fluctuating. It was she to whom we ran to tell of triumphs and sorrows;
she whose sympathy, ash-cakes and turnover pies never failed us. It was
she who hung over our sickbeds; who told us stories more beautiful than
we read in any books; who sang to us old-fashioned hymns of praise and
faith; and who talked to us with childlike simplicity of the God whom
she loved.
"During the troubled four years that swept like the hot breath of the
simoon over our country, she was true to the family. Her love, courage,
her faithful work, helped us to bear up under our heavy trials. And
when the gentle mother whose life had been set to such sweet music that
her spirit broke in the discords of dreadful war, sank out of life,
it was in gran'mammy's arms that she died; and neither husband nor
children mourned more tenderly for the beautiful life cut short."
"How Gran'mammy Broke the News" shows the tact of the faithful old
nurse in revealing to "Aunt Sarah" the fact that her soldier son, who
was reported to have been killed in battle, is alive and well, in fact
has but a few moments before arrived at that house. One of gran'mammy's
foster children is a witness of the scene. The little girl was for
going to tell her aunt as soon as her cousin arrived, but gran'mammy
said: "Stop, honey, stop; Miss Katie, you forgit. Don't you know dat
joy itse'f is sometimes more dan a breakin' heart kin bear? Mis' Sarah
is mighty frail; an' she mus' be made ready to meet dis shock, for dis
is jes as much a _shock_ as de lie dat struck her down. Blessed be de
Lord for sendin' de last so quick on de heels of de fust. * * * *
"Aunt Sarah's door was ajar. She was seated by the fire in an attitude
of utter dejection. Gran'mammy was bustling about the room, an
expression of perplexity on her dear old brown face. Presently with a
side-long glance at poor Aunt Sarah, gran'mammy began to sing softly.
I had never heard her croon anything but Methodist hymns. Now, to my
surprise, she broke forth in a chant that Miss Rose was very fond of
singing with us after vesper service Sunday afternoons, 'Praise de
Lord, O my soul! O my soul; and forget not all his benefits.'
"At first Aunt Sarah took no notice; but, at a louder, more vigorous,
'Praise de Lord, _Praise de Lord!_' she shook her head, as if a gnat
was buzzing about her ears, and looked at the singer with a dull look
of surprise in her weary eyes.
"'Gran'mammy _singing_!' she said, in a faint voice.
"Gran'mammy came and stood directly in front of my aunt. She tried to
laugh, but the tears tumbled out of her eyes so fast that she choked in
the effort to swallow them.
"'Why, yes, Mis' Sarah,' she at last manged to say; 'when my heart is
light with thinkin' of de goodness of de Lord I can no mo' help singin'
dan if I was a saint in heaven worshippin' at de throne.'
"'The goodness of God!' echoed Aunt Sarah, drearily; 'He has forgotten
mercy; He has turned His face from me; He has left me desolate and
forsaken in my old age.'
"'De Lord _never_ forgits,' said gran'mammy, solemnly; 'an' He never
fails to keep de promises He has made. Lean on me, Mis' Sarah. Rest yo'
po' tired head. Speak de name of yo' boy, honey. It'll do yer good ter
talk about him.
"'No, no, no!' said Aunt Sarah, shrinking back; 'I thought you loved
him, gran'mammy, but you could come to my room and sing. Go away, I do
not want you.'
"'I'll go, Mis' Sarah, in one little minute. Love Mars' Allan!
Why, wusn't my arms de fust ter hol' him--a little soft helpless
innocent--even before you held him to yo' own mother's heart? An'
from that very minnnit I loved him. I kin see him now, a little
white-headed boy, always runnin' ter his ole granmammy fur turnovers
an' ginger-cakes. Hevn't I watched him all through de years, growin'
as straight an' tall as a young poplar, full of his jokes, but with
never a mean streak in him, bless de Lord! An' den, Mis' Sarah, don't
you mind how he looked in his grey uniform, wid de gold lace on his
sleeves; an' how his eyes would kindle an' his voice ring out when he
talked of de country he loved next ter God?'
"'Gran'mammy! do you want to break my heart? Why do you torture me?'
And Aunt Sarah burst into such wild, wild tears that I was frightened.
"'Oh! my po' sweet mistis, I wants to _mend_ yo' heart, not break it;'
and gran'mammy, too, burst into tears, kneeling now by Aunt Sarah, with
her arms around her. 'I wants you to call ter mind jes' one thing--de
commandment given by de Lord to his people, _given wid a promise_. Kin
you say it over ter me?"
"'Honor thy father and thy mother,' said Aunt Sarah, like one in a
dream, 'and thy days shall be long in the land--'
"'Stop dar, Mis' Sarah,--_stop at dat promise_,' almost shouted
gran'mammy. 'Did Mars. Allan honor his father an' his mother?'
"'Always! Always! He never disobeyed us in his life. No son could have
been better or nobler.'
"_And thy days shall be long in the land_," cried gran'mammy, 'which
the Lord thy God giveth thee!' Now, Miss Sarah, jes _trust God_. He
won't break dat promise.'
"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.