secretary of the American Embassy in Paris. Mr. Vignaud has published scholarly works on Columbus which have been widely noted in Europe and America. In conclusion I wish to say that the French literature of Louisiana is no unworthy daughter of that of France. It is modest and simple, but above all sincere in its love for Louisiana, the United States, and France. Alee tasties EDWIN WILEY FULLER [1847-1875] ROBERT WATSON WINSTON IN Edwin W. Fuller the State of North Carolina found an inter preter of her domestic virtues, of her simple living, and of her trust in God. Like his native State, he was slow to action and sought not his own, content to do the thing nearest at hand and to leave the rest to an over-ruling Providence. There was little in his local surroundings to stimulate literary pursuits. Louisburg, where he was born in 1847, thirteen years before the Civil War began, and where he saw the old Tar hurrying on its bubbles to the sea, was a small village with good schools for boys and girls, but remote and slow, the most stirring events in its simple annals being court weeks, circus days, and muster days. His home was in the center of the town. The old mansion-house with its stained glass windows, situated in a grove of massive oaks and elms, dispensed a generous hospitality, while to the rear was the latticed summer house, a fairy bower, "O'er which was spread the jasmine's leafy net, To snare the straying winds." The father, Jones Fuller, a prosperous merchant and a man of generous impulses, and his sweet-spirited consort, Ann Thomas, presided over this "home of perfect peace; no envious spite or hatred within its sacred walls, but all pure love toward our fellows and gratitude to God." The bent of the young man's mind was fixed by the atmosphere of this home. Having received such education as the town academy afforded, he entered the University of North Carolina, where he remained two years and then went to the University of Virginia. When one considers the present literary activity of these institutions he cannot conceive of their meager equipment or of their dead literary calm forty years ago. Rarely did a Virginia or North Carolina book then make its appearance, and the prevailing literary style was windy and verbose. In spite of this sterile atmosphere we find our young poet looking forward to the loud applause of nations as a simple thing of time. To compensate for the lack of systematic training in literary studies the students at Chapel Hill organized clubs, now called fraternities, where literature was discussed. Edwin Fuller became a member of the Delta Psi Club and if reports can be accredited, his hebdomadal productions of prose and poetry were the admiration of his brethren. His squibs and essays, however, did not impress the students, many of whom had just surrendered at Appomattox, one tithe so much as his own lofty character. He took little interest in college politics or athletic sports, but he loved to wander alone under the Southern sky or in the stillness of the forests. His physical stature was below the average, but it did not seem so, for his large, lustrous blue eyes, his broad, prominent forehead and his kind, generous nature made an impression of strength and bigness. Like most men of a poetical temperament he had few intimates, though his sunny disposition, his witty and keenly sympathetic nature made him a favorite with his associates. Baxter's 'Saints' Rest' exerted a lasting influence upon his life, "paring off from his conscience the thick rind of carelessness and revealing the sad fact that the purity of life there enjoined and his own course were a vast distance apart." He became a leading spirit for good in his community. At his own expense he built and equipped a country school-house, where for years he taught the Bible to poor children. He lived only until he was twenty-seven, when, like Timrod and Lanier, he passed away of consumption, "having worn the girdle of the world about his loins so loosely that a moment did suffice to break the clasp and lay it down." Edwin Fuller's letters to his wife are full of poetic imagery and abound in quaint humor, while a certain warmth and richness pulsate in every line. He undertook but one work of prose, 'SeaGirt,' a novel. For a boy of eighteen years it is quite a remarkable production. It is a love-story filled with the incidents of his college days and with the events of the Civil War. The style of it is sophomoric and the sentences, after the fashion of that day, roll along in sonorous measure, wasting much effort upon "the God of day, and the fleecy racks flushing with his good-night kiss, while a purple bank, with silver fringe lay beneath him, like the pillow of his couch!" Several of his short poems have little merit and should not have found a place in his published works. “Out in the Rain" is a touching outpouring of his heart as within his chamber, all bright and warm, he hears the storm and the dismal wind, with now a fierce wild shriek and now a hollow moan, as if in pain, beating upon the grave of Ethel. He did not, like Timrod and Father Ryan, strike a martial or heroic note. Those poets came from states that rushed joyously into war; but not so the old North State. The roar of Fort Sumter's guns fell but harshly upon her ears, and our gentle poet and his kindred were for the Union and the old flag till called upon to fight for their own people or against them. Then they gave freely of blood and treasure. The dying words of Edwin Fuller, a memorial ode for Decoration Day at Wilmington, were Thou, who in the war-stained years Saw our heroes' life-blood shed, Incense to our memorial dead! His name as a poet, however, rests mainly upon one poem, "The Angel in the Cloud," a very long poem, written in blank verse. Poe declared that it was impossible to write a long poem, and Dr. Johnson said of blank verse that it was verse only to the eye, tuneless. This poem is philosophical; it deals with a problem and enforces a doctrine of life. It is divided into two parts. The philosophy. of skepticism is clearly stated, the unbeliever is not only allowed to record his fallacies, but he is helped to clothe them with characteristic ingenuity and subtlety. He is answered by the angel in the cloud with a strong argument, in which the difficulties that had puzzled the philosopher are explained and his doubts are resolved into faith. Man cannot judge the eternal mind by his, As purposes divine, with perfect ends, And in our darkest clouds God's angels stand The poem opens with a descriptive scene, "Noon in August." The bees work lazily, as if they long to kick The yellow burdens from their patient thighs, His imagery at times is majestic in its beauty. His description of Heaven is highly poetical and imaginative, and his style throughout is chaste and classic. One cannot help feeling that he might have employed the heroic couplet to better advantage than blank verse, as that form of verse is especially adapted to his striking antitheses of thought. 'The Angel in the Cloud' cannot be classed with great poems such as 'Paradise Lost,' but it invites comparison with Young's 'Night Thoughts,' Blair's 'Grave' and Pollock's 'Course of Time.' The poetry that lives in the hearts of the many is simple, sensuous, passionate; it advances no philosophical problems, but sweetens our feelings towards humanity and lures us on to the golden clime of imagination. This witchery of verse, this irresistibleness of style, this ultimate truth to life, which are of the essence of great poetry, can only be produced by men who have native genius, rich and mature experience and consummate mastery of the art of expression. Edwin Fuller had the first but did not live to attain the others. Robert Walio Waiston, See also the preface to the third edition of The Angel in the Cloud; The Knoxville Tribune, April 28, 1876; The Franklin Courier, June 9, 1876; The News and Observer, Raleigh, July 13, 1887; and The Biographical History of North Carolina, Vol. VII. THE MIND OF MAN From 'The Angel in the Cloud.' Copyright by W. W. Fuller. By kind permission of the owner. And such is Man! The puzzle of the Universe! Within, A babe we must admire for his power. Eternal spring to blazing entities, And whirl their radiant orbs through cooling space; And with an "Open Sesame!" descend Into its rocky chambers; there unfold The stone archives, and read their graven truths- How age by age, a globe of liquid fire, It dimmer grew, and dark and stiff, |