characterized these observances has departed, and, from having been a religious festival, it is more like a joyous fête day. The majority, being strangers and those who have no dead to mourn, are actuated in their visits more by curiosity than either affection or devotion. Here and there you see a true mourner; but the majority of such shun the gay, noisy crowd; and though they decorate the tombs, and send their servants to keep watch and guard, yet in the quiet and sacred seclusion of their own homes, or at the foot of the altar, they unite their prayers for some loved soul's repose with the chant of the priest, as he treads his rounds amid the sleeping dwellers of the silent city. From having been once an exclusively Catholic custom, it is now almost universal -- the public taste of late years improving sufficiently, in its sense of the beautiful, to have adopted at least a part of the sentiment and poetry of the old Church. In the Protestant cemeteries, of course, there are neither priest nor acolyte, cross or prayer; only the tribute of loving hearts and hands to the earthly part of the lost ones - believing that their souls' needs are beyond the reach of even their prayers. Formerly, with us a grave-yard was considered a dreary, dismal place, suggestive only of thoughts and feelings calculated to mar one's enjoyment of life. A railing and tomb to mark the spot were thought sufficient proof of remembrance; and though the dead were not forgotten, but, on the contrary, their memory more deeply treasured than is, in too many instances, the case now, when so much show and ostentation seem to have absorbed the truer feeling, yet a grave was rarely visited, save when another member of the family was followed to the same spot. Now, how different the feeling and practice. Every city has its cemeteries, laid out with the best horticultural taste and skill, and neither time nor money are spared in these adornments, combining the extreme of moral beauty, blended harmoniously with shaft and obelisk, Gothic chapel and funeral urn. The change is undoubtedly in the right direction; but unfortunately, as is too often the case, one extreme has only given place to another. Instead of grounds once devoted to grass and weeds, and a uniform edition of marble slabs, square and upright, we have now all varieties of flaunting red and yellow flowers - colors out of place at this earth-bridal — tombs covered with senseless toys, and decorated with heathen emblems, such as inverted torches, lions, dogs, the Egyptian sphinx, and other incongruous adornments, more fit for a museum of curiosities than adapted to a spot which should possess only such emblems as are symbolic of life's greatest lesson, and suggestive of the grand solemnity of its end." Is SUSAN BLANCHARD ELDER S the daughter of General Albert G. Blanchard, late of the C. S. A. She was born in an extreme Western frontier military post, where her father, then a captain in the United States service, was stationed to watch the border Indians, and her childhood was passed amid scenes and incidents that naturally arise in such a situation. Her mother died while she was yet very young, and for many years hers was the sad experience of an unloved orphan, for she was soon separated from her father's care. She was educated in the world-noted public schools of the city of New Orleans; cultivation taught her to appreciate art, and her education thoroughly developed a mind of no ordinary capacity. While quite young, she became the wife of Charles D. Elder, of New Orleans; and when the changed duties from a daughter's secluded home to a wife's and mother's cares fell to her lot, she met them firmly, and cheerfully fulfilled their requirements. Mr. Elder, when New Orleans was captured by the Federals, went into the Confederacy with his family, and, like many others, sought from place to place a home of safety for his young and helpless family. In Selma, Ala., they remained some time—and their house was almost a hospital for sick and wounded soldiers at one time. Since she was sixteen, she has contributed to the press, at first short poems and little pictures of life to different newspapers. "Babies," "The First Ride," etc., were full of pathos and beauty, while her poems were outpourings of a young, pure heart overflowing with love and an admiration of the beautiful. "Hermine," her nom de plume, always attracted attention to her articles. Much of her patriotic enthusiasm for military distinction must be ascribed to her young days at the West, also her love of the wild and stupendous in Nature. There is great simplicity in her style, and tenderness of feeling in all that she writes. A tinge of melancholy sometimes colors her song; but may not its source be traced to that poetic temperament so touchingly described by L. E. L., and her early want of a mother's tenderness? She wrote only occasionally, until war came upon our land, when the first battle-cry seemed to renew all her childhood's memories, and her muse poured forth streams of patriotic feeling, appealing to all, and inspiring many hearts. After the "6 surrender," she returned to New Orleans, and gracefully conforms to their changed circumstances, devoting much time to the education of her children and those increased household cares to which our Southern matrons have been called since the war. As a woman, she is peculiarly gentle in her manners and refined in her tastes: even in conversation her language is well chosen, and her words harmonious and elegant. She is still quite youthful. Mrs. Elder's most ambitious prose effort is a tale called "Ellen Fitzgerald,” embodying some of the events in the life of the late lamented Dr. R. D. Williams, the Irish patriot and poet, who died at her house in Thibodeaux, La., before the war, and full of Southern scenes and feelings. I am told that it would make a duodecimo volume of over 400 pages. She published a portion of this tale in the "Morning Star," a Catholic weekly, published in the Crescent City. [The following spirited poem is by a lady of this city, who, when the pen was considered “mightier than the sword," was a frequent contributor to our local press. She does not visit our fashionable promenades very often, but happening to be on Canal Street one sunny day last week, she was surprised to see great black chains — emblems of servitude - hung round the necks and over the shoulders of the free-born daughters of our land. On her return home she wrote the following lines, some of which, as our friend A. Ward would say, are "sarkastic."-N. O. Sunday Times.] CHAINS! Chains on a Southern woman! Chains! Base badges of defeat! What hand has dared to place them there? Binding your folds of flowing hair Coiling like snakes o'er your bosoms fair A strange and foul conceit! Chains on a Southern woman! Chains! Worn in the light of the noonday sun, Chains on a Southern woman! Chains! Infamy's fittest brand! Hung over hearts that once throbbed high, Chains on a Southern woman! Chains! Ye may cease to mourn for glories fled, Chains on a Southern woman! Chains! Fling them away from your scornful sight! Chains on a Southern woman! Chains! They tell the tale of a fortress strong, By the sound of their iron rings! If ye be conquered, are ye cast down? Need wear a chain, though lost your crown? Nay! Lift your heads with your past renown, Chains on a Southern woman! Chains! Ye wrong the memory of the slain! Your foemen would scorn to do! Chains on a Southern woman! Chains! Away with the slavish crest! Think of the hands now still and cold, Chainless and free 'neath the earth's damp mould, And twine no fetters of jewel or gold O'er hearts where their memories rest. CLEOPATRA DYING. Glorious victim of my magic! Have I dragged thee down to Hell! Cæsar shall not grace his triumph Soon my heart on thine shall lean. Swift shall glide on Charon's stream; Iris! Charmian! Bind my tresses! Gods! my lips breathe poisoned vapors! They have struck my Charmian dead! Foolish minion! durst precede me Where my spirit's lord has fled? None shall meet his smile before me, Quenched upon my bosom's snows! |