University of Virginia Library

MARY McGILLUP.
A Southern Novel.
AFTER BELLE BOYD;
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY G. AS--LA.

INTRODUCTION.

“Will you write me up?”

The scene was near Temple Bar. The speaker was the famous
rebel Mary McGillup—a young girl of fragile frame, and long, lustrous
black hair. I must confess that the question was a peculiar
one, and under the circumstances, somewhat puzzling. It was
true I had been kindly treated by the Northerners, and, though
prejudiced against them, was to some extent under obligations
to them. It was true that I knew little or nothing of American
politics, history, or geography. But when did an English writer
ever weigh such trifles? Turning to the speaker, I inquired
with some caution the amount of pecuniary compensation offered
for the work.

“Sir!” she said, drawing her fragile form to its full height,
“You insult me—you insult the South.”

“But look ye here, d'ye see—the tin—the blunt—the ready—
the stiff, you know. Don't ye see, we can't do without that, you
know!”

“It shall be contingent on the success of the story,” she answered

haughtily. “In the meantime take this precious gem.”
And drawing a diamond ring from her finger, she placed it with a
roll of MSS. in my hands and vanished.

Although unable to procure more than £1 2s. 6d. from an
intelligent pawnbroker to whom I stated the circumstances and
with whom I pledged the ring, my sympathies with the cause of a
down-trodden and chivalrous people were at once enlisted. I
could not help wondering that in rich England, the home of the
oppressed and the free, a young and lovely woman like the fair
author of those pages should be obliged to thus pawn her jewels—
her marriage gift—for the means to procure her bread! With the
exception of the English aristocracy—who much resemble them—I
do not know of a class of people that I so much admire as the
Southern planters. May I become better acquainted with both.

Since writing the above, the news of Mr. Lincoln's assassination
has reached me. It is enough for me to say that I am dissatisfied
with the result. I do not attempt to excuse the assassin.
Yet there will be men who will charge this act upon the chivalrous
South. This leads me to repeat a remark once before made by
me in this connection, which has become justly celebrated. It is
this:

“It is usual, in cases of murder, to look for the criminal
among those who expect to be benefited by the crime. In the
death of Lincoln, his immediate successor in office alone receives
the benefit of his dying.”'

If Her Majesty Queen Victoria were assassinated, which Heaven
forbid, the one most benefited by her decease would, of course,
be His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, her immediate successor.
It would be unnecessary to state that suspicion would at
once point to the real culprit, which would of course be His
Royal Highness. This is logic.

But I have done. After having thus stated my opinion in
favor of the South, I would merely remark that there is One who
judgeth all things—who weigheth the cause between brother and
brother—and awardeth the perfect retribution; and whose ultimate
decision, I, as a British subject, have only anticipated.

G. A. S.

1. CHAPTER I.

Every reader of Belle Boyd's narrative will remember
an allusion to a “lovely, fragile looking
girl of nineteen,” who rivaled Belle Boyd in devotion
to the Southern cause, and who, like her, earned
the enviable distinction of being a “rebel spy.”

I am that “fragile” young creature. Although
on friendly terms with the late Miss Boyd, now Mrs.
Harding, candor compels me to state that nothing
but our common politics prevents me from exposing
the ungenerous spirit she has displayed in this allusion.
To be dismissed in a single paragraph after
years of—but I anticipate. To put up with this
feeble and forced acknowledgment of services rendered
would be a confession of a craven spirit, which,
thank God, though “fragile” and only “nineteen,” I
do not possess. I may not have the “blood of a Howard”
in my veins, as some people, whom I shall not
disgrace myself by naming, claim to have, but I
have yet to learn that the race of McGillup ever yet
brooked slight or insult. I shall not say that attention
in certain quarters seems to have turned some people's
heads; nor that it would have been more delicate if
certain folks had kept quiet on the subject of their
courtship, and the rejection of certain offers, when it
is known that their forward conduct was all that procured
them a husband! Thank Heaven, the South
has some daughters who are above such base considerations.
While nothing shall tempt me to reveal
the promises to share equally the fame of certain en

terprises, which were made by one who shall now be
nameless, I have deemed it only just to myself to
put my own adventures upon record. If they are
not equal to those of another individual, it is because
though “fragile,” my education has taught me to
have some consideration for the truth. I am done.

2. CHAPTER II.

I was born in Missouri. My dislike for the Northern
scum was inherent. This was shown, at an early
age, in the extreme distaste I exhibited for Webster's
spelling-book—the work of a well-known Eastern
Abolitionist. I cannot be too grateful for the consideration
shown by my chivalrous father—a gentleman
of the old school—who resisted to the last an attempt
to introduce Mitchell's Astronomy and Geography
into the public school of our district. When I state
that this same Mitchell became afterward a hireling
helot in the Yankee Army, every intelligent reader
will appreciate the prophetic discrimination of this
true son of the South.

I was eight years old when I struck the first blow
for Southern freedom against the Northern Tyrant.
It is hardly necessary to state that in this instance
the oppressor was a pale, over-worked New England
“school-marm.” The principle for which I was contending,
I felt, however, to be the same. Resenting
an affront put upon me, I one day heaved a rock[1] at

the head of the Vandal schoolmistress. I was seized
and overpowered. My pen falters as I reach the
climax. English readers will not give credit to this
sickening story—the civilized world will avert its
head—but I, Mary McGillup, was publicly SPANKED!

3. CHAPTER III.

But the chaotic vortex of civil war approached,
and fell destruction, often procrastinated, brooded in
storm.[2] As the English people may like to know
what was really the origin of the rebellion, I have no
hesitation in giving them the true and only cause.
Slavery had nothing to do with it, although the violation
of the Declaration of Independence, in the disregard
by the North of the Fugitive Slave Law,[3]
might have provoked a less fiery people than the
Southrons. At the inception of the struggle a large
amount of Southern indebtedness was held by the people
of the North. To force payment from the generous
but insolvent debtor—to obtain liquidation
from the Southern planter—was really the soulless
and mercenary object of the craven Northerners. Let
the common people of England look to this. Let
the improvident literary hack; the starved impecunious

Grub Street debtor; the newspaper frequenter
of sponging-houses, remember this in their criticisms
of the vile and slavish Yankee.

4. CHAPTER IV.

The roasting of an Abolitionist, by a greatly infuriated
community, was my first taste of the horrors
of civil war. Heavens! Why will the North persist
in this fratricidal warfare? The expulsion of
several Union refugees, which soon followed, now
fairly plunged my beloved State in the seething vortex.

I was sitting at the piano one afternoon, singing
that stirring refrain, so justly celebrated, but which a
craven spirit, unworthy of England, has excluded
from some of her principal restaurants, and was
dwelling with some enthusiasm on the following
line:

when a fragment of that scum, clothed in that detestable
blue uniform which is the symbol of oppression,
entered the apartment. “I have the honor of addressing
the celebrated rebel spy, Miss McGillup,”
said the Vandal officer.

In a moment I was perfectly calm. With the
exception of slightly expectorating twice in the face
of the minion, I did not betray my agitation.
Haughtily, yet firmly, I replied:

“I am.”

“You looked as if you might be,” the brute replied,
as he turned on his heel to leave the apartment.

In an instant I threw myself before him. “You
shall not leave here thus,” I shrieked, grappling him
with an energy which no one, seeing my frail figure,
would have believed. “I know the reputation of
your hireling crew. I read your dreadful purpose
in your eye. Tell me not that your designs are not
sinister. You came here to insult me—to kiss me,
perhaps. You shan't—you naughty man. Go
away!”

The blush of conscious degradation rose to the
cheek of the Lincoln hireling as he turned his face
away from mine.

In an instant I drew my pistol from my belt, which,
in anticipation of some such outrage, I always carried,
and shot him.

5. CHAPTER V.

After committing the act described in the preceding
chapter, which every English reader will pardon,

I went up stairs, put on a clean pair of stockings, and
placing a rose in my lustrous black hair, proceeded at
once to the camp of Generals Price and Mosby to
put them in possession of information which would
lead to the destruction of a portion of the Federal
army. During a great of my flight I was exposed to
a runing fire from the Federal pickets of such coarse
expressions as, “Go it, Sally Reb,” “Dust it, my Confederate
beauty,” but I succeeded in reaching the
glorious Southern camp uninjured.

In a week afterwards I was arrested, by a lettre de
cachet of Mr. Stanton, and placed in the Bastile.
British readers of my story will express surprise at
these terms, but I assure them that not only these articles
but tumbrils, guillotines and conciergeries were in
active use among the Federals. If substantiation be
required, I refer to the Charleston Mercury, the only
reliable organ, next to the New York Daily News,
published in the country. At the Bastile I made
the acquaintance of the accomplished and elegant
author of Guy Livingstone[4] to whom I presented a
curiously carved thigh bone of a Union officer, and
from whom I received the following beautiful acknowledgment:

6. CHAPTER VI.

Released at last from durance vile and placed on
board of an Erie canal boat, on my way to Canada, I
for a moment breathed the sweets of liberty. Perhaps
the interval gave me opportunity to indulge in
certain reveries which I had hitherto sternly dismissed.
Henry Breckinridge Folair, a consistent copperhead,
captain of the canal-boat, again and again
pressed that suit I had so often rejected.

It was a lovely moonlight night. We sat on the
deck of the gliding craft. The moonbeam and the
lash of the driver fell softly on the flanks of the off-horse,
and only the surging of the two-rope broke
the silence. Folair's arm clasped my waist. I suffered
it to remain. Placing in my lap a small but
not ungrateful roll of checkerberry lozenges, he took
the occasion to repeat softly in my ear the words of
a motto he had just unwrapped—with its graceful covering
of the tissue paper—from a sugar almond.
The heart of the wicked little rebel, Mary McGillup,
was won!

The story of Mary McGillup is done. I might
have added the journal of my husband, Henry
Breckinridge Folair, but as it refers chiefly to his
freights, and a schedule of his passengers, I have
been obliged, reluctantly, to suppress it.

It is due to my friends to say that I have been requested
not to write this book. Expressions have
reached my ears, the reverse of complimentary. I
have been told that its publication will probably ensure
my banishment for life. Be it so. If the cause
for which I labored have been subserved, I am content.

London, May, 1865.