now out of a glad, now out of an aching heart. Well has it been said
that a poet least of all needs a monumental pile. The Iliad towers high
above the Pyramids, and will outlast them by ages. William Ward has
left no Iliad; he sang not of the gods and demi-gods; he struck the
lyre, and not the full-resounding harp. Intuition, early environment
and scholastic training, as has been shown, combined to make of him a
poet. Life's dull and dark experiences seemed to repress but could not
suppress in him the "noble rage." Visions of beauty continually flitted
in his imagination; music from choirs, visible and invisible, seemed
ever to soothe and charm his troubled, lonely heart. Especially in
the closing years of his life was poetry a joy and comfort to him. As
the burdens of life were shifted to the shoulders of his children, he
found more leisure, it appears, and indulged more frequently in poetic
expression of the mood or thought that deeply stirred within.
As might be supposed, his poems are of as diverse themes and varied
measures as the moods and occasions which suggested them. In them may
be best shown the poet and to some extent the man; hence, they deserve
and, it is believed, will repay a full and close investigation. Hear
him first, as in patriotic strain, he invites the world to his adopted
land:
COME TO THE SOUTH.
Come to our hill-sides and come to our prairies,
Broaden our fields with the spade and the plow;
Bring us from Deutsche-land to gardens and dairies,
To household and kitchen the fraulein and frau;
Come from the birth-land of Goethe and Schiller,
Scholar and poet and teacher and priest;
Come where each acre of tilth needs a tiller,
And people the South with the strength of the East;
Bring you the songs and dance of Rhine-land
The legends and sports of your home if you will;
Give us the lays of your forest and vine-land,
With the strong arm of labor the artisan's skill.
Come from the cliffs where the sea-eagle fledges
His brood o'er the wild ocean-storm of the North,
Where the fisher-boats play round the moss-mantled ledges,
Where the sea-kraken sports and the maelstrom has birth;
Leave you the land where the treacherous glacier
Mocks you, blinded and chilled with its pitiless glare,
Where all save the mist-clouded rim of the geyser
In the impotent sunlight lies frozen and bare;
Where Hecla sits mailed like a desolate giant,
With his flame-covered crest and his foot-stool of snow,
O'er the storm-rended realm of the Viking defiant,
And the sea rolling red in his terrible glow.
We call you, O men of the kilt and the tartan,
From highland and lowland, from mountain and mere--
Though you feel for your country the love of a Spartan,
A sunnier home and a welcome is here;
Must you cling to the fields where the gorse and the heather
That bloomed for your grandsires still blossom for you?
Cannot hopes that await you here loosen the tether
Which a birthright descended has cast over you?
There is room, there is work for the peer and the peasant,
From the land of the shamrock, the olive, and vine,
You may lift up unquestioned the cross with the crescent,
Or the lilies of France with the thistle-bloom twine.
No prosy pen could have indited those picturesque and stirring lines.
In his Centennial Hymn, "The Victory of Peace," in "The Blue and the
Gray," "Under Two Flags," "Gettysburg" and other poems, his muse dons
American colors and echoes the national note of peace and unity.
"Now another flag is o'er us,
And the bitter hate that tore us,
From beneath its shadow falters,
Let us raise the olden altars,
Let us smite the wretch who palters
With the tie that binds forever
Those who lost and won together,
While their banners live in story,
Haloed with a common glory."
GETTYSBURG.
1863
* * * * *
We see those splendid columns sweep
Across the field. Men hold their breath;
Before them frowns the sullen steep,
Before and near is life or death.
* * * * *
They are not such as break and fly,
No laggards droop, no cowards quail,
Those only pause who drop and die
Beneath that storm of leaden hail.
* * * * *
'Tis sunset. For the Blue, a gleam
Of glory fills the dying day;
From clouds above that sunset stream
Another glory for the Gray.
1887
* * * * *
They meet again--not steel to steel,
But hand to hand and breast to breast,
Hailed by the cannon's peaceful peal--
The Blue the host, the Gray the guest.
* * * * *
And so they share--the brave and true,
The glory of that fateful day;
The Gray the glory of the Blue,
The Blue the glory of the Gray.
* * * * *
'Tis sunset. From yon heaven away
Fades every golden, purple hue;
O'er host and guest, the twilight gray
Blends with the evening sky of blue.
In "McMahon at Sedan" he strikes the martial measure with trumpet note.
Many more stirring war lyrics could not easily be found.
But his muse was also often pensive, and in that mood he softly sings
as if to himself alone. Among the best of these poems of reflection are
"A Memory," "Alone," "Nebulae," and "Look Up." In them the visions and
the melody evoked are often strangely beautiful and haunting; but a
depressing undertone like a sigh runs through them all.
The misty realm of dream-land lies before me,
O Sleep! in thine embrace,
What shadows from the past are flitting o'er me,
What mocking memories traced;
The dim procession, slowly wafted onward,
Prolongs the dreary moan
That finds an echo in that fated one word,
Alone! Alone!
From "The Master Thought" and "If Tongues Were Steel," the conclusion
might be drawn that a cynic set words to the tunes. The last stanza of
the first of these is keenly pointed and sadly near the truth:
"Still man, though born a Socrates or Nero,
If white with truth, or black with falsehood's taint,
Would rather gleam in marble as a hero,
Than glow on canvas, pictured as a saint."
His intense hatred of shams and fraud of every kind occasionally found
indignant voice; as
"O God! were all the lies distilled
From supple lips in cunning skilled,
Hell would be stretched and overfilled;
Aye, moulded in one burning curse,
'Twould wreck a shaken world; nay worse!
Would crush and damn a universe."
But these were transient and rare utterances. "Though far from the east
the youth had traveled, he still was Nature's priest." The boy dreamer
among the Connecticut hills is now a poet on the Southern prairies.
"And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended."
"The glory had not yet passed from earth." Nature beckoned him
continually, and gladly obedient to the summons, he sought her haunts,
caught the visions, heard her minstrelsies, and forgot the while his
burdens, his loneliness, and his long sorrow. Many of his poems in
whole or part might be cited in proof of this. Most prominent are "The
Dying Year," "The South Wind," and "The Night Storm."
For its rich setting and striking presentation of a common theme this
poem is reproduced entire:
THE DYING YEAR.
The year is dying as the dolphin dies,
Not with the ashen hue,
Death's signal color, ere the fading eyes
See dimly, darkly through
The waxen lids. No pallor creeps along
The earth and sky; no tone
Floats through the air like a funeral song,
Or like a dying groan.
The warm rich sunlight gilds the autumn trees
Whose gorgeous tints are spread,
Each toning each, and fringed with heraldries
Of purple, gold, and red
The crimson myrtle burns upon its stem
As though a heart of fire,
The yellow maple, like an oriflamme,
Lifts up its banner higher.
The oak is rich with russet, bronze and brown,
And there a purple crest
Gleams o'er the forest like a lifted crown
Some color-god has blest.
Loosed by the frost, the sumac's pallid leaves
Like yellow lance-heads fall,
While lights and shadows ever shifting weave
A net-work over all.
O queenly autumn! though you proudly lead
The old year to its death,
A glory comes and goes where'er you tread
With every dying breath,
The year is dying--dying as a king
Dies in his purple. Now
His shroud is woven, and its colors fling
A glory o'er his brow.
The cold, the night, the storm, were especially congenial to him. He
almost literally "kept open house" throughout the year; for he would
hardly permit his doors to be closed even in the coldest weather. On
his gallery he delighted to stand or walk and watch a thunder storm,
especially by night, as his graphic picture of "The Night Storm" fully
testifies. But nature in her gentler aspects was also at times very
attractive to him, as this stanza must suffice to show:
"O warm South Wind! awake and send
Across the sea that breath of thine,
And let its lotus fragrance blend
With the rich odor of the pine.
O'er land and sea your treasures bring,
From zones with health and beauty rife,
To youth the fullness of its spring,
To age, the aftermath of life."
Particularly noticeable, and often fascinating through their witchery
or weirdness are a number of Mr. Ward's poems. Of those through which
fancy sports most winsomely are "The Lake of the Golden Isle," "St.
Nicotine, a Christmas Phantasy," "Just Twenty-Two," and "Katie Did."
The last was extensively copied in the press and much admired. It will
bear another repetition.
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.