Sprung By @CarolopolisTRE on X

Count your dead. Eyes affixed over threshing floor
Where dove flutter stalk to line: darting figure
Alight and chase, air soon columbine.
Sunflowers desire-dried downcast rattle;
Former selves rapture-age whisper wise
Affection; keen vision over and above
Propelled according to right reason,
With intelligent balancing; tuck into
Sorghum row, make it nice and neat.
Shield me, bring peace beyond understanding.

Robert E. Lee By Stephen Vincent Benét

The man was loved, the man was idolized, 
The man had every just and noble gift. 
He took great burdens and he bore them well, 
Believed in God but did not preach too much, 
Believed and followed duty first and last 
With marvellous consistency and force, 
Was a great victor, in defeat as great, 
No more, no less, always himself in both, 
Could make men die for him but saved his men 
Whenever he could save them was most kind 
But was not disobeyed was a good father, 
A loving husband, a considerate friend.

If you would like to see more of TRE’s work, you can find him on X here, and Substack here:

The Metic

Essays and Reviews from the Holy City

By Thomas Ellen

The Virginians Of The Valley by Francis Orray Ticknor

The knightliest knights of the knightly race
  Who, since the days of old,
Have kept the lamp of chivalry
  Alight in hearts of gold:
The kindliest of the kindly band
  Who, rarely hating ease,
Yet rode with Spottswood round the land,
  And Raleigh round the seas;

Who climbed the blue Virginia hills
  Against embattled foes,
And planted there, in valleys fair,
  The lily and the rose;
Whose fragrance lives in many lands,
  Whose beauty stars the earth,
And lights the hearths of happy homes
  With loveliness and worth.
  
We thought they slept! the sons who kept
  The names of noble sires,
And slumbered while the darkness crept
  Around their vigil-fires;
But aye the "Golden Horseshoe" Knights
  Their old Dominion keep,
Whose foes have found enchanted ground,
  But not a knight asleep!

To Whom? By Henry Timrod

     Awake upon a couch of pain,
      I see a star betwixt the trees;
     Across yon darkening field of cane,
      Comes slow and soft the evening breeze.
     My curtain's folds are faintly stirred;
      And moving lightly in her rest,
     I hear the chirrup of a bird,
      That dreameth in some neighboring nest.

     Last night I took no note of these—
      How it was passed I scarce can say;
     'T was not in prayers to Heaven for ease,
      'T was not in wishes for the day.
     Impatient tears, and passionate sighs,
      Touched as with fire the pulse of pain,—
     I cursed, and cursed the wildering eyes
      That burned this fever in my brain.

     Oh! blessings on the quiet hour!
      My thoughts in calmer current flow;
     She is not conscious of her power,
      And hath no knowledge of my woe.
     Perhaps, if like yon peaceful star,
      She looked upon my burning brow,
     She would not pity from afar,
      But kiss me as the breeze does now.

To Thee By Henry Timrod

     Draw close the lattice and the door!
      Shut out the very stars above!
     No other eyes than mine shall pore
      Upon this thrilling tale of love.
     As, since the book was open last,
      Along its dear and sacred text
     No other eyes than thine have passed—
      Be mine the eyes that trace it next!

     Oh! very nobly is it wrought,—
      This web of love's divinest light,—
     But not to feed my soul with thought,
      Hang I upon the book to-night;
     I read it only for thy sake,
      To every page my lips I press—
     The very leaves appear to make
      A silken rustle like thy dress.

     And so, as each blest page I turn,
      I seem, with many a secret thrill,
     To touch a soft white hand, and burn
      To clasp and kiss it at my will.
     Oh! if a fancy be so sweet,
      These shadowy fingers touching mine—
     How wildly would my pulses beat,
      If they COULD feel the beat of thine!

A Trifle By Henry Timrod

I know not why, but ev'n to me
My songs seem sweet when read to thee.

Perhaps in this the pleasure lies—
I read my thoughts within thine eyes.

And so dare fancy that my art
May sink as deeply as thy heart.

Perhaps I love to make my words
Sing round thee like so many birds,

Or, maybe, they are only sweet
As they seem offerings at thy feet.

Or haply, Lily, when I speak,
I think, perchance, they touch thy cheek,

Or with a yet more precious bliss,
Die on thy red lips in a kiss.

Each reason here—I cannot tell—
Or all perhaps may solve the spell.

But if she watch when I am by,
Lily may deeper see than I.

Untitled By John Slaughter

A boy hears whispers from the past, not words but tongues, 
The battle cry, the rolling thunder, the beating drum.

He stands tall and proud, his tree lib blade in hand,
Dreaming of victory against numbers no man can stand.

The burning urge to fight soon fades, 
Through women, years, and old age.

He accepts the tragedy life soon bears, 
Held captive under keyboards and office chairs.

Yet in the quiet, in the dark, 
The rolling thunder revives a spark,

A memory, a life unlived, the ghostly tongues, the beating drum,
The warrior's heart.

Charleston By Henry Timrod 

Calm as that second summer which precedes
  The first fall of the snow,
In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds,
  The City bides the foe.

As yet, behind their ramparts stern and proud,
  Her bolted thunders sleep—
Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud,
  Looms o'er the solemn deep.

No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scar
  To guard the holy strand;
But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war
  Above the level sand.

And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched,
  Unseen, beside the flood—
Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched
  That wait and watch for blood.

Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade,
  Walk grave and thoughtful men,
Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade
  As lightly as the pen.

And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim
  Over a bleeding hound,
Seem each one to have caught the strength of him
  Whose sword she sadly bound.

Thus girt without and garrisoned at home,
  Day patient following day,
Old Charleston looks from roof, and spire, and dome,
  Across her tranquil bay.

Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands
  And spicy Indian ports,
Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands,
  And Summer to her courts.

But still, along yon dim Atlantic line,
  The only hostile smoke
Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine,
  From some frail, floating oak.

Shall the Spring dawn, and she still clad in smiles,
  And with an unscathed brow,
Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles,
  As fair and free as now?

We know not; in the temple of the Fates
  God has inscribed her doom;
And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits
  The triumph or the tomb.

C.S.A. by Abram Joseph Ryan

Do we weep for the heroes who died for us,
Who living were true and tried for us,
And dying sleep side by side for us;
  The Martyr-band
  That hallowed our land
With the blood they shed in a tide for us?

Ah! fearless on many a day for us
They stood in front of the fray for us,
And held the foeman at bay for us;
  And tears should fall
  Fore'er o'er all
Who fell while wearing the Gray for us.

How many a glorious name for us,
How many a story of fame for us
They left: Would it not be a blame for us
  If their memories part
  From our land and heart,
And a wrong to them, and shame for us?

No, no, no, they were brave for us,
And bright were the lives they gave for us;
The land they struggled to save for us
  Will not forget
  Its warriors yet
Who sleep in so many a grave for us.

On many and many a plain for us
Their blood poured down all in vain for us,
Red, rich, and pure, like a rain for us;
  They bleed -- we weep,
  We live -- they sleep,
"All lost," the only refrain for us.

But their memories e'er shall remain for us,
And their names, bright names, without stain for us;
The glory they won shall not wane for us,
  In legend and lay
  Our heroes in Gray
Shall forever live over again for us.

The Two Armies By Henry Timrod

Two armies stand enrolled beneath
The banner with the starry wreath;
One, facing battle, blight and blast,
Through twice a hundred fields has passed;
Its deeds against a ruffian foe,
Stream, valley, hill, and mountain know,
Till every wind that sweeps the land
Goes, glory laden, from the strand.

The other, with a narrower scope,
Yet led by not less grand a hope,
Hath won, perhaps, as proud a place,
And wears its fame with meeker grace.
Wives march beneath its glittering sign,
Fond mothers swell the lovely line,
And many a sweetheart hides her blush
In the young patriot's generous flush.

No breeze of battle ever fanned
The colors of that tender band;
Its office is beside the bed,
Where throbs some sick or wounded head.
It does not court the soldier's tomb,
But plies the needle and the loom;
And, by a thousand peaceful deeds,
Supplies a struggling nation's needs.

Nor is that army's gentle might
Unfelt amid the deadly fight;
It nerves the son's, the husband's hand,
It points the lover's fearless brand;
It thrills the languid, warms the cold,
Gives even new courage to the bold;
And sometimes lifts the veriest clod
To its own lofty trust in God.

When Heaven shall blow the trump of peace,
And bid this weary warfare cease,
Their several missions nobly done,
The triumph grasped, and freedom won,
Both armies, from their toils at rest,
Alike may claim the victor's crest,
But each shall see its dearest prize
Gleam softly from the other's eyes.

To that end, in addition to publishing literary fiction, we have decided to publish classical Southern poetry from yesteryear, and wonderful new verses from poets who call the Southland home today. We hope you enjoy this monthly segment beginning here.

I also want to apologize for the over-representation of my work in this month’s “Southern Verse Segment”, the choice to begin this segment today was a spur-of-the-moment decision. For that reason, we were not able to source any submissions. However, if you are interested in submitting your poetry for publication here, please do not hesitate to do so! — J.R. Dunmore, EIC

The Shenandoah Valley By J.R. Dunmore

Take me back to the country
Hollers and hills my homeland
Mountains, valleys, and old trees
Clear nights viewing starry bands

Huntin’, fishin’, trappin’, and such
Of the like, I’ve grown to know
I could not spend time too much
To the Valley, I must go

For culture here means much more
Then dress, custom, or feeling
Though vessels change souls endure
Through years they keep on being

The rivers and mountains sing
To the one who made all them
The cricks and meadows dream
Remembering creation

No other place I call home
To the country, I rally
This Holy place that I own
The Shenandoah Valley

A Common Thought By Henry Timrod

Somewhere on this earthly planet
In the dust of flowers to be,
In the dewdrop, in the sunshine,
Sleeps a solemn day for me.

At this wakeful hour of midnight
I behold it dawn in mist,
And I hear a sound of sobbing
Through the darkness—hist! oh, hist!

In a dim and murky chamber, 
I am breathing life away, 
Some one draws a curtain softly, 
And I watch the broadening day.

As it purples in the zenith,
As it brightens on the lawn,
There's a hush of death about me,
And a whisper, "He is gone!"

One thing we have been eager to incorporate into “Virginia Gentry” is the great Southern Literary Tradition. We are doing this by giving Southern authors a platform to showcase their writing. Here is one such submission from John Slaughter, which I believe does a great job of scratching that itch.

The imagery will remind you of your home along the Tennessee River and the forests that surround it, the prose is clean and crisp, the voice is uniquely Southern, the themes are culturally relevant to the Southern understanding of duty and honor, and there is even a touch of the wyrd that is reminiscent of the old folktales that float around the South to this day. It is a wonderful addition to our magazine and we are grateful to publish it here for you today. Without further ado, I proudly present “The Weight Of Steel” by John Slaughter. — J.R. Dunmore, EIC

The Weight Of Steel

Jonathan Andrew Walker stood at the water's edge, the weathered dock creaking beneath his feet, as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The mighty Tennessee River rolled before him, languishing, like a murky serpent, cutting its way through emerald-topped hills.  In his hand, he held a few pebbles collected the day before, smooth and grey and perfect. With a flick of the wrist, he watched the stones skim across the water, hoping each stone would leap farther than the last. One by one he tossed his stones, blissfully unaware that he stood at the edge of time, that the concluding moments of his childhood lingered on the horizon. Had it occurred to him that with the final toss, he hurled his innocence into the unknown, he would have savored that moment, he would have held each stone a while longer.

“Johnathan!” He recognized the commanding baritone voice of his father calling his name. It had been eight years since his father had returned home from the war and still, his voice snapped with the precision and confidence of an officer ordering his men.

“Coming Pa!” Jonathan called back.  At the edge of the dock, his father loomed, the embodiment of unyielding command, with piercing green eyes glaring from under the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat. It was not only his voice but his presence that carried the air of military command. The badge signifying him as sheriff rested over his heart; for others, such an insignia conferred authority, a symbol demanding respect. Yet for Samuel Walker, it was merely a token gesture. The badge did not empower him; rather, he lent his own authority to the metal on his chest. He stood as a man apart, one whose silent demeanor alone proclaimed an inherent and commanding virtue. It was in this light, that Jonathan viewed his father standing at the threshold of the dock with their horses—silently commanding his obedience, the way he commanded the world.

“Hey Pa”, Jonathan said, trying to catch his breath as he neared his father.

“You ready son? We need to get moving, we don’t need to be checkin’ traps in the dark.” Samuel paused, glancing at the gathering clouds in the west. “There's rain headed this way.”

“Yes sir I’m ready,” Jonathan said quickly.

“Well, let's get moving.”

Jonathan took the reins from his father's hand and mounted his horse. His father followed suit and together they rode down the streets of Waterloo, the son nipping at his father's shadow. Shop fronts and townspeople faded behind them and in their place, a dense green forest crawled from the earth. Jonathan peered into the forest as they rode, but his vision was blocked by the thick foliage that flanked both sides of the trial. What he could not see preyed on his mind, branches and leaves twisted and turned into fantastical terrors. A falling acorn became a lurking predator, the fluttering of birds a monstrous ambush, there was no limit to what he conjured in his young mind. The immense deep forest, emerald and black and unknown, stifled the senses constructing monsters of what he could not see.

This forest was as old as time itself, brimming with secrets that whispered of ages past. Jonathan's mind danced with the tales spun by sailors and tavern folk; tales steeped in enchantment, of mystical creatures and arcane forces at play. His father insisted they were merely stories, that when men encountered what they could not explain they fabricated tales to alleviate their fears. “Men need to be in control, and to name a thing is to control it,” his father would say. Yet Jonathan never quite believed him. In his heart, he felt his father's way of controlling his fear was to simplify the unexplained, to name things in his way, to call them nothing.

Samuel pulled back on the reins and threw up his clenched fist as they rounded a bend in the trail. Jonathan recognized the signal and without hesitation eased his horse to a stop. The two of them, father and son, sat in silence, Jonathan watching his father studying the trail, Samuel his eyes focused on what lay ahead. Jonathan knew there were more than monsters and witches to be wary of in these woods, highwaymen and federals often took advantage of travelers and they would surely see a man and a boy as easy pickings.

Samuel’s hand slowly worked its way to the pistol hanging at his side.

“Pa,” Jonathan whispered.

Samuel lifted his left hand and pressed a finger to his lips. “Look up ahead son.”

Some fifty paces up the path, an immense creature loomed, its body draped in a cloak of black fur, muscles undulating under the glossy coat, like waves lapping at the shore under a moonless sky. Its eyes blazed with the fierce glow of smoldering embers buried in a deep sinister furnace. The beast fixed its incandescent gaze with unspoken fury, upon the man and his child, its weight shifting effortlessly to its hind legs, its shoulders drawn up in cold tension-the epitome of flawless violence.

Despite his best efforts to divert his gaze, Jonathan found himself mesmerized by the creature. A magnetic pull fixated his eyes upon the beast, and time stood still. Fear gripped him, rooted him in place, as an eerie hush enveloped his thoughts. And in that silence, the beast's message was clear and palpable—these woodlands were its domain. Jonathan felt dread wash over him, and all he desired was to shelter behind his father's presence. What notions he held of being a man crumbled and he knew at that moment he was still just a boy.

The creature turned, breaking its gaze from Jonathan before pausing to stare at his father. The beast silently bared its teeth, large dagger-like, before slowly receding into the forest’s embrace, blending with the trees from which it came.

Father and son rode in silence for the remainder of their journey as if to speak of what they had seen might summon it. Their home was only an hour's ride from Waterloo but the fear of the creatures caused each second to stretch on indefinitely. Jonathan was intimately familiar with the trail; he had traveled it alone on moonless nights navigating solely on memory, but now every bend, every rock face held the uncharted fear of what lay ahead.

Despite the unsettling feeling that lingered in their minds, they arrived home without harm. With care, they unsaddled their horses and proceeded into the house. Samuel took down his rifle and laid it on the kitchen table before Jonathan.

“You know what this is?” Samuel asked, standing over his son.

“It's a rifle,” Jonathan said with a sense of obviousness.

“It's a Sharps Carbine son. I took it off a Yankee at Seminary Ridge. It's a damn good rifle. I think you're about big enough to use it.”

Jonathan watched as his father opened the breach and expertly demonstrated how to load the linen cartridge into the rifle.

“Your turn,” Samuel said, handing the rifle to his son.

Jonathan took up the rifle and attempted to follow his father's instructions. Samuel watched as his son struggled to lift the rifle. Jonathan could feel the weight of Father's disappointment as he fought to open the breach and dropped the cartridge on the floor, the rifle barrel slamming into the table as he knelt to collect the ammunition.

“Watch out!” Samuel shouted, raising his voice and shaking his head in disapproval, “You can't be fumbling around like that on out in them woods.”

“I’m sorry Pa,” Jonathan said, laying the rifle on the table, “I just get nervous with you watchin' me.”

“If I make you nervous, what are you gonna do if you see a bear out there?”

“I don't know Pa, but that thing out there wasn't no bear.”

Samuel shook his head, ”It doesn't matter what it was if you're fumbling around with that rifle it will get you.”

Samuel motioned to Jonathan to follow him and together they stepped out onto the front porch. Thunder rumbled in the distance and Jonathan could smell the sweet dampness of rain on the horizon. Samuel pointed toward the treeline about one hundred yards from their home. “I’ve seen a lot of things in these woods that I can't explain. I know you heard stories about it,  we all have witches and haunts and the like. I don't know what's out there, but I do know, you can't let it scare you. A man’s got a job to do and he does it, it's that simple.” He pulled the revolver from his holster, and holding it by the barrel offered it to Jonathan. “I gotta check our traps before the rain gets here. I know that thing got you spooked, you ain't gotta go but one day you won't have a choice.”

“Yes sir, " Jonathan said, tucking the pistol into his waistline.

Samuel knelt down and looked Jonathan in the eyes. “I love you, son,” he said, a tinge of sadness hidden in his voice, “I’ll be back not long after dark.”

Jonathan said nothing as he watched his father walk into the thundering dusk, rifle in hand. He looked at the ground, pressing half moons into the dirt with the heel of his boot. He wanted to go, he knew he should go, but fear kept him. He was letting his father down and he could feel it. It was the first time he had felt shame, it was a man's shame, and he hated it.

As his father disappeared into the woods Jonathan turned and went inside and up the stairs to his father's room. The large house served as a mausoleum for memories of a family that once occupied its halls. Pictures suspended on the walls and resting on tables told the story of a family, once prominent and happy. Jonathan's grandfather had made his fortune in the lumber business and that fortune built home. Then the war came. His father and his uncle took up arms, and for three years they followed men with stared collars. They fought through hills and valleys, in rain and snow, and when they returned home they found the war had been there too. Their home once full of life and love was empty. Only three-year-old Johnathan and Ms. Susan, (a free woman who had worked for the family since Samuel was a baby) remained. Jonathan’s uncle James, left to seek his fortune on the rivers to the south and Susan passed from consumption when Jonathan was ten, since then it had been him and his father, it was a big house for only two, a lonely house.

Jonathan kicked off his boots laid on his father's bed, and thought about the family that he never knew what it was like before the war. They were sad thoughts but they helped him to forget about the creature he had seen and the fear and shame he felt for disappointing his father. The sound of rain pinging off the tin roof filled his ears, it was a familiar sound, a comforting sound, and his thoughts slowly turned to dreams as he gently drifted to sleep.

The morning sun broke through the east-facing window and rested on Jonathan's face. The warm rays woke him, and he sat up and dusted the fog of sleep from his mind. He looked about the room now lit in the morning light and slowly he realized he had slept all night. His heart began to pound and he put on his boots and rushed downstairs.

“Pa?” Jonathan shouted as he reached the bottom of the staircase.

“Pa, you here?”

Jonathan ran to the kitchen but saw no sign of his father. He began to panic. Thoughts of that creature on the trail, and his father's promise to be home before dark raced through his mind. He ran to the barn. His father's horse was still there, everything was as it was the night before. He ran around the perimeter of the house and then back inside hoping to find his father. He checked every room and then checked again, his father wasn't home, he hadn't been home.

With heavy exhausted breath, Jonathan sat on the front steps looking out at the world. What had happened to his father? Where was he? Did that thing, that black beast take him? His mind raced with anxiety and fear. Then that feeling returned, it was gross and dirty, he felt unwashed, and he wanted to hide from the world. It was shame… the shame of being too scared to go with his father. The shame of letting him down. And he cried.

As he sat on the porch trying to dry his eyes, he reached in his pocket for a handkerchief and as he did his hand brushed cold steel. It was the pistol his father had given him. He drew the gun from his waist and held it in both hands, it was heavy, made for a man, not a boy. He stared at the gun and his father's words played softly in his mind, “I don't know what's out there, but I do know you can't let it scare you. A man’s got a job to do and he does it, it's that simple.”

Jonathan stood up, wiping the tears from his eyes as he ran into the house. He grabbed his father's old Confederate knapsack, inside was a bayonet, mini balls, and cartridge papers. He grabbed extra clothes and rolled a blanket. He ran to the kitchen, packed bread and jerky, and filled the old canteen. He double-checked his bag and satisfied that he had all he needed, threw it over his shoulder. He walked down the steps and took a long look at the empty structure he called his home. Jonathan walked with heavy steps, following in the path his father had taken the night before. As he neared the forest his pulse began to quicken and he could hear the bass drum of his heart beating in his ears. He stopped just short of the treeline, he stood on the edge of home and the unknown, and he silently prayed, hoping to quiet the fear that whispered of his shame. Drawing the pistol from his waist he stepped into the void, the pistol less heavy than it was before.

If you enjoyed this wonderful story, and Mr. Slaughter’s writing, you can find him on X.com here: @JSlaughterEsq, and SubStack here: Old South Repository.