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PAGE FOURTEEN “THE CONFEDERATE VET ERAN.” The June number of the above named 'magazine is full of intefr esting and valuable matter. Indeed there is no periodical of its class more uniformly excellent. Never rancorous toward the North, and never apologetic for the South; nev er bitter toward those who fought us, and never less than superbly loy al to the heroes who defended us, the “Confederate Veteran” is a model Southern publication. In the June number is an article on “The Women of Mosby’s Con federacy,” which is one of the most remarkable war papers we ever read. Consider this sketch of Gen. John S. Mosby: “The people of Fauquier believed implicitly in Mosby, and his men had unbounded faith in him. When I recall Mosby as I saw him for the first time at the head of his battalion in the little village of Salem, in old Fauquier, in the autumn of 1864, splendidly mounted, his lithe, ele gant form attired in a showy, new uniform, slouch hat with gilt cord, and sweeping plume shading his clean-cut cameo face, I thought of the days when ‘knighthood was in flower’; that he was the knighliest of them all. He was the beau ideal of a ‘ beau sabreur ’ —a Centaur, Mars, and Apollo all in one. “In many respects Mosby was unique. His power over his men was complete, but they did not love him. He had no magnetism; he was as cold as an iceberg, and to shake hands with him was like having the first symptoms of a congestive chill. He was positive, evidence of a self centered man, and did not know what human sympathy was. He would have been a Stoic had he lived in Athens in the days of Pericles. The general impression of Mosby is that he was a rough-and-ready, fight ing Cracker Jack. On the contrary, he was a literati, a classical schol ar, and a thorough student; but he reminded one strongly of Goldsmith, “ ‘Who wrote like an angel, But talked like poor Poll.’ “Mosby was fond of reading the old English literature, and he was fa" muiar witii Lord Chesterfield’s let ters, yet withal he had tfte manners of a Piute Indian. It has often been said of him that he made an enemy every time he shook hands. He was a fascinating character to study; but he was a ‘stormy petrel,’ a born soldier, a light cavalryman by instinct, and a partisan who un der no orders could accomplish won ders, but in the regular army he would never have been heard of. In the piping days of peace he was a fifth spoke in a wheel, and steady, plodding work was his abomination. He was of the meteoric type. Yet though cold, indifferent, and utterly selfish, he was the greatest leader of irregular warfare that history or tra dition tells us of. Sumter and Ma rion were no more to be compared to him than Alvarez was to Cortez. Mosby, with his battalion numbering some three hundred fighters, caused more trouble to the Army of the Po tomac than any corps in the Confed erate army; and they kept over thir ty thousand Federate guarding their communications, their railroads, their army posts, their frontier towns, and their depot of supplies, when but for this übiquitous ranger these forces would have been in active service in the field.” The author relates the following story which is new to us and, maybe, to you: A Fauquier tot, three years old, was sent, soon after the war was over, to visit her aunt in Boston. When she knelt to say her prayeis, the night of her arrival, she put into the old, old petition of “Now I lay me down to sleep,” the Southern ad dition of “God bless General Lee and Jeff Davis.” Her aunt mildly interposed with, “Mollie, the war is over now, and we are one people, and you must pray for the Yankees, too.” Once more the little knees were bent; oncel more the little hands came together; and once more the infant tongue lisped in prayer. This time the innocent and earnest addition to the old form was: “Oh, Lord! Bless the dam Yan kees, too.” The author tells of an incident that would be incredible were we to read of it in a novel. A Confederate soldier, on his way to see his sweet heart, was surprised by a troop of Union cavalry, whose captain he shot. Then the race for dear life was on: “Waller sped straight down the road with the crack of the pistols of his pursuers sounding loud above the thunder of the beat of the hoof strokes. A high rail fence ran along the highway, and there was nothing for him to do but keep straight on. As he neared the mansion he saw that the gate was closed, but he was well mounted and a light weight and he just cleared it; but his horse lost his balance and fell to his knees, and in an instant Waller was off and ran up the steps into the house. ‘ ‘ His sweetheart had seen the whole affair. The Federate had to stop to open the gate, and this gave him time to reach her side before the Feder ate reached the house. An ordinary woman would have screamed; an extraordinary woman would have turned white to the lips, and would have thrown herself before his bearded foes and thus have given him a chance to fly; but a heroine did neither. She heard the order to the troopers to surround the house, and, worse than all, she heard the clanking of spurred feet hurrying along the gravel walk. There was no time for tears, no time to think, only time to act on an inspiration that saved a human life. To do so was violating every principle of fe male modesty, every precept of the world, and doing violence to every finer feeling and performing an act which would in the common course of events cause her long and contin ued shame and regret. She loved her country, she loved its defenders; but she loved most of all the man now being hunted to death. She stood in the passage, her tall form rendered more imposing by the mon strous crinoline skirt, worn during the first two years of the war. She made her lover stoop down and she stood over him, her broad skirts ef fectually concealing his diminutive figure. As the bluecoats came streaming into the hall, an officer in front, with his cocked Colt’s in his WATSON’S WEEKLY JEFFERSONIAN. hand, demanded to know where the Rebel was. She motioned them to a rear door, and she stood like a statue all the time they were searching the house. When interrogated by the of" fleer, she answered coolly, calmly, and plainly, as if she were discuss ing a dinner; and her magnificent nerve kept her standing there so na turally that not one of those men had the slightest suspicion that she knew anything of the Rebel fugitive. “After her sublime act, it would seem that Fate would have watched over and protected her lover; but her heart was broken when a year later tidings came to her that he had fallen in the front-of bittie line, with a bullet through his heart.” Have You Seen It? WHAT? w Watson’s Jeffersonian MAGAZINE FOR JULY I If you have not already seen the July I number, don’t fail to get it, either from I the news stands or by sending subscrip- I tion price ($1.50) direct to the Atlanta I office. This number is a “hummer” and I you can’t afford to miss it. Here is the I table of contents: ROBERT TOOMBS—Frontispiece. EDITORIALS Thomas E. Watson Illustrated by W. Gordon Nye. Between the Mill-Stones—Stretching the Constitution—Corporation Encroachment —Shameful National Finance—Editorial Notes. x A SURVEY OF THE WORLD THE BLACKNESS OF PENNSYLVANIA Scott Nearing JIM—A REMINISCENCE OF SLAVE TIMES Frank E. Anderson ANN BOYD—A Serial Story Will N. Harben THE LIFE AND TIMES OF ANDREW JACKSON 1 Thos. E. Watson I NOT OUR FUNERAL w W. B. Sloan THE INFLUENCE OF NEGRO NURSES UPON SOUTHERN CHILDREN A Southern Mother ROBERT TOOMBS Thos. E. Watson EDUCATIONAL DEPARTMENT LETTERS FROM THE PEOPLE , BOOK REVIEWS f WHAT THE PRESS SAYS OF US SAY OF OTHER EDITORS I Those subscribing now and wishing I the back numbers can secure them. Do I it to-day. I Watson’s Jeffersonian Magazine I 608 TEMPLE COURT I Atlanta :: ~ :: Georgia Very touchingly and vividly is the situation and the heroism of the women of Fauquier described. We can only quote in part: “In many houses there were no men; every man capable of bearing arms was in the field. Often a par ty of us would stop at some lone farmhouse in the dead of night; and after an interval, a light would gleam, and the white faces of a group of women would be seen hud dled together for safety. Then, no matter what the hour, they would start a fire and cook us a frugal meal. How those people lived, God only knows. In the lower part of the country there was no poultry, no hogs or meat of any kind; for a Fed-