such intention. But the tendency of their performances is not the less injurious on this account; and it is this tendency which we would avert as much as possible. Those who mean best may be diverted from their good intentions by taunts and sneers. This fact has been but too well illustrated in the South already since the close of the war. Many districts which almost all agreed in regarding as loyal-at least disposed to render legitimate obedience to the national government are now represented with equal unanimity as more disloyal than ever.

No thoughtful person who reads books like these in connection with other publications which recommend them and promulgate the same sentiments, can wonder at this. We make no pretensions to superior wisdom; still less do we claim to possess the prophetic gift; at the same time we can remind our readers that in more than one of our articles published on the conclusion of the rebellion we endeavored to show how necessary and important it was to avoid all needless comments of an offensive or irritating character.

But it is now time the reader should be able to form some definite idea of the character of the two books under consideration. The author of "The Sanctuary" is, we see, also the author of "The Story of the Great March." No doubt this is a great performauce; but we never beard of it before. Our readers have perhaps been more fortunate in this respect; at all events, we can only speak of the present work.

Let us adinit, before we proceed any farther, that this possesses some novel features. Thus, for example, the common opinion has been in the North, as well as in the South, that the Southern youth of both sexes were in general in favor of the rebellion; we remember to have often heard it remarked that men who held lucrative offices under the Federal government, including officers in the army and navy, resigned their positions in order to take part in the rebellion. But it seems from "The Sanctuary" that it was the Southern young men, and old men, too, who hastened to the North at once, so that they might defend rather than attack the old government. Mr. Nichols would doubtless tell us that we cannot regard his hero and a few other characters as representing the whole South, and we would readily agree with him thus far. But what is the ob ject of fiction? Is it not to represent nature? to represent what is substantially, if not literally, true? Well, is it true in any sense that the Southerners ran to the North in this way? If a few persons did so here and there that is not sufficient to justify the course of our author. If only a small minority of Spaniards had been affected by the mania of knighterrantry, Cervantes would have proved a bad artist and a bad teacher by his "Don Quixotte;" but the inhabitants of all countries laugh at his jokes to this day, because they are founded in truth and nature. A similar remark will apply to the novels of Scott, Smollett, Goldsmith, &c. If Shakespeare himself, instead of portraying what is true of general

nature, only presented us a few odd exceptions-veritable raræ aves— who could accept his portraitures as true?

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A novel especially should portray the manners and feelings of at least the class of people from which its principal characters are taken; but can it be said that any class of Southerners ran to the North in this way as soon as the rebellion broke out? Were not even the negroes rather slow in doing so? We should think the contrary, however, if we had no better authority than Mr. Nichols. In order to show that we do him no injustice in this we shall have to make room for an extract or two from his Sanctuary." It is only necessary for the reader to bear in mind, in advance, that David Dalton, his hero, is "the son of a prosperous merchant in the city of Savannah." This young gentleman "gave prophetic signals of a possible heroism," &c., and his "soft dark blue eyes seemed rather to reflect the flowery savannas of his native South than to give token of the stern Saxon strength that really lurked in their hidden depths," &c. (p. 20). The beloved of this hopeful youth was no other than the charming Miss Agnes Saumer, "with hazel eyes, solemn, reflective, and as subtle and serene as the sea," toward whom his heart "had been drifting for years." (p. 21.)

After a vast amount of loyal anxiety David Dalton succeeds in conveying his family northward. His sister Nellie writes to him the glad tidings that papa and mamma and herself had reached as far north as Louisville; at this we are told his "heart was relieved," especially when he read the postscript in which his father speaks so tenderly of "the dear old Union." As soon as he recovers from the trepidation caused by reading so agreeable an epistle he hastens to see Agnes Saumer. The account we have of the interview between the two lovers is very characteristic ; we extract a passage:

"Oh, here is Mr. Dalton!' was the cry which greeted him as he entered the drawing-room of Agnes Saumur's home.

"We were discussing,' said Agnes, what shall be the true flag of the Southern Republic. Your artistic taste is unquestionable. You shall give us your opinion.'

"What is this new flag supposed to represent?' he asked, scarcely venturing at that moment to meet her gaze.

'Why, liberty, of course-the liberty of the South from Lincoln and Yankee abolitionists,' said Major Ghilson, who was dressed in uniform. He was captain of a company of the Oglethorpe Guard. At the same time he

gazed earnestly, and with a shadow of suspicion crossing his dark face, into the burning eyes of David Dalton, who stood there vainly striving to control the indignant words which rushed to his lips.

I always thought the stars and stripes were an emblem of liberty. What need have we of another flag?'

"We mean to have nothing about us that savors of the old accursed Union,' said Ghilson, advancing toward Dalton. 'If I had my way, I would build a wall as high as heaven to separate us from every thing associated with Yankees or the Union. By the way, we have been looking after you, Dalton, this fortnight past. You have had a military education, and will be of service in the war-that is,' he added, sneeringly, if the Yankees will stand before us long enough to be beaten.'

"Yes, Mr. Dalton, you must leave the artillery company and join the Oglethorpe Guard,' said Agnes, with enthusiasm. He turned and looked into her bright expectant countenance, his anger changing to an expression of

sorrow.

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Agnes,' he said at length, I can not answer you at this moment.' Perhaps Dalton has heard that the Oglethorpe Guard has been ordered to join Beauregard's army in Virginia,' insinuated Ghilson, in an insolent tone. "Dalton faced him in an instant. You know, Ghilson, that I am no duelist, or you would scarcely have dared to be so impertinent.'

"We will soon meet where you can defend yourself,' replied Ghilson, black with passion.

"Perhaps sooner, though not in the place that you imagine,' was the calm reply.

"Ghilson made no answer, but it was easy to read the revengeful expression of his face, which made Agnes involuntarily shrink from him as he bade her good-night.

"Alone with Agnes, Dalton eloquently proclaimed his fealty to the national cause, his hatred of secession, and his intention to depart for the North. I shall join the Union Army, and, if need be, give my life in defense of the nation.'

"Oh, Mr. Dalton, how can you thus desert the South in her extremity. You are a born Southerner. Would you strike at the land of your birth? This is shameful in you,' said Agnes, withdrawing the hand which he had taken.

"Dalton's face was pale from emotion, but his resolve did not waver, and his voice was firm as he answered her.

"Agnes, this trial is to me a terrible one. I love you above all thingsexcept my country's honor, and that is my honor. Oh, Agnes, you would not have me sacrifice that!'

"I do not know what to say,' said Agnes, almost convulsed with her conflicting passions. I would not have believed that any thing upon earth could have separated us. I thought I could follow you any where. But I never dreamed that you could prove recreant to the South.'"-pp. 24-27.

This is followed by a long speech on the part of Dalton. Among other loyal, wise, and gallant things he tells her that she has no family ties. "Your uncle is hateful to you," he says. "I can this very night, by our marriage, give you the protection of my name." (p. 28.) She was not union-loving enough yet, and, therefore, did not consent, but hinted that his courage was of rather a doubtful stamp, which, as might be expected, "stung his loyal, gentle heart." (p. 28.) His brother Harold is still more loyal than himself, if possible, and puts him on his guard as follows: "You'll have to run for it, Dare." "I understand it all," said Dalton (that is our hero); "its Ghilson! But you, what do you propose to do?" "I will remain. It will throw these devils off the track. Get to the North as fast as you can. I will follow." (p. 29.) How much like the language in which young Georgians used to address each other in May, 1861!

But this is not the only way in which our author would have us believe that two or three swallows that had wandered from the rest of the brood prove that it is summer instead of spring or winter. According to him, all rebels, with rare exceptions, speak a sort of dialect which is scarcely intelligible, so fearfully benighted is their condition. It is otherwise, however, with the negroes. The latter are not only scrupulously grammatical in their language, at least as grammatical as our novelist can

make them, they are quite philosophical; and as to their courage, it is of the exemplary kind. In expressing some little wonder at the couleur-derose picture thus given of the negro, as if he belonged to a tribe recently discovered, and of whose characteristics, either mental or physical, nobody had ever heard before, we have been reminded that probably our author himself possesses in his veins at least a portion of that noble blood which he so much admires. But let us illustrate our remarks. Horton,

a Federal officer, makes a desperate attempt to secure or kill a Confederate spy, but nearly gets killed himself for his pains. Baxter, his orderly, runs to his assistance; but the spy hurled Baxter against the wall and dashed from the room. There was no danger that the spy would escape, however. What two white and loyal Anglo-Saxons were unable to accomplish was a mere trifle to a negro who happened to be near at the critical moment. But let our novelist tell the rest of the story in his own words:

"But he now met with an unexpected opponent. Filling up the outer door-way stood the negro, whom he tried in vain to turn aside. There followed a brief, terrible struggle, and the spy's knees struck under, and he fell.

"You have killed him!' cried Horton, as he ran forward and knelt by the side of the prostrate body, and felt the inanimate pulse of the hand, which still, in its rigid grip, held a glittering knife.

"It was my life or his, sir. I know the man,' replied the negro, as he thrust his bowie-knife into his belt. It's Nelson, one of the most desperate scouts in the Confederate service.'

Thus, while the loyal whites looked on somewhat like frightened children, the loyal negro did his work in a style which would have done no discredit to Ajax, or even the godlike Hector himself. But we have yet seen the negro only as a warrior. A page or two further on Horton has a conversation with his deliverer; and the following is a portion of the dialogue which takes place between them:

"Why did you betray your master this morning?'

"A slight flush mounted to the man's forehead at this abrupt interrogation, but he looked firmly into the eyes of his questioner.

"He was not my master. I gave him up because he had information of value to these rebels.'

"What is your name?'

66 6 Zimri, sir.'

"That is an odd name. Zimri, you have a last name?'

"I am a slave, sir. I need not tell you, therefore, that I have never known any name but Zimri.'

"How came you with that spy?'

"I was sent by my master-my half-brother, General Ralph Buford, commanding a brigade of Wheeler's cavalry.'

"Does your brother trust you so implicitly as to permit you to come into our lines?'

"Sometimes I think he wishes I would never come back.' Why?' asked Horton, somewhat mystified.

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My mother,' replied Zimri, was a quadroon, and the slave of our father. We were nursed from the same bosom, and grew to manhood on the same plantation-I the slave, and he my brother and master. A few years ago, my

brother married the daughter of one of the wealthy planters of South Carolina. When she came to our home she brought with her a quadroon girl, who was really her mistress's companion, though nominally a slave. Charlotte and I loved each other, and were married before the war.' ―pp. 53, 54.

This is but a small portion of the fine accoun: the negro gives of himself; it is sufficient, however, to show what a superior mind he has. In order to appreciate this superiority, however, to its full extent, it is necessary to compare his style of conversation with that of the rebel Southerner. We need only quote a remark or two from each, allowing our author to introduce them in his own way:

"The sun had risen above the mountain-tops behind him ere Zimri came upon the pickets guarding the rear of Hood's army.

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'Oh, it's only that cursed white nigger of the general's,' remarked a sentinel to a companion.

"You've come to the right place, nig. Yer master's in that ar cabin yonder across the creek.'

"Yes, I see the house. Have there been any Yankees round here?' "Nary a Yank. The blue-bellies keep clar of the Rattlesnake Brigade. Cuss 'em, they don't like the smell of powder-hey, Smithers?'"'-p. 62.

From this we are to learn, as a matter of course, that the "poor white" of the South is much more ignorant and more degraded than the negro; nay, should we not infer from it that instead of being either ignorant or degraded, the latter is intelligent and high-spirited? Now, supposing we admit that this is all true, does it not stultify our author in another way? Since he is as anxious to show how cruelly the slaves have been treated in the South as he is to prove what a high-minded race the negroes are? If Zimri was so badly treated, how did he become so refined and intelligent? And our author gives him a fine wife also; a much more beautiful woman than the white heroine of the story. This, we know, seems difficult to believe; but we will let our author describe the slave's wife in his own words, and show also that she is as refined as she is beautiful:

"Charlotte was little changed from the beautiful daughter of the sun whom we saw among the mountains of Alabama a few months ago. Exposure to the open air had tinged her cheek with a richer color, but the same dark tresses waved gracefully away from her fair forehead. Her eyes had not lost their liquid purity; her form had the same charming languor in repose as of old, and the same beautiful grace in motion.

"After to-morrow, Charlotte, we shall get away from this fettered life. Within the Union lines we shall find freedom and friends, and such a home as the slave never knows here. I have a debt of gratitude to pay Mrs. Buford, who is at Winnsboro', and may need assistance. We will go there, and then take the first chance of escape.'

"Let us not wait till to-morrow,' pleaded his wife, as she drew closer to him. 'Oh, Zimri, every moment we stay here is dangerous. Master Ralph may return any moment, and then-' Her golden eyes were veiled by their long lashes, and she hesitated.

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"I know what you would say, my darling: "General Ralph will not let us remain together.' But he shall not separate us again-he dare not! I would be glad never to meet him, but he can't protect Mrs. Buford after the Confederate army has passed her, and I can. We must not forget, Charlotte, that there are years of kind words and deeds which we both owe to her. Has