it revealed to the general
reader, their own experience in those days having led them to grave
doubts as to the accuracy of the philosophic theory that not all
conceivable things are possible. At that time it stood to reason that
the kind of literature popular in Southern camps would not appeal
forcibly to the approval of the Northern army, and a Federal officer
captured and burned all the copies of "Macaria" that he could find.

Miss Evans contrived to slip a copy of her new book across the lines
to a publisher friend who, being unable at that time to bring out a
new edition, took it to the J.B. Lippincott Company and arranged for
its publication. Immediately afterward it was found that another
publisher had come into possession of a copy and had an edition of
five thousand ready to issue but, upon inquiry, expressed his
intention of paying no royalty to the author. Through the efforts of
Mr. Lippincott he was induced to allow a royalty. Miss Evans afterward
wrote to her friend:

I have always felt profoundly grateful to Mr. Lippincott, but fate
has never indulged me in an opportunity of adequately thanking
him for his generous and chivalrous action in behalf of an unknown
rebel, who at that period was nursing Confederate soldiers in a
hospital established near "Camp Beulah."

In telling me of this she said that the kindness of Mr. Lippincott did
not surprise her, as she remembered with gratitude the generosity of
the Lippincott Company in regard to Southern obligations at the
opening of the war.

With the beautiful voice which so enchanted me she once took captive
General Bragg's army on Lookout Mountain. With her mother she had gone
to visit her brother, Captain Howard Evans, just before the battle of
Chickamauga. It chanced that he had been sent to the front before they
arrived, but they were hospitably received and given a hut on the
slope. At midnight they were awakened by steps and whispers and upon
inquiry found that their unexpected visitors were soldiers who had
crept through the lines to see Miss Evans and hear her sing. The
mother was disposed to object to her appearing at a time and place not
conventionally appropriate to artistic performances, but, wrapping her
travelling coat and robe about her, she went out into the moonlight
with her mass of hair streaming in the wind like a flying cloud, and
sang that thrilling song written by her friend, Randall, "Maryland, my
Maryland." As t