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.'"