The work upon the tunnel was interrupted for a day by an event, which I think must be without a parallel in any other prison-camp. At the breaking out of the rebellion, Miss Mollie Moore was a school girl of sixteen. After Galveston was re-taken by the Confederates, the “Houston Telegraph” was adorned with several heroic ballads, written by the young lady, whom the editor sometimes called “our pet,” and sometimes the “unrivalled star of Texan literature.” The 42d Massachusetts had been quartered in a warehouse on the wharf of Galveston, and had passed the night previous to their capture in fighting, all of which the ballad described thus: “Beneath the Texan groves the haughty foemen slept.”
The literary taste of a simple, half-educated people is never very high, and it is not surprising that this childish composition so nicely equalled the taste of its readers, as to be deemed a marvel of genius, and actually to be published with General Magruder’s official report. Miss Mollie became the literary genius of Texas, and her effusions were poured forth through the “Houston Telegraph” and the “Tyler Reporter” and the “Crocket 194Quid Nunc” in most lavish streams. This strong incentive to write, and these ready opportunities to publish were not altogether abused by the young authoress, who rapidly improved. Judging her by the other poems that adorned those papers, she indeed appeared to be the “unrivalled star of Texan literature.” I am fortunate in being able to introduce her to northern readers by an extract from:
AN INVITATION.
TO MISS LIZZIE IRVINE, OF TYLER.
The autumn sunset’s fairy dyes
Have faded from the bonding skies
Grey twilight (she with down-cast eyes
And trailing garments) passeth by;
And thro’ the cloud-rifts shine the stars,
As sunbeams burst thro’ prison bars;
And on the soft wind, faintly heard,
The warbling of some twilight bird
Comes floating sylph-like, clad with power,
To whisper, “This is love’s own hour!”
’Tis autumn—and with summer fell
The climbing vines of Sylvan Dell;
Our flowers too withered when the pall
Crept over summer; and the fall
Of dry leaves, eddying thro’ the air,
Has left the tall trees brown and bare:
And more—at winter’s high behest,
The crisp fern waves a tattered crest
Above the stream, whose crystal pride
The river-screen was wont to hide.
195But think not all are faithless! no,
Not all doth Summer yield her foe,
Tho’ Winter grasp each flower and vine—
He cannot claim the fadeless pine,
And high upon our rough hill-steeps,
His watch the crested holly keeps.
Ah would that Love could thus defy
The storms that sweep our wintry sky!
Come wander with me where the hill
Slopes downward to the waters still,
Where bright among the curling vines
The sevres berry scarlet shines.
And on yon brown hill’s bosky side,
Where flames the sumach’s crimson pride,
The steeps and tangled thickets glow
With rude persimmons golden show;
And down the dell, where daylight’s beams
Make golden pathways by the streams,
Where whispering winds are never mute,
The hawthorn hangs her ebon fruit.
Come wander with me! near the spring
The partridge whirs on mottled wing,
And where the oozy marshes rest
The wild duck heaves her royal breast,
And when the winds are faintly stirred,
The “sound of dropping nuts” is heard.
Come thou! a bright and golden bar
Comes quivering from yon yellow star,
And sweeps away as spirits flee,
To bear my vesper thought to thee.
Come thou! a zephyr sweet and mild
Comes whispering where the starlight smiled,
196And floats as Love’s own spirits flee,
To bear my vesper wish to thee.
Come thou! a spirit wanders by,
With gentle brow and tender eye,
And flies as Love alone can flee,
To bear my vesper prayer to thee.
Come thou! and when the hour as now
Hangs heavy shades on day’s cold brow,
When stars are glowing in the skies,
The blessed stars, Love’s radiant eyes,
When faintly on the breeze is heard,
The hymning of some brooding bird—
Ah how the twilight hour will be
Love’s dearest hour to thee and me!
It seems impossible that a young lady able to write such correct and pleasing verse could be brought down by a bad subject to the following inflated nonsense, which is a stanza from a terrific piece called “The Black Flag,” “Dedicated to the Southern Army:”
Let our flag kiss the breeze! let it float o’er the field,
Not a heart will grow faint, not a bay’net will yield;
Let the foe drive his hosts o’er our land and the sea,
To the banquet of Death prepared by the free!
Unfurl our dark banner! be steady each breast,
Till the red light of Victory hath lit on its crest!
Let it hang as the vulture hangs, heavy with woe,
O’er the field where our blades drink the blood of the foe!
Chorus—It shall never be lowered, the black flag we bear,
It shall never, never, never, no never, etc., etc., etc.
197There was a young lieutenant among the prisoners given to collecting all sorts of scraps and curiosities, and so he addressed a note to Miss Mollie, begging for her autograph and copies of any poems she might be able to spare. Within a reasonable time there came a copy of the “Invitation” and an autograph of the “Black Flag,” and a reproachful letter to Lieutenant Pearson. There was also a letter to Colonel Allen, not intended for Yankee reading. It expressed a little repentance for writing so cruelly to an unfortunate prisoner—avowed a wish to treat even invaders with politeness, and wound up with the Eve-like conclusion, “But I could not resist the temptation. Yours truly, Mollie E. Moore.”
One or two other causes at the same time combined to induce Miss Mollie to visit Camp Ford, and one lucky morning Mrs. Allen escorted her in. She was one of those girls that men are a little afraid of, and that other girls do not like; she had a slender figure, a thin face, light hair, light blue, dreamy eyes, and she was accompanied by the object of the “Invitation.” There was not much of the poetess in her bearing, for she was very neatly dressed, a ready talker, and quite sharp at repartee. Yet when Colonel Burrill was presented to her as one of the “haughty foemen,” she colored, and showed a little pretty embarrassment. The friend was her exact opposite, with dark hair, dark eyes, very shy and silent and reserved, and much the prettiest Texan it was ever my luck to see.
About the same time a second notable incident occurred, 198being no less than a literary contest between prisoners and the outside world. One of our number had received some attention from the Houston editor, in return for which he sent him a few verses, entitled, “Pax Vobiscum.” These lines so exactly accorded with the yearning for peace, that they awakened great interest, and after a while were re-published, with the editorial avowal that they were written by a Yankee prisoner. Another literary lady, middle-aged, married, and rather stout (so I was informed), but who called herself by the infantile name of “Maggie of Marshall,” thereupon came out with a poem, addressed to “the noble prisoner,” in which she styled him, “The northern by birth but the southern in soul,” and urged him to come straight over and fight on their side. The “noble prisoner” had no earthly intention of deserting, so he wrote a second poem for the “Tyler Reporter,” in which he defined his position. “When Mistress Maggie of Marshall found that her blandishments were all thrown away, she became deeply indignant, and immediately wrote her second poem for the “Reporter,” wherein the “noble prisoner” was turned into a puritan and a murderer and a son of Cain, and finally turned adrift with the contemptuous pity:
“Behold this Ephraim to his idols joined—
Let him alone.”
I cannot speak very explicitly of our last three months. In telling this story, I have tried to picture only the 199better side of everything, and to make it imprisonment with the unpleas............