Old Times in Dixie Land

to tell the truth in the recollections of one's life-for, after all, truth is the chief virtue of history. My ancestry may be of as little importance in itself as this book is likely to be after the l

ted; there are books giving the whole history; and it is sur

ate of Louisiana. My father was a man of firmness and of courage amounting to stoicism. He appeared calm and self-posse

t home, to Cottage Hall, by my eldest sister, with whom I had been living. The other children had laid aside their mourning and I was informed that I also had new dresses; but I declined to wear them or to call the new mistress of the household by the name of "Mother," which had been freely given her by the rest of the family. When my father lifted me from the carriage he said: "My child, I will now take you to your new mother." As he kissed me affectionately I turned away and said: "I am not your child, and I have no mothe

My father had no patience with the innocent flirtations of young people; he thought such conduct implied a lack of straight-forward honesty which was inexcusable. Few men can understand the temptations of a young girl's environment, which sometimes cause her to make promises in good faith that cannot be carried out, and my father had no pity o

into Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana over sixty accomplished teachers, she herself having been at the head of successful schools in New York, Baltimore, Tuscaloosa and Washington. The calling

sked our guests why they had come down here if they had everything so much nicer and better in Massachusetts? I said no more, for a maid was called and I was sent to bed, retiring with indignation while the c

came Centenary College of the Methodist Episcopal Church South. His death occurred in 1849, and I have preserved a eulogy deliver

own church; and under the management of my predecessor, he saw it assume an honorable rank among the kindred institutions of our Southern clime. His head, his heart and purse were all at its service. He was anticipating the events of this week with hopeful gratification when, within forty-eight hours of the time he expected to mingle his counsels with his colleagues, it pleased God to cut him down. Were our griefs always proportioned to our losses, his wife, his children, the orphan, the poor, the church, the trustees, the faculty,

of our family, and every child in the house enjoyed his visits. He played on a glass flute for us, and it was a choice privilege when we were allowed to hear him read

all like the angel she was. Of Byron, Walter Scott, and historical literature she could give pages from memory with great expression and