those she loves warn her of such a probability. Yet to all who know her, that domestic circle proves that a combination of the practical and literary may be gracefully, pleasantly, and harmoniously blended. Mrs. Pugh has a novel now in the press (1871) of Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger, Philadelphia. It is entitled "In a Crucible." 1868. MARGARET C. PIGGOT. ST. PHILIP'S. There was no scenery in or around St. Philip's, at least none so called; no mountains, around whose summits the rosy mists of morning might gather; no hills, over whose green slopes the flocks of lazy Southdowns might graze; no jagged cliffs, against which a heavy rolling sea might thunder its eternal harmonies; though miles and miles away the arrowy river flowed with deepening current into the Mexican Gulf, broadening near its outlet, flattening at its edges, and the sedgy margin running out into great stretches of marshy ground. Higher up, in and around St. Philip's, it flowed sluggishly through steep banks in the summer-time, swelling angrily with winter floods and tides, and rushing hoarsely along, its current broken here and there into eddies around a clump of stunted willows bedded in the sand, or sweeping out into broad curves, with the sunlight dancing over it, and the comfortable country-houses mirrored in its still, glassy surface just at sunset. The country was not picturesque, but would have delighted the eye of the agriculturist in its rich grain-fields, luxuriant hedges, and well-kept gardens. There were wide, open commons, filled with browsing cattle; fat pasture lands, where the sleek, thoroughbred stock of the plantations ranged, chewing their cuds contentedly under shade-trees under the summer heat, and lowing gently as they followed the narrow pathway, cropping as they went to the milking-pens-evening shadows gathering the while, and the shrill chirp of insects growing clamorous as the sun descended. Yet there was beauty in the aspect of the landscape.—a beauty to satisfy even a fastidious taste. If there were neither hills nor mountains, there were clouds, that, . evening after evening, piled themselves in fantastic masses against the setting sun, and whose outlines stood out, bold and clear, against the western light. There were gorgeous strips of coloring too-painted skies, with the sun sinking down like a huge red ball in the midst: sunsets that equalled anything for richness of hue that the human eye ever beheld. There was deep, sombre blue in the evening skies that Poussin had striven vainly to paint; and a glint in the golden sunlight pouring over river, wood, and field, that Claude could never match! There was a softness in the air when the October mists rolled over the woodlands, and autumn moonlight silvered the earth, that even the passionate heart of the poet could not breathe, and that hushed the fevered pulse while the planets glowed in the dusky canopy overhead. There were stretches of forest, with giant oaks, and whispering poplars turning their silver-lined leaves to the light,-slender sumach, that blushed red under autumn skies,-- broad-spreading magnolias,-immortal bays, filling the air with their faint, subtile breath,-hawthorns, powdered in the spring like crusted snow, and flashing scarlet with the first frost that ripened the berries on its stems. Here you sometimes stumbled over sloping mounds, where, underneath the shadows of these great Western forests, the bones of the red men lie bleaching with the centuries that roll over themdead, indeed, since their rest is undisturbed by the march of civilization, whose gigantic proofs stare us in the face in this latter day. The roadside grew up thickly with purple heather; and flaunting lilies of scarlet and yellow, covered flat, marshy plains, while graceful water-lilies hung silent in the summer noon, spreading dark-green, glossy leaves over the water, where tiny fish swam in and out, and where, through the summer nights, the frogs croaked, and ugly, spotted snakes coiled among the reeds. ELIZA ELLIOTT HARPER. RS. ELIZA ELLIOTT HARPER, a daughter of Colonel John Georgia, in September, 1834, and moved to Louisiana with her parents in 1846, which State has been her home since. Mrs. Harper's life has not been eventful- as she is wont to say, "the lines have fallen to her in pleasant places." At an early age, she married Dr. James D. Harper, and resides at Minden, Claiborne Parish, La. Mrs. Harper's early publications were in the "Louisville Journal," over the signature of "Sindera.” 1870. I'LL COME IN BRIGHT DREAMS. Yes, I'll come in bright dreams, love, On thy bosom lies soft: Thou seekest repose, And with thoughts of the dear one Beam bright on the flower, Reflecting the sky gems, Yes, I'll come in bright dreams, love, As thy whispers of love. Yes, I'll come in bright dreams, love, And oh! if it be That "life's but a dream," I'll dream, love, with thee. Yes, dream 'neath the heaven Of thy dark, beaming eye, Nor e'er from its starlight My spirit would fly. Then I'll come in life's dream, love, · And bright will it be; WELL known to the Southern muses by the simple nom de plume WEL of "May Rie," was born in Charleston, S. C., but has been from infancy a resident of the Crescent City. Her career as a writer commenced as a school-girl, and opened with a series of lively, dashing, and piquant articles, prose and verse, communicated to the "Sunday Delta" when under the control of the gifted Joseph Brenan. Much interest prevailed for a time over the gay and graceful incognita. She continued for several years a frequent contributor to the same paper, winning a local popularity seldom attained at the first steps of a literary career. Late political troubles came, the writers of the "Delta" were scattered, and "May Rie's" harp remained long silent, or was only struck in secret, to sing of sorrow or of patriotic devotion. The cloud of national strife swept past. The subject of this sketch, like many others, was reduced to a position of need, and again resumed her pen, but no longer as a pastime. She entered upon her career as a paid writer for the New Orleans "Sunday Times," and for two years has been a regular weekly contributor to its pages, also appearing occasionally in other journals and magazines. Of mingled English and Irish extraction, Mary Walsingham combines in her nature the best characteristics of the two nations of Albion and Erin, tempered by a high degree of American sentiment. In her, a strong though golden chain of solid English sense ever gracefully reins in those coursers of the sun, Irish wit and passion; and the real and ideal, whether they ascend alternately, like the celestial twins, or rule together, like Jove and Juno, reign in harmonious duality, each retaining its proper limits, and one ever preserving the other from deficiency or excess. No collection of her writings has yet been made in book-form. Miss Crean is writing a novel of "Life in the Old Third." Years ago, the lower and oldest part of the city of New Orleans was called the "Third Municipality." It is entirely French-unique and oldfashioned both in build and the manners and customs of its inhabitants -and furnishes as good a scene and material for romance as any of the cities of the Old World. Miss Crean resided in the "Old Third" in her childhood, and an original and highly entertaining |