"Need I say to you who have read the earlier work that the poetic soul of this lady delights in the sweet tenderness and fragrance and the bright bloom of the out-door world, which ought always to lift our hearts to the God who made it so lovely for us. Yes, she loves the good creatures that are so eloquent, though to the material organ they may seem dull. She is of those 'Sunday children' who have the poetic instinct, and to whom nothing that the Divine artist has made is ever mute. Nature, with all its fulness of life and light and freshness, she dearly loves; and the blessed beauty and radiance and vocal melody with which it surges on the soul in a thousand soft wavelets of light and scent and sound, rippling rare undertones of harmony into the dreamy recesses of the heart, draw from her ever and anon tributes of love and praise, and a glad poetic dallying with its wondrous richness in change and varying form."

"Ingemisco" was written with no idea of publication — merely to lighten some heavy hours of the war-time for the author's home circle; and "Randolph Honor," though with imaginary characters, is, regarding war-incidents, drawn from sketches of that which came within the author's own experience or knowledge.

"Fadette's" last publication bears the imprint of Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger, and is called "Sea-Drift." Further than that, "Fadette" is a native of South Carolina; her name "we dinna care to tell," but rest assured she cannot long remain masked.

Having told, in the language of others, what her prose is, we will let her poetry tell its own tale.

A PRAYER.

Lord God of Hosts! we lift our heart to Thee!
Our straining eyes lift vainly toward Thy throne;
Earth's mists and shadows are so mighty grown,
The gleam of seraph wings we no more see.

Lord God of Hosts! we lift our heart to Thee!
Our hands are fettered down by galling chains
No more the sceptre in our grasp remains—
Beneath the yoke we pass, with Liberty.

Lord God of Hosts! we lift our heart to Thee!

Our brows are bowed beneath Thy crown of thorn;
'Tis heavy with the blood of those we mourn,
It darkles with the life-blood of the free.

Lord God of Hosts! we lift our heart to Thee!
A ceaseless moan wails on in breeze of morn,
Through all the busy din of day upborne,
And when the gloaming broodeth o'er the sea.

O God of Hosts! turn Thou and hear that moan -
No Southern lips are strangers to its sound,
And, shuddering, in the merry frolic's round
Our prattling children catch its monotone.

Strong men weep now, who never wept before;
Girl-voices sorrow loud and passionate;
Black-stolèd women yearning at Thy gate;
Prayer-worn lips quiver, faded eyes brim o'er.

Thy gate-it is the only open door—

Where standeth Azrael, beckoning one by one, By which we leave, our pilgrim-goal being won, This drear God's Acre, crimson-drenched in gore.

Each lowly grave our mountains proudly mark
Death seared the land throughout with fiery tread:
O Thou who gavest tears to Lazarus dead,
Behold, our mother-country lieth stark.

It is too late for us to raise or save

We struggled with the blood-hound at her throat, We saw his savage glare above her gloat: Teach us to kneel, O God, beside her grave!

Teach us to kneel- to Thee alone, O God!
The tyrant fain would spurn us at his feet -
The gore upon our mother's winding-sheet
Would brand us murderers, trickling through the sod.

Teach us to kneel - teach us to pray, O God!

Not for revenge- for vengeance is Thine own — But that Thou hear our ceaseless suppliant moan,

And that Thou see we bow beneath Thy rod.

Lord God of Hosts! do Thou lift up our hearts!
Let them not lower 'neath our fetters' weight;
Let not our war-worn heroes cringe to fate,
Nor barter honor in the foe's full marts.

The laurels in God's Acre shelter Thou

Let still the people's patriotic tears

Wash from their shining crests the dust of years,
And dews from heaven vivify each bough.

Oh, garner Thou the lowlier flowers that rest
Beneath the sod until Thou bid them rise!
Receive them, meet and deathless sacrifice,
And take them, gracious Father, to Thy breast.

Break Thou, Lord God, our Captive's lengthening chain, Wherewith the foe hath him and Freedom bound; From deep to deep its clanking doth resound

Our hearts beat heavy to its dull refrain.

Hear Thou his prayer, to whom alone he prays;
In loving mercy guard his widowed wife;
With honor hedge his orphaned children's life;
Untarnished keep Thou aye his hard-won bays.

Lord God! to Thee with him our heart we give:
O Thou! who heardest Mary's stricken moan,
Roll from our mother's grave the sealèd stone
Say to the dead within, "Come forth, and live!"

M'

sion.

ANNIE M. BARNWELL.

ISS BARNWELL is one of the youngest of our "Southland
Writers," and one who desires to make "literature" her profes

Annie M. Barnwell is a native of Beaufort, S. C., the eldest daughter of Thomas Osborn Barnwell until the war, a planter of that place. She was educated entirely in the quiet town of her birth, and, until the war, had seldom quitted it.

From earliest childhood she was passionately fond of reading, and the world of books was a delightful reality to her. Her life has been spent in a narrow circle; and, until the war, it was a very quiet one; but no Southerner can have passed through the last eight years without thinking and feeling deeply and passionately.

Although fond of writing from childhood, noted as the best composition writer in school, she never published anything until 1864, when a poem appeared in a local journal. In the spring of 1866, encouraged by the approval of Rev. George G. Smith, of Georgia, she wrote for publication under the nom de plume of "Leroy," a name chosen as a slight tribute of love and respect to the memory of one who holds the first place on her list of friends, the late accomplished Dr. Leroy H. Anderson, of Gainesville, Alabama.

Under this signature she has been a frequent contributor to "Scott's Magazine," (Atlanta,) and the "Land we Love," (Charlotte, N. C.) To the kind and generous conduct of General D. H. Hill, editor of the latter-named magazine, Miss Barnwell owes much, for it encouraged her to persevere in her intention of becoming an author, when the difficulties which lie in the path of every beginner would otherwise, perhaps, have frightened her into turning back.

Miss Barnwell's style is easy and graceful, with the fault of young writers generally, using the "adjectives" profusely. Her most ambitious effort is a tale, entitled "Triumphant," which we hope may be the beginning of many triumphs in the path she has chosen. She resides in Beaufort.

THE BARNWELLS OF SOUTH CAROLINA.

Look forth on yonder field! Lit by the first rays of an October sun, two armies may be seen prepared for battle. On the slope of the hill rests motionless a host, over whom floats a glittering banner, with the device of a warrior worked in gold and enriched with flashing jewels. Upon the opposite eminence the rival army is drawn up in stern array, awaiting the conflict, and eager to bear forward "the three lions of Normandy." A sudden shout of "God help us!" and they dash onward to the fray. From the hillside that shout is answered by the Saxon war-cry, "God's Rood! Holy Rood!" and the battle is begun. Higher and higher the sun rises o'er that fierce and bloody scene. Now, right, perched on the banner of the golden warrior, seemed about to triumph; but anon it is borne back, and the parting beams of the day-god rest on the three lions, floating in solitary pride o'er the hard-fought field of Hastings. The golden warrior trails in the dust, where among his lifeless defenders lies the bloody corpse of Harold, "the last of the Saxon kings." The mighty hand of Norman William grasped the contested prize, and the fair realm of "Merrie England" is the spoil of the conqueror. Among his followers is one who bears the name of Barnevelt or Barnewall, ancestor of the present family of Barnwell.

And now turn from this scene of conflict, and follow to the shores of the Emerald Isle. In the midst of a group of mail-clad warriors and fierce barbarians, stands a fair-haired maiden, daughter and heiress of the savage monarch, Dermot Mac Morrough, king of Leinster. It is her nuptials which are being celebrated in sight of blood and death, and her spouse is yon dark leader of the Norman knights, Richard de Clare, Earl of Strigul; better known as Strongbow. Among the knights who with him made Ireland their home, was Sir Michael de Barnewell, founder of the houses of Kingsland and Trimblestone.

Queen Elizabeth sits alone, with a picture in her hand. It represents several youthful and high-born gentlemen, grouped together, with a motto beneath, asserting that a common object, a common danger is their bond of union. Well knows the queen that this object is her assassination, and the restoration of the Roman Catholic religion, by raising Mary, the captive Queen of Scotland, to the English throne. Closely she studies each form and feature, that they may not approach her unknown and unheeded. Foremost in the group is Anthony Babington, and beside him stands young Barnwell, companion in arms of Strongbow.

Who has not pictured to himself the fatal 30th of January, when the grave, sad face of Charles I. looked forth for the last time upon the realm of which he was the sovereign-then was laid calmly on the block, while he murmured his last word, "Remember!" Who has not thought of his bigot