If I may venture a judgment, where there is room for bias and prepossession, I will declare my belief that these conditions no where meet in more perfection than among the educated proprietors of the South. Animated dialogue, from the necessity of the case, takes the place of purchased evening amusements. Wit and beauty are not confined to the sons and daughters of New England; nor will we readily yield to them in that glow, frankness and impulsion, which give electric force to countenance, voice, and gesture. Many a _soirée_ have we kept up till the small hours, when a dozen horses were in the stables, and a tribe of swarthy retainers were making the joists ring in the neighboring dependencies. Here it was that in my heyday I forgot all the grammarians, from Priscian to Adam, all the classics, and all the marvels of the old world; but I was learning much of mankind in its best aspect, and not a little of myself. _Mme._ Anne Stowe has been dead twenty years, and three of her sons have families near me. Her husband was a wealthy planter; but before he gained her hand she gave more than one refusal to an aspiring young fellow whose name I am not free to mention. * * * * * =LIFE’S BATTLE MARCH.= =BY MRS. J. H. THOMAS, (L. L. M.)= A mighty throng are they who gird Their armor for the strife; And, with strong hearts, go forth to win The battle-field of Life. The good, the firm, the true, the brave, The beautiful, are there; Beside the stern, dark warrior’s helm Float woman’s tresses fair. Rose-lips are wreathed with lofty smiles, Pale cheeks with ardor glow; And fragile forms from easeful halls To death or vict’ry go. Nor fly they from the noontide heat, To Pleasure’s shaded bowers; Firm fall the feet that trod, erewhile, Among the dew-bright flowers. To battle with Life’s ills they go— Those hopeful hearts and strong— Nor shrink they from the toilsome march, To struggle fierce and long. These lessons trite they all have conned: The proudest hopes may fall; And Beauty, Life, and Bloom repair To Death’s great carnival— Earth’s clinging loves may fade away, Like half-forgotten dreams; And trusting hearts grow dark and cold As cypress-shaded streams— The calmest brow may droop with grief— The brightest lip may pale; And eagle eyes grow dim with tears, When Hate and Wrong prevail—