THE ROYAL CAVALCADE Spring is coming, Spring is coming, Through the arch of Pleasant Days, With the harps of all her minstrels Tuned to warble forth her praise. In her rosy car of Pleasure, Drawn by nimble-footed Hours, With a royal guard of Sunbeams, And a host of white-plumed Flowers, From the busy Court of Nature Rides the fair young Queen in state, O'er the road of Perfect Weather, Leading down to Summer Gate. Brave old March rides proudly forward, Young Lord Zephyr fans her gently, By her Majesty recline. Lady April's face is tearful, And she pouts and frets the while, But her lips will part with laughter Ere she rides another mile. Lady May is blushing deeply, Over meadow, hill and valley And, behind, green leaves are springing And her Majesty rides slowly Through the humble State of Grass, Speaking kindly to the Peasants In the corners of the fences Hide the little Daisy-spies, And her gentle Maids of Honor, By the road-side, for their Queen. By her own bright light of Beauty She is coming, nearer! nearer ! Hark the sound of chariot-wheels! MARY W. LOUGHBOROUGH S the author of "My Cave Life in Vicksburg," published by D. Appleton & Co., New York, 1867. A sprightly and wellwritten book, full of graphic and interesting pictures of scenes within the city of Vicksburg during the "siege." She has also contributed to various magazines- generally anonymously. Her home is now, I believe, St. Louis. 1868. FLORIDA. T MARY E. BRYAN. HERE is not a name among the literary stars of the "Southland" that fills a warmer place in every heart than that of Mary E. Bryan. Tastes differ about literature as about everything else; but there are somethings which challenge the universal admiration of mankind: some faces-some forms—as the "Venus de Medicis" and the "Apollo Belvidere" and some books, although the latter are most rare. Mrs. Bryan comes as near filling this exclusive niche in the gallery of letters as any woman of her age who ever wrote. She does not dazzle, like the fitful light of the "Borealis race," nor sparkle like sunset on a summer sea-neither does she charm us by the smoothness and polish of her style; but she manages to creep into the hearts of her readers, as few young writers have ever done. This comes of her own earnestness — that deep, thrilling earnestness which marks all her writings, and especially her poetry. There her thoughts well up fresh and warm from the depths of a passionate heart, and never fail to meet a responsive throb in the hearts of her readers. "Bryan-hers the words that glisten, Opal gems of sunlit rain! So much the woman, you may listen She upon her songs has won Hybla's honey undistilled; And from wine-vats of the sun,' With bright nectar overrun, Her urns of eloquence are filled!"* She is a poetess by nature. Largely endowed with that sense of the beautiful, which Poe called "an immortal instinct deep within the * Mrs. L. Virginia French. spirit of man," she gives us glimpses of the loveliness which lies beyond the common sight, and "whose very elements, perhaps, appertain to eternity alone." Mrs. Bryan has taken no care of her literary fame; she has been at no pains whatever to extend it. She has scattered the brilliant productions of her intellect hither and thither among the periodicals of the South, as a tree flings its superabundant blossoms to the breeze; and she has taken no thought of them afterward. Whatever she writes, she finishes with care, being led to do so out of respect and love for her profession; but when written and sent to the press, it is forgotten scarcely even being read over by her after its publication. To one who has studied her closely, the reason of this is obvious. Mrs. Bryan possesses true genius-hers is the real artist-feeling, which judges of the attained by the attempted; and nobly as she writes, she has written nothing to satisfy her own high-placed ideal nothing that seems "worthy of her hope and aim more highly mated." Mrs. Bryan is a native of Florida-daughter of Major John D. Edwards, an early settler of that State, and among the first and most honored members of its Legislature. Both on the paternal and maternal sides, she belongs to excellent and honorable families. Her mother, whose maiden name was Houghton, was herself an accomplished and talented lady. She lived in retirement, devoting her time principally to the education of her daughter. Mrs. Edwards was a charming woman and model mother. She made herself the companion of her daughters, (three in number,) won their confidence by her forbearing gentleness, and sympathy with their little cares, thoughts, and aspirations. She was never too much engaged to answer their inquiries, or give them any information they desired. Mary's mind opened early — too early, perhaps, for a cheerful and healthy youth. While other children played with their dolls, she roamed through the beautiful solitudes around her home, or wandered alone on the shores of the beautiful Gulf, where her parents were accustomed to spend their summers—her mind filled with dreams and yearnings that bewildered her by their vagueness. She discovered in part what these yearnings meant, when, at the age of ten years, she was sent on a visit to her aunt, Mrs. Julia McBride, so well known in Florida for her piety and philanthropy. The family of this aunt (her husband and a noble group of grown-up sons and daughters) lay at rest in the church-yard on a neighboring hill; and but for the occasional companionship of her brother, the lady lived alone. Mary could wander at will in her poetic reveries through the groves of orange and crape myrtle that embowered "Salubrity," and through the wide old gardens, scattered over with half ruined summer-houses, and enclosed by palings hung with the Multiflora and Cherokee Rose. She was never lonely; for, as she has written since: "The poet never is alone; The stars, the breeze, the flowers, But this insensate companionship did not satisfy. She longed for more intelligent teachers, with a vague yearning, which she did not comprehend, until one day she chanced to gain access to the library of her uncle Col. R. B. Houghton-who was absent on professional duties. It was the opening of a fairy world to the imaginative mind of the child. In that shadowy, green-curtained library-room, with the orange-branches brushing against the window-panes, she entered upon a new life. Her reading had been hitherto confined to her textbooks, and now she revelled in the poetry of the masters, and in romances of another age. Much of what she read she understood through her mind's early development, no less than through the intuition of genius; and what her young reason could not fathom was absorbed by feeling and imagination, as one catches the tune of a song, though it is sung too far off for the words to be understood. She read as a gifted child would do-losing her own personality in that of the characters delineated, feeling every emotion as though it were a personal experience, thrilling over deeds of heroism, shuddering over those of crime, burning with indignation as she read of cruelty and injustice, and weeping passionately over the pictures of wrong and suffering and undeserved doom. She mused and dreamed continually over the revelations thus suddenly opened to her. None guessed what influences were moulding the mind of the precocious child. Could they not read the secret in her dreamy eyes and abstracted manner? Her uncle did so when he returned home, and he closed his librarydoors resolutely against the little, pale, wistful face. |