Woman's battle for literary recognition will not have to be fought over again: it belongs to the past. The old contempt of editors and publishers, aye, and of readers as well, has gone to join slavery and polygamy and human sacrifices in the chamber of horrors. But we can never forget the woman who braved that contempt, and faced it down by achievement that could not be ignored. Mrs. Croly belonged to the period of that early struggle. In her sweetness of temper she lent to its very asperities the charm of a tournament, overcoming evil with good, and triumphing at last over prejudice which thousands of women had feared to face. We loved her for herself. We are sad in spite of ourselves that she has gone. But we shall only remember her as one of the greatest benefactors of woman in literature; one of the most delightful of all the delightful characters that we have ever known.
"This laurel leaf I cast upon thy bier;
Let worthier hands than these thy wreath entwine;
Upon thy hearse I shed no useless tear—
For us weep rather thou, in calm divine."
In the Silence
By May Riley Smith
They are out of the chaos of living,
The wreck and debris of the years;
They have passed from the struggle and striving,
They have drained their goblet of tears.
They have ceased one by one from their labors,
So we clothed them in garments of rest,
And they entered the chamber of silence;—
God do for them now what is best!
We saw not the lift of the curtain,
Nor heard the invisible door,
As they passed where life's problems uncertain
Will follow and burthen no more.
We lingered and wept on the threshold—
The threshold each mortal must cross,—
Then we laid a new wreath down upon it,
To mark a new sorrow and loss.
Then back to our separate places
A little more lonely we creep,
A little more care in our faces,
The wrinkles a little more deep.
And we stagger, ah, God, how we stagger
As we lift the old load to our back!
A little more lonely to carry
Because of the comrade we lack.
But into our lives whether chidden
Or welcome, God's comforters come;
His sunshine waits not to be bidden,
His stars,—they are always at home.
His mornings are faithful,—His evenings
Allay the day's fever and fret;
And night—kind physician—entreats us
To slumber and dream and forget.
O Spirit of infinite kindness
And gentleness passing all speech!
Forgive when we miss in our blindness
The comforting hand them dost reach.
Thou sendest the Spring on Thine errand
To soften the grief of the world;
For us is the calm of the mountain,
For us is the rose-leaf uncurled.
Thou art tenderer, too, than a mother,
In the wonderful Book it is said;
O Pillow of Comfort! What other
So softly could cradle my head?
And though Thou hast darkened the portal
That leads where our vanished ones be;
We lean on our faith in Thy goodness,
And leave them to silence and Thee.