INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. In the month of December, 1874, died, near Columbus, Georgia, one of the truest and sweetest lyric poets this country has yet produced. Nevertheless, he lived the fifty-two years of his allotted existence in comparative obscurity, and passed to the "great beyond" unknown, despite the rare originality of his genius and works, except, indeed, to that small portion of the Southern public who condescend now and then to pass from politics to poetry. Dr. Frank O. Ticknor, born in Baldwin County, Georgia, combined in his mental and moral constitution many of the best qualities of the North and South. His father was a "New Jerseyman," a physician of great energy, while his grandparents were natives of Norwich, Connecticut. Dr. Ticknor, the elder, married into a distinguished family of Savannah, and settled for a time in that city. He died a young man, leaving his widow with three small children to support. At once she removed to the town of Columbus, exerting herself with such judicious perseverance that she succeeded in giving to her sons excellent and liberal educations. Frank, when old enough, studied medicine in New York and Philadelphia, and soon after his graduation married Miss Rosalie Nelson, daughter of Major T. 9 M. Nelson, a distinguished soldier of the War of 1812, and subsequently a prominent member of Congress. A few years after this union, Dr. Ticknor purchased a farm not far from Columbus, situated on the summit of a high hill, and celebrated by tradition as the scene of a desperate Indian battle which had been fought by torchlight. In consequence he named this place "Torch Hill." Anything more picturesque than the view therefrom it would be hard to imagine. The house overlooks for miles on miles the Chattahoochee Valley, full of waving grain-fields and opulent orchards. With the poet's love of all that is pure, sweet, and natural, he soon surrounded his home with flowers and fruits. In the spring and summer I have heard it described as a perfect Eden of roses; while towards autumn the crimson foliage and blushing tints of the great mellow apples, especially if touched by sunset lights, caused the "Hill" to gleam and glitter as with the colors of fairy-land. Here in this peaceful nest Ticknor lived for nearly a quarter of a century, exceptionally blessed in his domestic relations, though more than once that Dark Presence no mortal can shun entered his househeld, to leave it for a season desolate. Here he dreamed high dreams and beheld pleasant visions. Art opened to his soul not one alone, but several of her fairest domains. He was a gifted musician, playing exquisitely upon the flute, and a draughtsman of the readiest skill and taste. Still I picture him always as pre-eminently the poet,—the poet "born," yet with every natural endowment purified and strengthened by careful, scholarly culture. Thus much for one side of his life. There was INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. II another side, stirring, practical, and often rife, as a physician's career necessarily must be, with sad or terrible details. If a spiritual "Lotos-Eater" while "sporting with his muse in the shade," he was all energy, eagerness, and well-directed power in the paths of his profession. No more experienced doctor or successful scientist than he could be found in the county which chanced to be the scene of his labors. He united a broad humanity and a tender graciousness of tone and bearing to the information of the savant and the skill of the medical expert. Everybody loved him, especially the suffering poor, to whom he devoted a great deal of his time and attention. Unostentatious, but profoundly sincere in his Christian belief and practice, he regarded the poverty-smitten and the unfortunate as pensioners directly assigned to his care by Providence. Far and wide, among the "sand-barrens" or in the farmhouses of the neighboring valley, the good and wise physician was known and welcomed. His gleeful smile, his spontaneous criticisms (for his mind actually bubbled over with innocent humors), cheered up many a despondent invalid, and it is possible scared Despair, if not Death himself, away from the bedsides of patients just about finally to succumb. What wonder, therefore, that when-partly through. fatigue, exposure, and the unremitting discharge of duty-their benefactor was, in his turn, stricken down, to die after a brief, painful illness, the community mourned him as only those are mourned who could truly say, like Abou ben Adhem, in his vision of the Angel and the Book of Gold, "Write me as one who loved his fellow-men'? This imperfect outline of Ticknor's life was necessary to the full comprehension of his poetry. "Brief swallow-flights of song" only were possible to a man whose days and nights were so occupied by important and exacting toils. And in some respects this was fortunate, since the comparatively little leisure enjoyed by the poet forced him to concentrate his powers,-to utilize them to the very best advantage. When the great Civil War began, Ticknor had just reached the verge of middle age. His intellectual forces were in their fullest bloom; and so it is not surprising that many of his ablest songs belong to this period. Look, for example, at his "Virginians of the Valley." It is so short that we can readily quote it entire: "THE VIRGINIANS OF THE VALLEY. "The knightliest of the knightly race That, since the days of old, Have kept the lamp of chivalry Alight in hearts of gold; The kindliest of the kindly band That, rarely hating ease, Yet rode with Spotswood round the land, And Raleigh round the seas; "Who climbed the blue Virginian hills Against embattled foes, And planted there, in valleys fair, The lily and the rose; Whose fragrance lives in many lands, Whose beauty stars the earth, And lights the hearths of happy homes INTRODUCTORY NOTICE. "We thought they slept!—the sons who kept And slumbered while the darkness crept But, aye, the Golden Horseshoe' knights Whose foes have found enchanted ground, But not a knight asleep!" 13 Is not this, reader, a splendid lyric? Whether you are of the South or the North, especially now that the old sectional animosities seem to be dying out, I feel sure you must alike admire it. The verve and fire of the conception and the simple straightforward powers of the execution make it a most impressive ballad. James Russell Lowell, in a recent "Ode," has eloquently praised Virginia; but there is a heart-drawn pathos, a half-subdued passion in Ticknor's poem which seems to me more effective still. Apropos of the latter's style, James Maurice Thompson, himself so true a lyrist, has remarked that "it is best suited to forceful ballads. Something in the direct, clear, ringing expression of his 'Virginians' reminds us of "Mais quand la pauvre champagne Fut en proie aux étrangers, With Ticknor, as with Béranger, strength is simplicity, art is naturalness." Mr. Thompson continues: "Few poets acknowledge that, to stir the feelings and reach the inmost heart of the masses, one must make use of those materials which are suited to the vulgar understanding. See the final stanza of that inimitable ballad, 'La Vache Perdue,' by Casimir Delavigne: |