Chapter III: Part 3

"Words cannot do justice to the solemnity, the yearning tenderness, the pathetic earnestness, that made the dear old woman like one inspired. Wave after wave of feeling rolled over her face. I do not know how to express it, but a sacred, even a _religious_ rapture seemed to hold her in its possession. Strong feeling had exalted her, I felt as if I should like to steal in and pray beside her. She still knelt, but she kept her arms about the frail figure in the arm-chair.

"Wild, vague suspicions were evidently forming in Aunt Sarah's mind. She looked at gran'mammy--a piteous, agonizing gaze. But gran'mammy's eyes met hers with steady joy.

"'What do you mean?' she gasped huskily. 'In God's name, what do you mean?'

"'I mean,--lean on me, dear, lean on me,--I mean dat if our blessed Lord wus on earth today, an' we could kneel at his feet askin' de life of our boy, he could not give it ter us. For Allan's grave has not been dug, an' Allan is livin' not dead today.'

"'What have you heard?'

"'A messenger has come.'

"Then I saw a transformation. Aunt Sarah sprang up, the color and light flashing into cheeks and eyes, the vigor and erectness of youth restored to her shrunken and bowed figure. No longer a haggard old woman,--like a girl she threw open the door, and swept past me without a word."

"Gran'mammy's Last Gifts" has to do with the closing hours of her life.

The children that the old nurse had tended from infancy now gather around her bed. She had her daughter look in her chest and take from it a parcel. "The parcel was handed her, and taking off the outer covering, a white one was revealed; then a third wrapper of silver paper. Slowly, reverently, she unwound this; and there were two tiny, high-heeled satin slippers, yellow with age, but dainty enough for fairy feet.

"'De night your mother was married, honey,' said gran'mammy proudly, "nobody waited on her but me. I unlaced de fine weddin' dress,--all lace an' satin,--an' I put de white nightgown over her head. An' when I took de slippers off her slim pretty feet, she flung her white arms aroun' my neck, an' she says, "keep 'em gran'mammy, in memory o' dis night." An' now, my chile, arter all dese years, I gives em ter you' de fustborn, your dead mother's weddin' slippers.'

"I could not speak for my tears. Was there ever a gift so delicately bestowed? I pressed the slippers to my heart kissing them and the faithful black hands that had taken them from the little feet so many years ago.

"'Now my little singin'-bird,' said gran'mammy to Ruth, 'I was boun' you should remember me; so I jes' went to de picture man, an' here's my ole black face for you to keep.'

"The likeness was perfect; and as Ruth warmly thanked her she sank back wearily on the pillows.

"'I'm tired now,' she said, "Miss Ruthy, I'd like to hear you sing once more--before I hear de angels on de other side.'

"Ruth hushed her sobs and in her exquisite voice rolled out in those beautiful words:

"Only waiting till the shadows
Have a little longer grown,
Only waiting till the glimmer
Of the day's last beam is flown;
Only waiting till the angels
Open wide the mystic gate,
At whose feet I long have lingered,
Weary, poor and desolate."

"'Only waitin', murmured the dying voice. 'O my chillern!" and she spoke with sudden energy. 'In your hearts you are pityin' your poor ole gran'mammy; you are thinking o' de sun shinin' outside, an' de fllowers, an' home an' love. You see me lyin' here, ole, an' black, an' racked wid pain. But oh! what's de sunlight of earth to de glory roun' de throne of God? what's de flowers here ter de flowers in de gyardin younder? An' what's de love of earth ter dat waitin' for me, sinful an' onworthy though I am?

And with her beloved nurslings around her gran'mammy passed quietly away. Amongst her last words were, "Good-by Miss' Marthy, take good keer o' Miss' Mary's chillren."

"Two Storms," one of her latest stories, published in _Harper's Monthly_, deserves especial notice.

The story has to do with the gulf coast. We see a fair young wife with a husband who idolizes her, and a little daughter with her faithful black mammy. The mother dies suddenly, and the husband is felled by the blow. In his despair he curses Fate and would die. His child he neglects, in fact her presence is disturbing, since it but serves to remind him of his irreparable loss.

Little Dinah's lot is a hapless one. It would be tragic were it not for the devoted old nurse, who watches over her "Shorn Lamb" with a tenderness not to be surpassed by a mother. "'I wish I were a little dog' she said once to Maum Dulcie, 'then I could lick papa's hand, and perhaps he would pat my head.'

"'You po' little sweet rosebud!" cried the old woman, 'Ain't you got yo' ole nuss to love you an' pet you?'

"And in her compassionate tenderness Maum Dulcie did her best to spoil her charge by too great indulgence. * * *

"When at last she aroused from the long trance of her illness, it was to find a face she had dimly feared all her life, bent above her with a rapturous protecting love, to hear a father's voice murmuring: 'My child, my little Dinah, forgive your father for all you have suffered. It is over now, and we will begin a new life hand in hand.' Safe in the purest love man ever gives to woman, she rested on her father's heart; and Maum Dulcie said weeping: 'I dunno but it's a sin to give thanks fur dat Las' Islan' storm, an' I is as sorry as anybody fur de mo'ners an' de dead, but I can't help seein' de good dat de Lord brings out o' calamity."

She dedicates "Like unto Like" to Longfellow in the following verses:

O poet, master in melodius art,
O man, whom many love and all revere,
Take thou with kindly hand, the gift which here
I tender from a loving reverent heart.
For much received from thee I little give,
Yet gladly proffer less, from lesser store;
Knowing that I shall please thee still the more
By thus consenting in thy debt to live.

The story has to do with that time when the South Niobe-like still mourned her dead, and was unable to grasp fully the living present. The opening chapter reveals three Dixie lassies standing on the bridge at sunset--Blythe Herndon, Betty Page and Mary Barton. Each is a real flesh and blood maiden; and while each is southern, they differ much. Below them gurgles a limpid stream and peering into the clear water they see clinging to stones at the bottom moss, which twists itself into fantastic shapes. Above towers a lofty mountain, the setting sun now giving it a glowing aureole; from its base gushes a noble spring, the pride of Yariba, for so this Arcadian village is named. Each maiden speaks of the suggestion that this whirling, twirling moss carries to her mind, and by these and other confidences exchanged on the bridge we are enabled to form some opinion of the dispositions of the young girls, who are important characters in the story.

As the girls talk on the bridge, Mr. and Mrs. Herndon approach. They are still lovers after forty years; and sweet are the memories that crowd upon them now, for it was here they plighted their troth. They find the girls in animated conversation about the advent of a Yankee regiment that is to be stationed at Yariba for the summer. And these loyal young "rebels" are not at all agreed that the officers should be received. Mrs. Tolliver has consented to take Colonel and Mrs. Dexter to board,--brave soul, it cost her many a pang, but she did it to aid her husband's fallen fortunes. This decision causes a flutter, but finally Mrs. Oglethorpe calls and where this lady leads all others follow. With the regiment comes Roger Ellis, a man of middle age, and an ultra-radical. He wins the heart of Blythe Herndon, and then loses it again largely through his own fault.

"But death to the dove
Is the falcon's love--
Oh sharp is the kiss of the falcon's beak!"

It is best to mate with your kind, this lesson the book teaches.

The story is briefly told, but its chief charm consists not in the plot, which is rather slight, but in the local color and character portrayal. The artist sketches from life. Squire Barton (the chief of the village detectives), who always knows all the happenings of the village, and thinks he _knows_ much that never happens; he is the selfsame squire whose refrain is, "Search the whole world over, there is no place like Yariba," or "We are a good breed in Yariba;" Colonel Dexter, whose eyebrows are askew, the one fierce the other mild; Civil-Rights Bill, the little darky whose antics amuse the reader, but often bring him summary punishment from his old black gran'mammy; Ellis the enthusiast whose passion is reform; Blythe's grandmother, who has ceased to pray to her God because he allowed the Southern cause to fail; Mrs. Roy, the mountain woman, called 'po' white trash' by the plantation negro, but having a pathetic life, and individuality all her own; the forerunner of many others that appear later in the sketches of Craddock, McClelland and Sherwood Bonner; Aunt Sally, the old laundress, (she would have much preferred to be called a washer'oman), who sniffs at a wash board and beats her clothes, "I'se no puny Alabama nigger, I'se fum South Caliny, I 'longst to de oldest branch uv de Tollivers;" Van Tolliver, the brave soldier, the true gentleman who fought through the war, but accepted in good faith the arbitrament of the sword, and in the New South made for himself a place; Blythe Herndon, the idealist, who loved not wisely, and waking found her dream shattered; Betty Page, the cool, calculating coquette; Mary Barton, the loving, sympathizing woman--all these are living breathing persons, not abstractions or figures on a stage.

This book was well received by the critics. Mr. Longfellow, in a letter to Mr. Harper of the firm, Harper and Brothers, says: "It has marked and decided merit, is beautifully written, and full of interest to North and South."

Mr. S. G. W. Benjamin wrote a highly favorable review of the book for _The Literary World_, Boston, from which the following extract is taken: "When a country is ripe for it, its literature comes unsought and the authors who are its creators appear. Among the various indications that such a literature is at hand, not the least is the publication of such a remarkable work as _Like unto Like_. In style it suggests the work of no other writer; its merits and its faults are entirely its own; its characters could only be found in our complex civilization. The plot is founded on certain phases of American society, and is evidently directly suggested by the author's personal experience and observation. * * * The characters of Blythe, Ellis, the abolitionist, Civil-Rights Bill, Mrs. Roy and the inimitable Mrs. Oglethorpe, abundantly vindicate their right to a prominent and permanent place in our literature."

A reviewer in the Providence _Journal_ says: "We welcome it as an olive branch in the truest and best sense of the word. * * * There is not an attempt at fine writing in the book, and yet it is full of painting from life. There is excellent comedy and at least one scene of the deepest tragedy. Here and there we are reminded of Miss Austen, the common scenes of life are drawn with so much fidelity, but our American Miss Austen excels her English sister in imaginative delineation of character, and becomes the true poetess in the presence of nature."

Paul H. Hayne thus speaks of the work: "Regarded purely as a literary performance, this work, as I have before intimated, is exceedingly clever; in certain particulars even brilliantly able. The descriptions of scenery, which in most novels bore one unspeakably, are here vivid, picturesque and truthful, with occasional displays of bright, poetic enthusiasm: and of the _dramatis personae_, some are portrayed with quiet but significant humor, some with keen, ironic shrewdness, and one at least (the 'Grandmother of Blythe Herndon') with a degree of tragic force decidedly impressive."

The concluding extract is taken from a review of "Like unto Like" that appeared in _The Boston Courier_: "Sherwood Bonner's new novel in Harper's Library of American Fiction is a book so original, so charming, so complete in itself, that to write a review of it must be one of the most disheartening tasks possible. Not for many years has there been produced a novel so broadly American, so un-provincial while yet retaining the peculiar atmosphere of locality, and at the same time utterly unassuming as to its representation of 'phase.' Its art is so good and so fresh that it hardly impresses us as art; it is more nearly nature. And yet the story abounds in traces of dainty skill, and delightful appreciation of the shades and angles of character, and perfect and easy adaptation of words to the transmission of meaning, without that over-solicitude as to style which has become so fatiguing in our recent New England school of fiction writers. * * * The main thing to observe is that Sherwood Bonner has seized the transition period of the feeling between South and North so perfectly that her book will probably stand in the future as the best representative of this episode in the national life; and she has done this within the compass of a simple tale which commends itself to our affections quite independently of that special illustrative interest."

In _Harper's Monthly_, _Lippincott's Magazine_ and _The Atlantic Monthly_, the book was favorably reviewed. Sherwood Bonner spoke of it as "a part of her training."

Mrs. Albert Anderson, her lifelong friend, wrote of her: "To literature she was 'Sherwood Bonner,' the young author, full of genius and promise; to society she was the beautiful, fascinating woman, always the central attraction in every room she entered, but to the companions of her youth she was only 'Kate,' the loyal, brave, trusted friend, whose untimely death has taken so much from life that it can never look the same again."

"Hers was a talent," says Dr. William Kirk "sure to expand and develop; she observed life and learned from it and was in no uneasy haste to record her impressions; the future was hers through her individuality, if fate could have permitted it." But for the work that she has done, which when weighed in the balances still sustains the test, Sherwood Bonner should possess for the students of Southern literature and Southern life, a permanent and abiding interest.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Boston, Roberts Brothers, 1884.

[2] Lippincott's Magazine, December, 1875.

[3] Lippincott's Magazine, October, 1876.

[4] New York, Harper and Brothers, 1878.

[5] Lippincott's Magazine, September, October, November and December, 1881.

[6] Harper's New Monthly Magazine, October, 1879.

[7] Harper's New Monthly Magazine, April, 1881.

[8] Lippincott's Magazine, April, 1880.

[9] "Dialect Tales," New York, Harper and Brothers, 1883.

[10] See "Suwanee River Tales."

"THE DAUGHTER OF THE CONFEDERACY"--HER LIFE, CHARACTER, AND WRITINGS.[11]

BY CHARLES CLIFTON FERRELL, PH. D. (LEIPZIG).

It was on the 27th of June 1864 that Winnie Davis was born in the 'White House' of the Confederacy at Richmond. The boom of cannons in the distance seemed to celebrate this important event,--the birth of a daughter in the reigning family. But in reality the firing was not a manifestation of joy; many of the cannons were hostile cannons which were ultimately to deprive her of her birthright. The superior forces of the Union were closing in upon the Confederate capital, and it was not long before it fell, and the little girl, as well as her parents and friends, became an outcast. She took part in the flight from Richmond, traveling by day and night in an army ambulance for hundreds of miles over rough roads through lonely woods, and being even carried at times long distances in her mother's arms. It was a veritable _via dolorosa_! The happy cooing of the baby alone comforted the bleeding hearts of the family and brought smiles to eyes bathed in tears. During the dark days of her father's imprisonment little Winnie, who alone of the children was allowed to visit him,[12] was the only sunshine that came to him. She liked to stay in his cell, where she played and prattled, all unconscious of the sad surroundings. She would put her arms round his neck, and he would clasp her to his bosom, forgetting everything for the moment except the baby fingers that were pressed against his cheek and the blue eyes that looked into his. It would be hard to overestimate the comfort she afforded him while he was treading the winepress of bitterness and humiliation.

Thus the infant had received the baptism of fire and deserved the name of 'Daughter of the Confederacy.'

Mrs. Davis tells some interesting anecdotes of the little girl's precocity, which I repeat in her own words. "When Winnie was very small,--I think three years old,--her father was reading aloud to me an essay on the refusal of a tomb to Byron in Westminster Abbey. The nurse took her up to carry her to bed and she called out: 'Oh, do leave me until I hear the rest. The English will regret refusing their great man a grave in their church;' showing she had comprehended the whole paper. Another time, when she was five years old, she was asked: 'For what was Abraham blessed?' 'For the manifestation of faith in hospitality,' she answered. No one had told her in this phrase, for I was her only teacher. At this same time she chanced to be at a church meeting, waiting for me and heard us talking of the minister's needs. For six months afterward she saved up her little pennies and one day tipped up behind him and put them into his hand, which was behind his back, saying: 'Dear Doctor, buy everything you want,--here is the money.' She asked questions which it taxed our mind and ingenuity to answer, and reasoned out her own theories and adjusted facts so as to suit her own ideas of right and justice. She could never become reconciled to the fatted calf being killed for the prodigal son, and sympathized passionately with the dutiful son who came from the field overtired with labor in his father's service to hear sounds of revelry in honor of the prodigal son, while he had never been given a fatted calf with which to entertain his friends."

The father took great pride in the development of his younger daughter's bright mind. He and Mrs. Davis were her first teachers and introduced her to the immortal writers that they knew best. Before she could read she knew 'The Wreck of the Hesperus,' 'The Fight at Coilantogle Ford,' and Allan-Bane's song in the dungeon of Stirling castle, and had the Bible at her tongue's end. At the age of twelve she knew by heart also many striking passages from Shakespeare and was an ardent admirer of the 'Wizard of the North.' In 1877 she was placed in a boarding school at Karlsruhe, Germany, where she remained five years. The mental and moral discipline maintained by the Protestant sisterhood that directed the school was of the strictest kind; the life was as secluded and as free from gaiety and frivolity as that of a convent. In 1882 Miss Davis went to Paris, where she studied French several months, and afterwards traveled extensively.

When she returned home she spoke German and French more fluently than English, and was well-versed in European, especially German literature and history, but had little reverence for the learning and literary history of her own country. Her parents began by dictations and by interesting excerpts from Anglo-Saxon history to make her breathe their atmosphere and adapt herself to their habits of thought. After her many years of seclusion a new world opened before her young eyes when she made her first appearance in the gay society of New Orleans at the time of the Exposition. Now was formed her first acquaintance with theatre and opera. She was well prepared for this,--really her first encounter with life,--bringing to it a mind vigorous by nature and well disciplined by the study of history and economics. Hence, in spite of the great enthusiasm with which she met the world, she was prevented from forming any but just judgments of men and things. She was queen of Comus this same season,[13] and somewhat later while attending her father on his triumphal procession through Alabama and Georgia she was introduced to the Confederate veterans by General Gordon as 'The Daughter of the Confederacy,'--an eminently appropriate title which she always wore in a manner worthy of her father's daughter.

In 1879 the family had moved to Beauvoir, where they lived until the death of Jefferson Davis. Miss Winnie's devotion to her father is said to have been beautiful. She was his constant companion, accompanying him on all his trips through the South; she served him as private secretary and assistant in all his literary work. She would walk hand in hand with him by the sounding sea; she would pore over volumes uninteresting to her because she knew his heart was in them; she would read aloud to him by the hour, and when he was weary she would sing to him sweet old Southern songs. In fact she was the stay of his declining years, succeeding in her effort to fill not only her own place but that of the sons he had lost.

After the death of the husband and father, Mrs. Davis and her daughter moved to the North. They felt that they must do so in order to secure work, which was now a necessity.[14] It was also a great advantage to them in their literary labors to be in close touch with their publishers, and the Northern climate was better suited to the mother's health. 'The Daughter of the Confederacy' received an urgent and hearty invitation to attend every function connected with the 'lost cause,' which she always accepted when it was possible. Both hemispheres were shocked at the announcement that her life had been cut short at Narragansett Pier on the 18th of September 1898. As was fitting, her body was buried at Richmond, where her cradle had stood,--in that city which is richest in memories of the 'lost cause' and all that is associated with it.

Splendid was the character of this woman who had been fondled and kissed in her babyhood by such men as Alexander H. Stephens, Judah P. Benjamin, Stephen R. Mallory, and the immortal Robert E. Lee. The hopes they expressed for her future usefulness as they stood around her cradle were fulfilled in rich measure. She always remained a child in her simplicity and in her exquisite purity of soul; she was a woman in dignity and in her ideas of justice before leaving the nurse's arms. Even when she was a mere baby she resented any reflection upon her truthfulness or sincerity; once when somebody reproved her for a supposed fault and threatened to tell her mother, she replied, "Do tell her, she always understands me; I am not afraid of my mother." After she had become known as one of the most cultured women of her time,--up to the very hour of her death, in fact,--she did not give up her tender, baby ways with her mother, to whom she would say simply, "I try to be a good girl, do you think, dear, I am?" She was unaffected, charitable, honest, and loyal. Her love for little children was very marked; to the sick and afflicted she was a ministering angel; she was almost worshiped by the poor people and the children about Beauvoir. It is said that she never allowed tramps to be turned away hungry even though she saw them impose upon her repeatedly. She was a model listener and would sit with her blue eyes shining with sympathy. Too modest to lead the conversation, she did so only when her interest in the subject and her knowledge of it made her forget herself and inspired her to speak. She was chary of expressing her opinions, which were honest and well-considered, and especially disliked pronunciamentos.

Charles Dudley Warner, who knew her and loved her for many years, pays a high tribute in an article as yet unpublished to her sterling character and ingenuous face, her sweet disposition, and power of great affection. He emphasizes her sympathetic nature, her simplicity of manner, her open-eyed candor, her transparent sincerity, and her unworldliness,--her disposition to place spiritual things above material things. He was especially struck with the fact that she was free from prejudice and bitterness with regard to the war between the States. He had reason to know that she rather shrank from the demonstrations of the Confederate veterans towards her, as she was a little timid in such matters, and had a very humble opinion of herself and her merits and womanly reluctance to such publicity. Yet she met the trying situation admirably, her tact and delicacy preventing her from making any mistakes. She seemed to the veterans the embodiment of those principles for which they had fought, and she always remained true to the traditions of her family and of her beloved Southland.

The first thing Miss Davis published was a little poem in blank verse which appeared in 'The Times-Democrat;' it was an address to a group of giant pines at Beauvoir and was signed 'The Colonel.' She was a member of a little literary club in New Orleans called the 'Pangnostics,' at which each girl read a paper at an appointed time. 'The Daughter's of the Confederacy' chose for her subject Robert Emmet, in whom she felt a strong interest because Mrs. Davis' grandfather, Colonel James Kempe, of Natchez, had been one of Emmet's men before he was sixteen. Besides questioning her mother closely as to the stories which her great-grandfather had told about the ill-fated struggle for freedom in the home of his youth, she read at least twenty books on Irish history or subjects related to it, in order to prepare herself for writing, 'An Irish Knight of the Nineteenth Century,'[15] as the piece was called, contains a vivid portrayal of the oppression of Ireland from the earliest times and a sympathetic sketch of the young patriot, whose life was a romantic tragedy. The author shows as great enthusiasm for freedom as does Schiller in his 'Robbers.' Charles Dudley Warner, who was present when the paper was read to the club, was much pleased with it, and Mr. and Mrs. Davis were so proud of it that they decided to have it published, expecting only to distribute copies gratuitously among their friends. However, it went through three editions, and although she had only a small percentage on the books, which sold for twenty-five cents, it brought the young girl $300. Mr. Ridpath once told Mrs. Davis that it had gone through many Irish societies and awakened much enthusiasm.

The next publication, entitled 'Serpent Myths,' appeared in 'The North American Review.'[16] It shows wide reading and offers an interesting and ingenious theory to explain the origin of these myths. After this came some short descriptions of German life written for various papers and some clever bits of versification which were never published. Two or three years after her father's death she wrote for 'The Ladies' Home Journal' a very strong article against foreign education for American girls, on the ground that such education gives the pupil a different point of view from her own people and puts her out of harmony with her surroundings. This piece attracted wide attention in the North as well as in the South. She wrote for 'Belford's Magazine'[17] a clever criticism of Colonel William Preston Johnston's theory that Hamlet was intended as a characterization of James I, of England.

Miss Davis next resolved to write a book, and chose for her subject a story her mother had told her about a veiled doctor that had once attended a member of Mrs. Davis' family in Pennsylvania. It shows the delicacy of her nature that she feared she might wound the feelings of his family and accordingly laid the scene of her story at Wickford, Rhode Island, in an old house which she had seen there. The main incidents of this novel[18] are true. As it is her most ambitious work, I will speak of it in detail.[19]

Doctor Gordon Wickford, the heir of the leading family in a provincial town, has married a city belle. She is a beautiful blonde, whose "glory lies in her hair," which she treasures above all other earthly possessions, including her husband. "He had prostrated himself spiritually before her beauty, and demanded nothing but the acceptance of his adulation." Too late he finds out that blind infatuation has caused him to marry a woman who is so vain, shallow, and frivolous as to be utterly unworthy of him. The uncongenial surroundings among which she finds herself serve to accent her lack of loveliness of character, and to widen the chasm between them. This becomes impassable, as far as he is concerned, when he catches her in a downright lie. Then he turns upon her for the first time, and tells her that, while she may remain in his house, she shall henceforth be his wife only in name. The spirit and determination he shows reveal to her a force of character she had never suspected in one who had been accustomed to yield to her in everything, and she begins to respect him thoroughly. Only after she has lost his love does she realize the value of it, and then she strives to win it back, while a genuine love for him begins to grow up within her own bosom.

As time goes on Wickford recognizes the fact that he is doomed to die of cancer, that dread disease to which other members of his family had already fallen victim. On returning from the city, where his worst fears with regard to his condition have been confirmed, he is thinking of seeking a reconciliation with Isabel, his wife, in order that she may comfort him in the trying hours that are to come. He hesitates because he has heard her make so many unfeeling remarks about the afflicted and infirm, and knows she cannot bear to come into contact with suffering. While he is still in doubt what to do, a scene of which he is an unseen witness convinces him of his wife's infidelity, and in a moment of delirium he cuts off her beautiful hair and throws it into the fire. After this he is ill of brain-fever for a long time.

As he has completely ignored his wife ever since he discovered that she had been lying, he is not aware of the change in her feeling toward him. He persistently refuses to listen when his old aunt attempts to plead the cause of Isabel.

His sensitive nature cannot bear the thought of everybody seeing the mark of the loathsome disease as it slowly eats its way, so he covers his face with a black veil, which he never removes. He loses sight of his own condition in ministering to the sufferings of others. Finally, after many months his own hour comes, and he locks himself within his office, determined that no mortal eye shall see his last sufferings. He writes a letter to his wife beseeching her to respect his wishes in this matter, and assuring her that by doing so she can atone for all her sins against him. She obeys him to the letter, refusing, in spite of vigorous protests, to allow anyone to enter his chamber. She takes her position just outside his door, and listens with agony to his moaning until the end comes, when she finds a note, written just before he expired, in which he recognizes her love for him and asks her forgiveness. After her own great sorrow she is able really to sympathize with the sufferings of others, and finally goes down to the grave respected by all who know her.

Such is the story, briefly told. The title reminds us of Hawthorne's parable, 'The Minister's Black Veil.' Both Doctor Wickford and Parson Hooper put on the veil never to lay it aside even for a moment, and the effect on the outside world is naturally very much the same in both cases, but here the resemblance ceases, for the cause is physical in one instance and moral in the other. The selfishness and levity of Madame Wickford find a parallel in the heroine of Benson's 'Dodo', while her 'new birth' is not altogether unlike that of Marcella, who is, however, an infinitely stronger character. More interesting still is a comparison between our novel and 'The Forge Master' of George Ohnet. Claire persists in receiving the advances of her husband, Philippe Derblay, with such coldness that he finally loses patience and pays her in her own coin. Her respect for him is awakened, and when he is on the point of fighting a duel for her sake, she rushes in between him and his adversary, revealing to him the fact that she now loves him devotedly. Thus a reconciliation is effected. I do not mean to say that our author has borrowed anything from these stories, for, while she is probably acquainted with them all, it is by no means certain that she has read any one of them. I have mentioned these points of resemblance merely because I think they are interesting.

I have heard the situations in 'The Veiled Doctor' characterized as unnatural and melodramatic, and the style criticised as stilted. With this opinion I cannot agree. Our author partially disarms criticism by calling our attention to the perspective,--the events being supposed to have taken place in "those times when the lives of men and women swung between the two poles of war's brutality and a super-refined sentimentalism, which seems mawkish to their more prosaic grandchildren." The ideals of different periods are not the same, and it is hardly safe to take those of our own as a perfectly reliable standard in judging those of another. For instance, to our age Goethe's 'Sorrows of Werther' seems full of maudlin sentimentality, yet it was received with wild enthusiasm when it appeared, for it mirrored perfectly the spirit of the time. All are agreed that a story should harmonize, at least in a general way, with its historical setting, for else we should be reminded of Horace's picture of the figure with a woman's head, a horse's neck, feathered body, and a fish's tail.

When we take into consideration the sensitive nature of Gordon Wickford and the ignorance of the physicians of his day with regard to the proper treatment of cancer, his desire to die alone does not seem so unnatural, and, if this view be accepted, Isabel's obedience is easily understood. It must be confessed that the most sympathetic and practical character in the book is 'Aunt Hannah.'

The style is not always what it should be, our author being at times unable to resist the temptation to use high-sounding phrases, but it sometimes manifests considerable strength, and we find numerous bits of description that are really clever and show excellent taste in their simplicity. I quote several passages:

"As yet the trees in the street had not completely hidden their graceful branch-lines in new spring greenery; there were still light young shoots in the box hedges, and the air was full of the breath of the spring. In the old garden long lines of crocus, yellow jonquils, and single blue hyacinths hedged the grass-plots. The snowballs were covered with great foamy white balls, periwinkles looked up clear-eyed from under the parlor windows, and everywhere the single blue violets were making the air sweet with their spring thanksgiving. The tall standard roses had thrown out pale-green racemes, and the 'bridal-wreath' bushes were just commencing to powder their branches with miniature blossoms. A young moon hung like a reap-hook in the evening sky; the bride and groom could see it between a fret-work of flowery apple and pear branches as they paced backward and forward in the soft air."

"At last the day broke rosy and splendid over a steel-blue sea."

"There was a freshness on her cheeks and a dewy look about her eyes that seemed to answer to the glory of the new day, and to proclaim her an integral part of the summer morning."

"Autumn had dressed the old town in sober suits of brown, laced with yellow and red; there was a sharp tang in the salt sea air that sent the blood dancing. The smell of the ripe apples, crushed by the cider-presses, pervaded the orchards, and in the fields the stacked dried corn showed the unsuspected wealth of golden pumpkins that grew between rows. Out in the woods the ferns had grown wan and pale, and the fading leaves began to carpet the dead summer's undergrowth. Day after day the officer and the lady rode away from the tree-shaded streets to the silent autumn forests where silver-gray oak-boles upheld canopies of brown velvet leaves. The gumtrees burned like fire, and the hickory and sassafras gleamed golden over the red sumach and whortleberry that made the old fields seem deluged with the blood of some mighty battle. At times the long lines of homing ducks would pass them, or a V of wild geese would sweep over their heads, crying 'honk-honk!'"

"Evening had come on, and the bare boughs were etched black against a lemon-colored sky, which melted into orange where it kissed the horizon."

"The rosy glow in the west faded to ashen gray as the day burned itself out."

"Autumn followed, spreading its rich India carpet of leaves before the retreating footsteps of the dying year."

"Again the dawn swept up out of the sea, rosy and clear; she could see the pink light of a new day on the western walls of the passage."

"He labored under the oppressive aloofness begotten by sorrow, which endows even the most familiar objects with a strangeness borrowed from the new relation that we thenceforth bear to our dead selves. The old landmarks seemed to be obliterated by the torrents of his anguish and he felt no more of the balm he anticipated from a sense of homecoming than he might have experienced in entering any wayside tavern. His disease created a spiritual alienation from all things, and in his heart, like the Jewish lepers, he cried out perpetually, 'Unclean! unclean!' proclaiming his eternal separation from humanity."

"There were all sorts of half-fledged thoughts nestling in his heart as he strode out into the night."

"A sudden apprehension shook her, every overwrought nerve in her body seemed strained to listen; the wind had risen since dark, and was moaning in the chimney. She heard him fumble with the bolts; it seemed an age before the door flew open with a crash, and the storm rushed in whooping, making the candles flicker and starting the smouldering logs into a blaze. Some one was talking to the Captain in the hall; now the door closed, and she heard his quick step coming back alone. The presentiment of impending evil that had oppressed her all day now took the form of anxiety for her husband; her fear grew into an awful certainty of misfortune as she listened for the Captain's return. Could Gordon have been taken ill? Was there an accident on the journey? Could he even be dead? 'Oh God,' she prayed dumbly, 'not without saying good-bye,--not angry with me, and without good-bye!'"

Finally, the moral of the book is one that has the sanction of the father of Greek tragedy; it is the familiar adage that wisdom comes through suffering. The strongest feature of the story is its interest; I could hardly put it down before I had finished it. This interest, which is inspired by its intrinsic merit, is increased by the fact that it is the work of 'The Daughter of the Confederacy.' While it is not a great book, it is well worth reading.

Next came many unsigned essays for different journals,--a Christmas story for 'The World,' and a pretty one called 'Maiblume' for 'Arthur's Home Journal.' Then followed a comprehensive article on 'The Women of the South before the War,'--before she was born. Mrs. Davis gave her the material, and her beautiful, pure soul shed upon it the moonlight of idealism. The piece last mentioned, as well as a remarkable paper on her father's character as she saw it, was published by McClure's syndicate.

Miss Davis was unusually well-versed in Chinese history, as she had spent two years reading it because of her intention of writing a Chinese novel. On this account 'A Romance of Summer Seas' has so strong a _vraisemblance_ that people thought the author had visited the scenes so vividly described. Her knowledge of the Chinese world is shown also in an article not yet published which has for its title, 'An Experiment in Chinese Money;' it was written at the time of the silver and gold contest.

It was a cherished wish of the dutiful daughter to put herself in a position to buy a little home in a beautiful country district and a little pony carriage for her mother and herself. With this in view she wrote 'A Romance of Summer Seas,'[20] which she had first intended to call 'An Unconventional Experiment.' She had contemplated writing a novel of which the scene should be laid at Hong-Kong,--a novel of a more ambitious nature than 'A Romance of Summer Seas.'

The 'unconventional experiment' consists in a young girl's being forced by circumstances to travel under the sole guardianship of a young Englishman from their home, Penang, off the coast of the Malay Peninsula, to Hong-Kong and Yokohama. The summer seas of the Orient and the two cities last named form the background of the story. The pair are very reserved and stand aloof from the other passengers until these begin to gossip about them and to whisper that the relations between them are not just what they should be. This causes two or three fights, two challenges, and one duel, all of which might have been avoided if the people on board had minded their own business. It also brings about a marriage between the young man and young girl in question, who have been awakened by these rude happenings to the consciousness that they love one another.

The characters are well-drawn and lifelike. Bush, the Globe Trotter, who tells the story, proves to be a very entertaining _raconteur_ in spite of the reputation he has of being an insufferable bore. He is loyal and true, and does not hesitate to risk his life for his new-found friend. Malcolm Ralstone and Minerva Primrose, the pair in whom the interest of the story centers, are not idealized but thoroughly human. Guthrie, the Kansas cattle king, is the best-drawn character of all; he is kind-hearted and manly, but the personification of vulgarity,--one of that type of Americans who travel much because they think it is the thing to do, make themselves very conspicuous by their loudness, bad manners, and ignorance, and do all they can to bring our country into disrepute. They are aided in this noble work by such vulgarians as the American consul at Hong-Kong,--these creatures who owe their prominence to the abuses of our consular system. Miss Edwina Starkey is a revised but unimproved edition of Mrs. Jellyby,--what Mrs. Jellyby might have been if she had become a sour old maid. Though an apostle of 'The Brotherhood for the Diffusion of Light,' Miss Edwina has about as much of the true spirit of Christianity as she has of personal beauty. Among the minor characters Doctor Clark is admirably drawn.

The book contains many charming bits of description; one has the feeling that Miss Davis must have visited these scenes which she so vividly paints. The life on shipboard seems very real. We find evidence of the closest observation of the world, and the results of this observation sententiously expressed. A quiet humor pervades the story, which is realistic in the best sense and quite healthy.

I insert a few extracts.

"We were all up on deck enjoying the black glory of the night,--stars set in a velvet pall overhead, and, below, the phosphorus fringes that edged every ripple in the water and made the ship's wake shine like a reflection of the Milky Way."

"As I sat there heedless of time, the light in the west faded, and the great blue dome blushed with a thousand delicate gradations of color, from the deep sapphire overhead, where the first stars twinkled, through fainter blues and apple greens, until everything melted into the gold of the horizon."

"So he went off, leaving me alone in the white glory of the tropic night. No words of mine can convey the magic of that moonlight, enveloping everything, and culminating in a glittering path across the water. Every now and then a fish jumped, and I could see its wet sides glitter; or a ghostly gull swept by on silent wings, for when the full moon rides in the southern sky, not even the birds can sleep, but wake and sing their songs fitfully throughout the night."

"They sat at the window waiting, and watching the heat-lightning play in the west and the reflection of the ships' lamps that lay in the water like long yellow smudges. As the night closed in the threatened storm swept up out of the sea, deluging the city and whipping the quiet harbor into a foam; the thunder crashed incessantly, and the flashes of lightning showed stooping figures running along the bund to shelter, and hooded jinrikishas tearing by, the coolies' grass cloaks dripping at every blade."

"When one woman wishes to wound another she always strikes at her heart."

"Black was very inky and white immaculate to this son of the prairies."

"People never relish life as they do when the taste of death is still bitter between their teeth."

"Her heart was as pure as crystal."

"Women are the most conservative things alive."

"The face he turned upon me was no more the face of Minerva's lover than the sea in December is like the sea in June."

"I venture to say that very few of the dead would be entirely welcome if they returned unexpectedly to their widowed affinities."

"Nothing is so perfect a guarantee of respectability in a chance acquaintance as the names of your own friends on his visiting-list."

"Many babies and Burmese summers had exhausted all the elasticity she had ever possessed."

On the whole, 'A Romance of Summer Seas,' while it is on a less ambitious scale than 'The Veiled Doctor,' seems more natural and shows a gratifying advance along several lines.

When Miss Davis was suffering intensely in her last illness, she would pat her mother's hand and say, "We shall have our carriage when my book sells." But her unselfish dreams were not to be realized. The career which seemed so full of promise was cut short by death. Now we see through a glass darkly; when we see face to face, we shall know why this life of usefulness ended in its morning. As long as the memories of the 'lost cause' linger in her beloved Southland, so long shall the name of Winnie Davis, 'The Daughter of the Confederacy,' remain unforgotten. She has passed away, but the perfume of her noble life will not pass away.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] The writer is indebted to the kindness of Mrs. Jefferson Davis for much of the information necessary in the preparation of this paper. Even Mrs. Davis, however, is unable to give the date when some of her daughter's minor pieces were published, and every effort to secure them has proved fruitless. They are either out of print or inaccessible.

[12] She was the only one of them he wished to have with him, as she alone would not understand that he was a prisoner.

[13] In 1892 she was queen of Momus,--an honor that has always been reserved for natives of New Orleans. Miss Davis is the only visitor upon whom it has ever been conferred.

[14] With their slender means the two women found it impossible to meet the interruptions and exactions of sight-seers at their home, so this too had something to do with the change of residence.

[15] John W. Lovell & Company, New York, about 1884 or 1885. Now out of print.

[16] February, 1888.

[17] March, 1891.

[18] 'The Veiled Doctor,' A Novel by Varina Anne Jefferson Davis, New York, Harper and Brothers, Publishers, 1895.

[19] The following review is practically the same as one published by the author of this paper in 'The University of Mississippi Magazine,' April 1896.

[20] 'A Romance of Summer Seas,' A Novel. By Varina Anne Jefferson-Davis, Author of 'The Veiled Doctor,' New York and London, Harper and Brothers, Publishers, 1898.

SIR WILLIAM DUNBAR--THE PIONEER OF SCIENTIST OF MISSISSIPPI.[21]

BY FRANKLIN L. RILEY, PH. D. (JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY)

William Dunbar was born in 1749 at the celebrated manor house of Thunderton, near Elgin in Morayshire, Scotland. He was the youngest son of Sir Archibald Dunbar, who was head of one of the most ancient and famous earldoms in his native country.[22] After William Dunbar's removal to America, he became head of this house in Scotland. Although he never assumed the title which he thus inherited, he is known in the history of his adopted state as Sir William Dunbar.[23]

After he had received a liberal education at Glasgow, his fondness for mathematics and astronomy led him to continue these studies in London. His health failed in the latter place and he decided to try his fortune in the New World.

He procured from the great house of Hunter and Bailey, London, an outfit of goods suitable for trading with the Indians. He reached Philadelphia in April, 1771, and immediately transported his goods, to the value of about £1,000, overland to Fort Pitt (Pittsburg).[24] Within two months he had exchanged them for furs and peltries, which he forwarded to London. He continued in this business for two years, when he formed a partnership with John Ross, a prominent Scotch merchant and capitalist of Philadelphia.

In order to establish a plantation in the British province of West Florida, Dunbar descended the Ohio and Mississippi in 1773, and selected a tract of land near Baton Rouge, then called by the English, New Richmond. He went to Pensacola, capitol of West Florida, where he received from Governor Chester permission to settle the tract selected, and thence to Jamaica, where he bought a large number of slaves, direct from Africa. With these, he returned to his new home, by way of Pensacola, the lakes, and the Amite.

He first directed his attention to raising indigo, but soon found that it was more profitable to manufacture staves for the West India market. These he exchanged for such commodities as were demanded by his neighbors along the Mississippi.[25]

From a document written in 1773, and found among the papers of George Chalmers, Secretary of Trade of Great Britain, we find that at this time there were only thirty-three settlements east of the Mississippi and between Natchez and what is now the state of Louisiana.[26] But from that date the streams of immigration began to flow steadily into this new country. This fact is shown by another contemporary manuscript, which was written by Gov. Chester, shortly after the Spanish conquest of West Florida. In it he says that in 1778, "considering the importance of the Western Parts of the Colony (of West Florida) lying on the River Mississippi which had so far increased in its inhabitants____that since the____last Assembly (held in 1772) it had been divided from the District of Mobile or Charlotte County and erected into Two Districts, viz.: The District of Manschack and the District of Natchez and contained a great number of respectable wealthy Planters and Settlers than either of the other Districts in the Colony" (Mobile and Pensacola).[27]