KATIE DID.
Naughty Katie, saucy Katie,
Is your secret aught to me
That you hide it, nor divide it,
In a tree?
In a tree before the trellis,
Where I have a secret hid,
And provokingly you tell us,
Katie did,
Katie didn't,
Yes, she did,
No, she didn't,
Katie did.
Prithee, Katie, by what penance
Are you nightly doomed to be
Trilling to the quiet tenants
Of the tree,
Safely hidden from espial
Of what Katie said or did,
That incessant, shrill denial,
Katie did,
Katie didn't,
Yes, she did,
No, she didn't,
Katie did?
Little disputant, securely
Ambushed, from intrusion free,
Don't I see you so demurely
From the tree,
Peeping through the latticed branches.
Where the moon its arrows slid,
Piping forth with cunning glances,
Katie did,
Katie didn't,
Yes, she did,
No, she didn't,
Katie did?
Will you tell it, Katie, never?
Must it still a secret be?
And forever and forever
From the tree,
Will that answer shrill and lonely
Mock us with the secret hid,
With these accents varied only—
Katie did,
Katie didn't,
Yes, she did,
No, she didn't,
Katie did?
Somewhat more thoughtful but scarcely less charming is the little lyric "Just Twenty-Two," which closes with the plea, "Leave me immortal at sweet twenty-two."
With "The Neophyte" in 1851, the supernatural and mysterious elements, traceable perhaps to Coleridge and to Poe, began to appear in his poems, and became conspicuous in "The Burning Casque," "The Phantom Train," and "The Ride of the Ku-Klux." At places in these, the breath comes short and quick, and the nerves grow unsteady in the presence of grotesque phantoms and direful mysteries. Few pass a real train without a pause and look of mingled awe and admiration. A momentary glance at "The Phantom Train" should certainly be taken:
On the track stood the engine cold and still,
For throttle and valve had ceased to thrill
With the giant power of the wizard steam.
I saw the track, by the lantern's gleam,
Far on the night, till it seemed to meet
In a point at the dim horizon's feet,
And there in the distance, faint and far,
Glimmered a blue and ghostly star.
Nearer and nearer it came and grew,
'Till it gleamed in a circle of ghastly hue.
* * * * *
By the Holy Saints! 'twas a gruesome sight
As ever came from the womb of night—
A spectral train that, nigher and nigher,
Was whirled on its silent wheels of fire.
"The Ride of the Ku-Klux" is even more gruesome and fantastic, but the appearance of those terrible night regulators cannot satisfactorily be shown by a brief extract.
Several poems of personal character deserve notice for both their merit and the associations connected with them. The noble lines to George Peabody may be found in Harpel's "Poets and Poetry of Printerdom," to which reference has been made. In it, too, are published "The Blue and the Gray," "The Frosted Pane," and "The Ride of the Ku-Klux." It is unfortunate that a poem which elicited the following interesting note cannot be designated, perhaps is lost:
New York, March 11, 1872.
Dear Sir:
I thank you for the privilege of reading your beautiful poem, and regret that I could not have been its inspiration. I wrote once a poem for the Atlantic entitled "The Heart of the War," but never one with the title of yours. You will pardon me, I am sure, for relieving you of the burden of a mistake which was very complimentary to me.
Yours very truly,
J. G. Holland.
Shakespeare and Dickens were particular favorites of Mr. Ward's, one of his last purchases of books being a new set of each of these authors. For Byron also, as a poet, he entertained a high regard; but perhaps the literary character whom he loved the most was Oliver Wendell Holmes to whom on his seventy-fifth birthday he addressed an affectionate and admiring tribute, which called forth this response from the genial Autocrat:
Beverly Farm, Mass., Oct. 5, 1884.
My Dear Sir:
I beg you to accept my sincere thanks for your very pleasant lines. I am sorry they were too late for the birthday number of The Critic; for they would have been reckoned among the best and most graceful of all that were sent. Believe me,
Gratefully yours,
Oliver Wendell Holmes
The most popular poem, however, of this class is one dedicated to Wyatt M. Redding, the telegraph operator who during the yellow fever epidemic of 1878 bravely died at the post of duty in the plague stricken city of Grenada. For its historical as well as poetical value it should be preserved.
WYATT M. REDDING.
GRENADA, 1878.
Click, Click
Like the beat of a death-watch, sharp and quick,
From hearts that are stifled and lips that are dumb
With the lightning's speed, and the lightning's thrill,
The dark words go and come:
Click, click, and a pulse is still—
There's a form to shroud and a grave to fill,
For the Yellow Death is upon the air,
And the city lies in the clutch of Despair.
Not less a hero than he whose plume
Goes blood-stained down in the conflict's gloom,
Not less a martyr than those who slake
A blood-thirst, bound to the burning stake,
Is he who stands as the last defence
Against the shock of the pestilence.
Click, Click
His heart is strong and his fingers quick,
'Tis a fearful work of hand and brain,
Each click is a groan, each word is a pain,
But he falters not in the fight with death,
Even under his wings as he breathes his breath,
The shrouded city before him lies,
And the dead drop down 'neath the burning skies,
Never a smile, or a word to cheer,
Brightens his eye, or falls on his ear,
All is dreary and all is dumb,
Save the hourly wail from a stricken home.
Click, Click
'Tis the only hope where the dead are thick,
Where the living strewn by the plague's hot breath
Are sown with the ripening seeds of death.
Still, the hero-boy at his key-board stands,
And many a far off city feels
The thrill of the wire, and its mute appeals,
And hands are stretched from the East and West
Their upward palms with a blessing blest,
As it comes to those who meet their doom
Like scorched leaves struck by the hot simoon.
Click, Click
Like the beat of a death-watch, sharp and quick,
'Tis the last note struck, 'tis the first wild touch
He gives the key, as he feels the vague
An creeping chill of the deadly plague.
Ere its burns with the strength of its fever clutch.
He falters, falls, and his work is done,
And the fiend has marked his victim won,
Not long he dallies with those who fall
Beneath the curse of his yellow thrall,
O city, beneath his merciless sway,
Mourn, mourn, for your hero dies today.
Passing several poems of genuine humor and two or three more lengthy ones of epic cast and tragic interest, this appreciation of William Ward's life and poetry, though incomplete must find an end. What poetry in the abstract is, the world has not yet determined, and probably never will. Whether it be "the rhythmical creation of beauty" or the "lyrical expression of emotion," or both; whether its end be truth or beauty or merely sensuous delight, one or all, each will decide for himself, according as he is provincial or cosmopolitan in his culture. What is poetry to one is doggerel or riming prose to another. "The Ring and the Book" is intolerable to many who enjoy "The Idylls of the King." Wordsworth is for the most part childish or meaningless to numbers who delight in Scott or Byron. Where Poe is lauded, Whitman very likely will be scouted.
Individual estimates of William Ward's poems will, therefore, vary according to the tastes and training of the reader. But it can hardly be doubted that they will appeal strongly to a majority of the lovers of true poetry. If imagery be preferred, it is conspicuous throughout his verse; if emotion be specially sought for, it too in almost every type pulsates in these poems; if music be the criterion, in that also they will not be found wanting, for the melody and harmony of most of them is a striking characteristic. That they might be judged on their own merits, and not so much on the opinion of one who might be deemed more advocate than critic, fuller selections by way of illustration have been offered than would have been the case, if the poems could readily be found. They were published mostly in the Philadelphia American Courier, the Macon Beacon, and the New Orleans Times-Democrat, and have not been collected in book form, as it is earnestly hoped they yet will be. Better known, it is confidently believed that they will place their author high on the roll of Southern poets.
As a summary and a conclusion, the following Report of the Committee on Necrology to the Press Convention of Mississippi in 1888 is here appended:
"One of the oldest members of this association, who had not an enemy on earth, the urbane, genial and ever agreeable William Ward is with us no more. Those of us who knew and loved him for his big heart and true manly worth, will sadly miss his gentle footfalls, cheerful face, and warm hand-clasp as we meet in our annual conventions. The voice of him who sang songs of love, devotion, and duty, is as silent as the marble shaft that marks his resting place.
"Born in a New England village up among the hills of old Connecticut in 1823, Mr. Ward came South when a youth of tender years, to seek a home in the land of sunshine and flowers, fit prototypes of his own sunny self. A poet by nature and a writer of purest English, he gave to the press some of the sweetest poetic gems that have graced the literature of the South; and his poems addressed to or read before our press conventions were always regarded as the chief features of an entertainment. With them he was wont 'to set the table in a roar,' or draw tears from the eyes of the most obdurate. He wrote his name high on the scroll of fame, and through all the vicissitudes of life, from the days of his early manhood when struggling to support a growing family to the evening of his declining years when surrounded by the comforts of life, that name remains as pure as a star, as unsullied as the snowflakes falling in mid-heaven. In all the relations of life, William Ward was ever a true and honorable man, loving and beloved by all who came within the circle of his acquaintance.
"Let the recollections of this New England youth who cast his lot with the South, and who lies buried in its soil ever remain fresh and green in our heart of hearts; and now let us pluck a flower from the chaplet of memory, and tenderly lay it upon his hallowed grave."
[SHERWOOD BONNER—HER LIFE AND PLACE IN THE LITERATURE OF THE SOUTH.]
BY ALEXANDER L. BONDURANT, A. M. (HARVARD)
The life of Sherwood Bonner illustrates the union of the subtle elements, ancestral traits and personal qualities, which, distilled by the alchemist, Dame Nature, in her alembic produce the individual.
Her father, Dr. Charles Bonner, was born in Ireland, but his family left their ancestral home when he was quite young, and settled in Pennsylvania. When he arrived at man's estate, he left the North, and like Prentiss and Boyd turned his face Southward. He reached Mississippi in "Flush Times," and was content to dwell there, for he found a cultured, refined people, who recognized in him a kindred spirit.
In her novel, "Like Unto Like," Sherwood Bonner thus describes the home of his adoption: "The climate was delicious. Winter never came with whirl or wind and wonder of piling snow, but as a temperate king with spring peeping to meet him, before autumn's rustling skirts had quite vanished round the corner. Yet there was not the monotony of eternal summer. Winter sometimes gave more than hints of power to the pert knaves of flowers who dared to spring up with a wave of their blooming caps in his face; and the peach-trees that blossomed too soon were apt to get their pale pink heads enclosed in glittering ice-caps, through which they shone with resplendent beauty for a day then meekly died. Even a light snow fell at times; and everybody admired it and shivered at it, and said the climate was changing, and built great wood-fires, and tacked list around the doors, and piled blankets on the beds, to wake in the morning to find sunshine and warmth—and mud. But for the most part, the days, one after another, were as perfect as Guido's dancing hours."
She thus speaks of the people whom both she and her father loved: "They had the immense dignity of those who live in inherited homes, with the simplicity of manner that comes of an assured social position. They were handsome, healthy, full of physical force as all people must be who ride horseback ---- and do not lie awake at night to wonder why they were born. That they were Southerners was, of course, their first cause of congratulation. After a Northern tour they were glad to come home and tell how they were recognized as Southerners everywhere—in the cars, shops, and theatres. They felt their Southern air and accent a grace and a distinction, separating them from a people who walked fast, talked through their noses, and built railroads."
The young physician found the sun which caused the flowers to bud, to blossom, to give forth rich fragrance not less kind to the daughters of the Southern village whither he had journeyed; but one seemed to him fairer than all the rest, and he sought to make her his own. Miss Mary Wilson is said to have been both lovable and beautiful. Fortune favored his wooing so they were soon wedded. Their means were ample and Dr. Bonner retired from the active practice of his profession, dividing his time between the management of his estate, and the dispensing of an elegant hospitality in his own home. He was always a great lover of books and possessed a fine mind, but had no ambition beyond his class; and while believing in and honoring woman to the highest degree, he thought her place to be the home.
His library was large and carefully selected, and he directed in large measure the reading of his family. We surmise that the daughter is giving an episode in her own life when she has Blythe Herndon tell Roger Ellis that she never disobeyed her father's injunction about books but once, that having exhausted everything else in the library, she climbed up to the forbidden shelf and took from it a copy of "Tom Jones." But, says Blythe, "papa scolded; to this day I have never known whether Tom married Sophia." Dr. Bonner was an honorable, courteous, cultured gentleman, another Thomas Dabney. The daughter being asked by Mr. Harper, of Harper and Brothers, where she obtained such a fine command of English, replied with great dignity, "In my father's house."
From her father Sherwood Bonner inherited her love for books, and her keen sense of humor, her best gift from the gods; from her mother came beauty and a charming femininity.
Five children were born to Dr. and Mrs. Bonner; Katharine Sherwood, born February 26, 1849; Ruth Martin, now Mrs. David McDowell, who lives at Holly Springs, Mississippi; Samuel Wilson, who died of yellow fever in '78; and two other children, who died in infancy.
The family residence built by Dr. Bonner is still standing. It is a commodious brick mansion, built in Gothic style, with a wide portico in front, and ample windows opening to the floor. The house stands well back from the street, surrounded by a spacious lawn. One enters a wide hall, and on the left is seen the library, where in winter a wood fire is kept burning. The room is a very charming one, and afforded a most appropriate setting for the writer at her desk. This room is connected with the hall by folding doors. On the right is the drawing-room.
One seeing the fair haired baby-girl in this luxurious, well-ordered Southern home, would probably have said that she was destined to become what her mother before her had been, charming, well read, and, according to prevailing standards, educated. But in addition to these inherited qualities, Sherwood Bonner possessed that strong individuality that made her a writer. As a child she was fond of play, but she loved books and stories better still, and games ceased to charm, if gran'mammy consented to tell her the story of the wonderful adventure of "Breer Rabbit" and "The Tar Baby," or some of his other escapades, or if her papa came in bringing her a fresh volume of fairy stories.
Her first effort at original composition was while she was still wearing pinafores. It came about in this way: she and a playmate lost their temper, and, forgetting that they were little gentlewomen, began to fight like two waifs with no family dignity to uphold. Kate got her frock torn, and later when her mother asked her the cause of the quarrel, she handed her a paper, with a tragic air, saying, "read this, it will tell you all."
She was not universally popular as a child, for she manifested a precociousness that separated her, in large measure, from her kind; but she attracted strongly those whom she really liked and was, at an early age, the queen of a little coterie of her own. In childhood she was distinguished for loyalty, a ready wit and a keen sense of humor; qualities that made the warp and woof of her nature, and but strengthened when the maid was merged in the woman.
Her education was conducted under her father's eye, and as he pressed the chalice to eager lips, little did he guess that he was entertaining genius unawares. At school she could not have been accounted a hard student. Her mind slaked its thirst at the pure fountain of the muses; history was a joy, literature a delight, and the composition, a task hated by most of her schoolmates, a pleasant pastime; but she looked askance at the sciences, and pronounced life too short for geometry. During her last year at school she wrote an allegory. It is the work of a tyro in art, but was regarded by her schoolmates a remarkable production.
The morning of her life was bright, and with father, mother, sister, brother, around the family hearth, each passing day brought added happiness. Even the dark clouds that began to lower in the North, ere she passed the limits of girlhood, did not bring sadness, for she with many older heads in the South failed to comprehend what these foreshadowed. But she was now to receive the baptism of sorrow, and to gain through suffering needed training and added strength.
"Who tears to other eyes would bring
Must first have tasted sorrow."
She was just sixteen, she had written something and it had been accepted, her heart was aglow with visions of the future, when the desolating blow fell upon her home. The much loved mother was taken from her, the rude shock and turmoil of war being too much for that gentle spirit.
We find this entry in Sherwood Bonner's scrapbook in her own hand: "First story ever published, aged fifteen, Boston Ploughman, twenty dollars." Underneath, the story is pasted in. It was called "Laura Capello, A Leaf from a Traveler's Notebook." It is a mystery story, highly melodramatic and crude, but containing the promise of a rich fulfillment as the bud contains the rose. It deals with the lot of a young girl whose life is the fruit of unhallowed love. The scene is laid in Italy, the land of mystery, and the story is given to the world by a young American artist, whom a capricious fate enmeshes, and make an unwilling actor in the drama. The sketch shows dramatic power, and abounds in vivid description.
Mr. Nahum Capen, the author of "The Republic of the United States," "History of Democracy," and other works, was at this time connected with The Ploughman. He was the friend of Longfellow, Lowell and Emerson, and was selected by Hawthorne as the first one to read his first book, which appeared anonymously. He was the intimate friend and adviser also of Irving. Under his tutelage Sherwood Bonner first essayed Grub street, and he never ceased to take a keen interest in her, and was to the day of her death her trusted adviser and friend. He urged her to write, and encouraged her work with kindly, but discriminating words of praise. "Laura Capello" was followed by "A Flower of the South," published in a musical journal. Somewhat later a piece called "An Exposition on one of the Commandments" was sent to Frank Leslie's Journal.
In 1871, Sherwood Bonner became the wife of Mr. Edward McDowell, a gentleman of refinement and liberal culture; like his wife he was a native of Holly Springs. The young wife assumed with earnestness the responsibilities of the new life and when her husband determined to try his fortune in the frontier state of Texas, she went with him into a country that was little better than a wilderness. But the venture failed and the young people returned to Holly Springs poorer in purse than when they left. A daughter was born to them, and for her child henceforth the mother in large measure seemed to live. Like George Sand, she found in motherhood love's deepest expression. At this crisis of affairs, the young wife and mother recalled her talent, and remembering the kind words that had come to her from Boston, she determined to go thither, and try her fortune with her pen. In Boston she became a member of Mr. Capen's family, and under his eye, and with his encouragement, continued her work.
She had the gift of clear vision, and at once perceived that the defects of her early training must be overcome if she was to write that which the world would read; so she studied closely, books, men and manners. The North received her lucubrations with a criticism that was in the main kindly, and ere long she had made for herself a place in "The Moral Lighthouse" as she playfully denominates Boston. After several years she was able to have with her her child and the aunt who since her mother's death had striven to supply her place. But she counted that she was only sojourning in the North. The place of her birth she ever spoke of as "home," and a portion of each year she spent amidst the dear familiar scenes.
Soon after going North she met the poet Longfellow. He recognized her talent, became her warm personal friend, and lent her aid and encouragement in her work. She in turn seemed to impart new vigor to the white-haired poet. She became his private secretary and collaborator. At her suggestion he compiled "Poems of Places, Southern States," and she assisted in this work. It is a quaint conceit of the poet which causes him to treat the South as a separate country. In that interesting book, "Poets' Homes," appears a description of Longfellow's home written by her. It is given the place of honor in the book, but by a strange oversight no credit is given to the author. In one of her early letters from Boston, published in the Memphis Avalanche she writes: "A great man and a poet, who enjoys the additional distinction of being my very good friend, read my first letter written for your columns, with an evident amusement, which he made a commendable effort to suppress. 'This is too bad,' frowned he, between smiles, 'don't do it again. Write about the good side of Boston next time.'"
She wrote a number of letters for Southern newspapers in a style that the ordinary newspaper man would strive in vain to emulate, though she regarded the letters as mere potboilers. They give interesting accounts of the happenings in Boston, and her impressions of Boston's great men: Emerson, William Lloyd Garrison, Oliver Wendell Holmes and Wendell Philips. She says of Boston: "For the native Bostonian there are three paths to glory. If his name be Quincy or Adams, nothing more is expected of him. His blue blood carries him through life with glory and straight to heaven when he dies. Failing in the happy accident of birth, the candidate for Beacon Hill honors must write a book. This is easy. The man who can breathe Boston air and not write a book is either a fool or a phenomenon. One course remains to him should he miss fame in both these lines. He must be a reformer."
She thus speaks of her meeting with Mr. Emerson: "The unaffected charm of Mr. Emerson's manner soon restored me to my normal serenity, and the interview progressed delightfully for both of us. He has the purest and most refined face I have ever seen, and his smile is something to be remembered forever. Of course we spoke of the South, and he expressed the opinion that the Southern man had a more elegant manner and a finer physical frame than the Northerner, but must generally yield the palm in intellect. And to this I assented sorrowfully enough, recalling as I did, the small returns from the stock I took in a certain Philo club, where I spent the ambrosial evenings of my life and pinned my faith to several masculine coat sleeves of intellectual giants pro tempore, who would have brought my tawny hair down in sorrow to the grave—if I hadn't taken the pin out.
"Mr. Emerson has a way of looking off into the distance as he speaks or listens which is very poetic and beautiful. I liked it, but yet I was not happy, for I had a knot of purple violets in my hair, and I distrusted this way of appreciating them. I don't wear violets every day; nor for the Colonel who talks politics to me; nor for the young preacher who propounds chemical conundrums. And so they meant something in this case! perhaps to subtly express the homage of a Southern heart, that I had no skill to put into words. I dare say, however, the great man received a general impression of sweetness and perhaps it is well he did not trace it to outside influences.
"On the whole, Mr. Emerson personally strikes me as one who might falsify that comprehensive saying that no man is a hero to his valet, as I cannot imagine him under any circumstances other than the consistent high-toned man, who beyond all scholarship and learning
'Still may hear without abuse
That Grand old name of gentleman.'"
She thus describes her impressions of Carl Schurz, the occasion on which she saw him being a Sumner memorial meeting: "He is German in accent but not in appearance. His full whiskers are red, not blonde. And his features have none of the Teutonic heaviness, but are rather characterized by the sagacious sharpness of the American. The eulogy was very fine, and repeated bursts of applause testified to the enthusiasm of the audience. Most especially I must note the warm and hearty reception accorded that part of the address in which Mr. Schurz spoke of the noble and manly stand taken by Mr. Lamar, of Mississippi, and paid a just tribute to his brilliant eloquence, which was especially grateful to my Southern pride."
In the following paragraph she gives her Southern readers a pen picture of her poet friend:
"Longfellow was there from his beautiful historic home. Bret Harte calls him his 'ideal poet,' and as one looks upon his gracious, benignant face, framed in silvery hair, and reverently notes the broad thoughtful brow, and the eyes from which love toward all mankind seemed to beam, it is easy to comprehend how the perfect harmony between the man and his works should win from one, a poet himself, the highest praise he could possibly bestow."
In her stories Longfellow suggested that she write of the life around her, but she chose, and wisely, the life of the South that she knew best, and the poet admitted in the end that her instinct had led her aright. Before '76 she wrote some of the "Gran-mammy Stories" and other short sketches that found a ready sale. Longfellow said that she would be "the American writer of the future."
Eleven years after "Laura Capello" was written its author visited the scenes where the plot was laid. She enjoyed deeply this foreign travel, and has left a partial record of it in her letters published in Boston and Southern papers, and in her private correspondence. She writes thus to a friend from Rome: "I am living every hour, never have I known days of such enchantment; Roman violets that make the air sweet, Roman fleas that bite with a Swinburne ardor, Roman donkeys that bray in the early morning, Roman shops that bewilder with their gems, shopmen who will make you buy whether you will or no; even in these delights I revel, so what can I say of the pictures, the statues, the ruins of Rome? Do you remember how my Lilian exhausted her raptures after the first layer of her box, and sat afterwards in a mute adoring ecstasy? Think of Lilian's mother in the same position."
Several days were spent by her party at a little coast town in France. At times the hours lagged, so the little group, like the young people in the Decameron, devised game and story to amuse themselves. Sherwood Bonner showed herself the most fruitful of device, and became the leader in the sport. She devised a game that was played with avidity. The loser each time was supposed to pay the forfeit by taking his life with his own hands. A wan young Scotsman who had been "Ordered South" chanced to be one of the party and participated in the game. For the rest it was a pleasing pastime, but for him it had a tragic suggestion, for at that time Robert Louis Stevenson—it was no less than he—had begun that hand to hand conflict with disease that terminated fatally twenty years later. It is thought that he received from this game the suggestion of that very unusual story of his, "The Suicide Club."
Home at last came this busy working bee after her flitting in distant lands. "The Crest of the White Hat," "Rosine's Story," and other sketches show the effect of this foreign travel. The years following were filled with hard work; ever attaining, but never quite satisfied, she strove to make each piece better than the last. During this period she wrote a clever characterization in verse of "The Radical Club," which set all Boston to laughing.
Sometimes she had her hours of despondency as when she wrote a friend, "Put up a tablet for me in case I join the mermaids and write on it,
Death came to set me free,
I met him cheerily
As my true friend."
During the summer of '78 yellow fever raged in many parts of the South. The citizens of Holly Springs with a noble disregard for consequences offered an asylum to the refugees from the stricken town of Grenada; in this way the plague was introduced, and of the first hundred who took the fever only ten survived.
Sherwood Bonner was in the North at the time, but she at once hurried to Holly Springs to urge her loved ones to seek a place of safety. But the old physician would not go and his son remained with him; they were soon stricken with fever; she nursed by their bedside during the weary hours of their sickness and they died in her arms on the same day. She escaped the disease, but left Holly Springs broken in health from her constant vigils, and wounded in spirit. She wrote an account of the plague for The Youth's Companion, from which the following extract is taken: "It is not alone to see loved ones die; it is to dread their dying kiss. It is not to watch the dear dead face until the coffin lid is closed above it, but to turn, shuddering, from the face where you can see waves of change follow each other, until it has become a yellow transfigured mask. It is not to see the folded hand clasping flowers, the dear forms enshrouded in fresh grave-clothes, nor to see them laid away with prayers uttered above them and friends standing by with uncovered heads, but it is to know—with what intensity of horror!—that these forms are changed to a poison so deadly, that death can be tasted in the air around them, and love itself shrinks from rendering its last sad offices. It is to know that they are buried, wrapped hastily in sheets, sometimes uncoffined, hurried to deep graves, without friends, or mourners, or care, by hirelings, who slight and dread their task."
After the publication of "Like unto Like" she found ready publishers. Mr. Conant, the editor of Harper's Weekly, said to her, "I accept your articles now without reading them in advance, your signature is enough." Enduring fame was hers if she could only live to grasp it, but ere the noon hour was reached, the worker was laid low. She began to feel the approach of an insidious disease, which she strove in vain to throw off. Not wishing to distress her loved ones she spoke of it to only a few friends, who finally persuaded her to consult the best medical authority. The physician when he saw her perfect physique expressed his surprise at her coming. He made the examination, but hesitated to state the result. She would have the whole truth and he pronounced her death sentence, telling her that she had but a single year of life. She met her fate with fortitude, and determined to make the most of the few remaining months, in order to provide a competency for the loved ones that she must soon leave.
She worked on to the very gates of death, her courage never forsaking her; and even when her good right hand was useless she continued to dictate to an amanuensis, and was satisfied with nothing short of the best work.
February 14, 1883, she wrote: