ana,
level with the stream, extending for many, many miles, its champaign
checkered with groups of white plantation-houses, spotted with groves of
trees, rich in autumnal beauty, glowing with crimson, gold, and green,
softened by veils of long, gray moss. This plain was dotted with lovely
lakes, whose waters shone in the slanting rays of the declining sun....
The sun went down quickly, as he does at sea, a round, red fire-ball,
while light, splendid clouds of purple, pink, lilac, and gray, on the
blue, blue heavens, refracted the ascending, slender, quivering rays of
the disappearing orb, the type of Deity in all natural religions, the
Totem of the Natchez Indians. Beloved city--bright "city of the Sun"!
How often have I paced with restless child's feet, the road that Lucian
was now traveling over, and listened, as he did, but more lingeringly,
to the sounds of gentle human life, stirring within thy peaceful homes!
How often have I thanked God for my beautiful childhood's home--for my
precious Southern Land--for its sunshine, its verdure, its forests,
its flowers, its perfume; but oh! above all, for the loving, refined,
intelligent, gentle race of people it was my great, my priceless
privilege, to be born amongst--a people worthy to live with, yes,
_worthy to die for_! The stern besom of war has wept over you, beloved
Natchez--your fairest homes have been desolated, your lovely gardens are
now only remembrances--your family circles are broken up--your bravest
sons are sleeping in the dust of death, or weeping tears of bitterness
in exile--your daughters, bowed down with penury and grief, are mourning
beside their darkened firesides--your joyous households transferred to
other and kindlier lands. The forms of my kindred faded into phantoms of
the past--strangers sit now in the place that once was mine; but yet,
thou art lovely, still beloved in thy ruin, in thy desolation--city of
my heart--city of my love--city of my childish joy! Oh! city of my dead!

[Footnote 72: Prominent among the living authors of Louisiana.]

* * * * *

=_Anne Moncure Crane.[73]_=

From "Opportunity;" a Novel.

=_314._= IMPRESSION OF A SEA SCENE.

The tide had been out, but it was now rising; and they stood silently
watching the long, low waves dissolve in foam, whose white edges each
time crept nearer and nearer their feet. No one was conscious of the
duration of the silence. The sea's monotony of motion an