Part 6

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."