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 John Henry Boner 
 
 By Marcus Benjamin, Ph. D. 
 
 Early last autumn, while spending a few days in Rich- 
 mond, I visited the beautiful cemetery of Hollywood and there 
 with uncovered head I paid silent homage to the dust of those 
 brave heroes of the Lost Cause whose memory is preserved by 
 that rude pyramid of stones which loving hearts and strong 
 hands have combined to rear to the glory of the military 
 achievements of the Confederate soldiers. Continuing on my 
 way in that silent city of the dead, I saw the memorials of 
 many who bore names famous in the history of the common- 
 wealth and the nation, and then at the extreme end of the 
 enclosure I found the place where President Davis was laid 
 away. On the banks of the James, overlooking the city he 
 loved so well, and surrounded by those who were dear to him 
 in life rests the great leader of the Confederacy. Thus are the 
 worthy sons of Virginia honored by their descendants. 
 
 A few weeks later I visited Raleigh, and there, while bask- 
 ing in the sunshine in the little square that surrounds the 
 State-house, my mind wandered back to a bleak and dreary 
 March day earlier in the year when the remains of John Henry 
 Boner — North Carolina's first man of letters — were consigned 
 to an unmarked grave in an obscure cemetery in Washington. 
 Like Poe — unappreciated and neglected in life by his own — he 
 awaits the resurrection into fame that will come as surely as it 
 did to that greatest of all American writers. In the hope that 
 it may come soon the following lines are written. 
 
 In the old historic town of Salem, North Carolina, Boner 
 was born in 1845. A picture of the actual house in which he 
 first saw the light of day is given in the volume of his poems 
 published after his death, and in that building his first poem 
 was written. Under the title of "Broken and Desolate" he 
 describes '*the old home where my youth was spent." In 
 after years he found it **all sadly altered" and "all changed," 
 so that he writes: 
 
[2] 
 
 ^£ 
 
 . . . . "I pressed my face 
 Against the silent wall, then stole y^^ 
 
 Away in agony of soul, /^f-^ 
 
 Regretting I had seen the place." 
 
 Of hivS boyhood days the bare fact that he received an 
 ''academic education" is all that he told of that period of his 
 existence, for now that he has gone from us comes the realiza- 
 tion that he never said much about himself. Among his poems 
 is "A Memory of Boyhood" in which he describes how: 
 
 "Floating on the gentle Yadkin in an olden-time canoe 
 Singing old plantation ballads — I and charming blue-e^-ed Sue — 
 Blue-eyed, golden tressed Sue." 
 
 Other stanzas tell of the "ripe delicious muscadines," 
 "sweetest grapes that ever clustered," but grapes were not all 
 he gathered, for he writes: "sweeter lips were never pressed," 
 and closes with, 
 
 "Years may pass, but I can never cease to dream of blue-e3^ed Sue 
 And the mornings on the Yadkin in the olden-time canoe — 
 Blue-eyed, golden tressed Sue." 
 
 As he grew into manhood he learned the printer's trade and 
 in time was graduated from the composing room into the 
 editorial sanctum, being connected with journals both in Salem 
 and in Asheville. During the reconstruction period he seems 
 to have affiliated with the republican party, for which indis- 
 cretion he was to pay severely, but in extenuation of that 
 course it may be said that he followed the example of many 
 worthy North Carolinians, among whom was Robert M. 
 Douglas, who for many years held important judicial appoint- 
 ments in North Carolina, culminating in his election in 1899 
 as justice of the Supreme Court of that vState. Boner served 
 as reading clerk of the North Carolina constitutional conven- 
 tion in 1868 and was chief clerk of the North Carolina house 
 of representatives in 1869-70. 
 
 But there were also other interests, and he tells how on a 
 still autumnal day, 
 
 "We walked among the whispering pines." 
 
 There it was his misfortune 
 
[3] 
 
 "To watch those fatal roses bloom 
 
 Upon her cheeks — red, cruel signs — 
 But all of love, not of the tomb, 
 
 We spoke among the whispering pines." 
 
 It was while in Raleigh that he learned to love her 
 
 . . . . "Unto whom I cleave 
 Loyally and do believe 
 Noblest type of womanhood." 
 
 And perhaps it was there that he wrote: 
 
 "Ah what a perfect night is this 
 For sauntering slowly hand in hand 
 Under moon-silvered leaves to stand 
 And touch lips brimming with a kiss, 
 
 "While the warm night air, rich with scent 
 Of white magnolia and red rose, 
 Through the low limbs above you bent.'' 
 
 His political experience seems to have been his undoing at 
 home, for he soon left his native State and entered the civil 
 service in Washington, where until 1886 he served in the 
 printing office, at first as a compositor and then as a proof- 
 reader. That he was appreciated by his associates is shown 
 by the fact that in 1878 he was president of Columbia Union, 
 No. loi, in which office "he showed executive ability and a 
 thorough knowledge of parliamentary practice, and he gave the 
 union a conservative and safe administration." 
 
 It was during these years that fame as a poet came to glad- 
 den his life. His verses of this period were of his own South- 
 land. 
 
 "So one who leaves his boyhood's home, 
 
 About the wretched world to roam. 
 
 Led off by visions born of hope 
 
 Inspired In^ \^outh's kaleidoscope, 
 
 Will often turn — his visions fled, 
 
 His hopes like storm-bent blossoms dead — 
 
 Toward that place of all the blest, 
 
 Old home, the haven of sweet rest." 
 
 Soon after the return of the democratic party to power Mr. 
 Boner, at the instigation of those who were not willing to for- 
 get his polical affiliations in his native State, was discharged 
 
[4] 
 
 from the government service on the ground of offensive parti- 
 sanship. 
 
 Meanwhile in 1883 his first book of poems entitled "Whisper- 
 ing Pines" was published in Washington, and the beauty of 
 many of his verses gained for him recognition and appreciation 
 from the literary men of the North, chief among whom was 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman, who has ever extended a friendly 
 hand to younger and worthy authors, and with whom he had 
 formed a pleasant acquaintance through correspondence. In 
 his "Poets of America," published in 1885, Stedman specially 
 mentions Boner in writing of Southern poets, and in describing 
 their work he saj^s, "that they open vistas of the life and 
 spirit of the region." Of no one is this truer than of Boner. 
 
 Learning of his having been removed from office, Mr. Sted- 
 man invited Boner to New York City, and soon secured con- 
 genial employment for him as one of the staff on the Century 
 Dictionary, then in course of preparation. For a time he aided 
 Mr. Stedman in his great I^ibrary of American Literature, and 
 of that service it is recorded "for the accuracy of the text we 
 are greatly indebted to the friendship and professional skill of 
 Mr. John H. Boner, of the Century Dictionary staff, who has 
 given much of his spare time to the correcting of our page- 
 proofs, and in other ways has been of service to the work." 
 
 With the change of scene came new inspirations and he 
 wrote a series of City Sonnets, among which is his "Broad- 
 way at Noon. ' ' That great thoroughfare he calls the "Niagara 
 of Streets," and he says: 
 
 "Not the roar 
 
 Of ocean on her wildest crags could drown 
 
 The tumult of this torrent; and the prey 
 
 Of tempests, were they cast upon the shore 
 
 From places where the wild w^aves drew them down 
 
 Could show no stranger wrecks than this Broadway." 
 
 Also of this period is his "Our American God, Hustle," 
 which opens with 
 
 "All things that follow nature's course take time" 
 
 and then 
 
 "The crime 
 
 Of haste is man's, who, trampling on law, pleads 
 God's ignorance of what the future needs." 
 
[5] 
 
 His best known poem is his "Poe's Cottage at Fordham," 
 which appeared in the Century Magazine in November, 1889. 
 I quote the last stanza: 
 
 "Here through this lowly portal, 
 Made sacred by his name, 
 Unheralded immortal 
 The mortal went and came. 
 And fate that then denied him, 
 And envy that decried him, 
 And malice that belied him. 
 Has cenotaphed his fame." 
 His Standing as a man of letters received futher recognition 
 by his election in 1888 to membership in the Authors Club in 
 New York. An honor well deserved and gladly conferred 
 upon him. 
 
 It may be interesting to recall that about this time Poe's 
 cottage was offered for sale and Boner enthusiastically dis- 
 cussed with the present writer the desirability of organizing a 
 Poe association which should have as its principal object the 
 purchase and preservation of that historic home, but after 
 careful deliberation it was decided that the project was not 
 feasible and the scheme was abandoned. 
 
 For a time he served as literary editor of the New York 
 World, and of that experience I recall a single incident. Pope 
 Leo was seriously ill and an obituary notice was needed at 
 once. Boner was assigned to the task and it was well on in 
 the morning before he finished it, but it was never used. 
 Boner himself was sleeping in his grave a year or more before 
 the final summons came to the venerable pontiff. 
 
 During the years 1892-94 he was connected with the edi- 
 torial staff of the Standard Dictionary. His experience and 
 excellent judgment made him a valuable addition to that force 
 of literary men. His desk for a portion of the time was 
 adjacent to my own and the friendship that ensued continued 
 till his death. It was at this period that he built the home on 
 Staten Island to which he gave the name of Cricket Lodge, 
 and he described it as 
 
 "But a lodge indeed— 
 
 Two end-gables, one end freed 
 Of a dormer- windowed deep 
 Rooftree— such where pigeons preen— 
 And the shingles stained moss-green." 
 
[6] 
 
 In this home, his own, 
 
 "On a green and breezy hill 
 Overlooking Arthur Kill 
 And the Orange Mountains blue 
 In their everchanging hue." 
 
 he had hoped to pass 
 
 "Life's declining j^ears 
 
 Happier than the past had been." 
 
 As his work on the Standard Dictionary approached com- 
 pletion its publishers recognizing his editorial ability placed 
 him in control of their well known publication The Literary 
 Digest over whose columns he continued in charge until 1897. 
 The improved character of that journal, due to his critical 
 judgment and excellent taste, soon became apparent and has 
 since been maintained. In addition to his regular duties he 
 prepared a valuable series of brief summaries of American 
 contemporar)^ poetry that attracted much notice. 
 
 Conspicuous among Boner's traits of character was that of 
 dogged persistence. He would not yield — he could not — and 
 so on a matter of no great importance he declined to agree 
 with his publishers, and rather than yield, he resigned from 
 his editorship. 
 
 Then came dark days and soon 
 
 "The wolf came sniffling at 013- door, 
 But the wolf had prowled on my track before, 
 And his sniff, sniff, sniff at my lodge door-sill 
 Only made me laugh at his devilish will." 
 
 Desultory literary work is not very remunerative, and w^hile 
 his poems found read}- acceptance with the Century Magazine, 
 and he contributed certain articles to such high-class publica- 
 tions as "Appleton's Annual Cyclopedia." still it was not long 
 before 
 
 "The time came when I laughed no more. 
 
 But glanced with fear at my frail lodge door, 
 
 For now I knew that the wolf at bay 
 
 Sooner or later would have his way." 
 
 But his cup was not yet full. Cricket I^odge — his only home 
 — had to be given up. Sickness followed and then with noth- 
 ing but his pride left there came 
 
[-] 
 
 "A crash, and mj door flew open wide, 
 My strength was not as the beast's at my side. 
 That night on my hearthstone cold and bare 
 He licked his paw and made his lair." 
 
 At last, broken in spirit and in health, he appealed to friends 
 in Washington asking that a place be found for him. A 
 decision of the Civil Ser\4ce Commission to the effect that 
 removal from government employ on the ground of "offensive 
 partisanship" prior to entrance in the service was invalid, 
 fortunately made it possible to restore him to his place as 
 proof-reader in the Government Printing Office. His literary 
 associates in New York — members of the Authors Club — were 
 successful in enlisting the powerful aid of Senator Depew, and 
 in the spring time of 1900 he was welcomed back to his desk 
 by many of his old colleagues. 
 
 It soon became apparent that his strength was not even 
 equal to the light work required of him and he began to fail 
 in health. The winter proved a severe one for him, and it 
 was evident that a complete rest was essential for the restora- 
 tion of his health. A small pamphlet entitled "Some New 
 Poems' ' selected from writings published chiefly in the Century 
 Magazine, subsequent to his "Whispering Pines" and most 
 kindly dedicated to the present writer ( "whose loyal friend- 
 ship has been a solace and a help to me in dark days"), fur- 
 nished the slender purse required for a few months visit to 
 North Carolina. 
 
 In May he wrote from the hospital where he had gone for 
 recuperation: "Am going South next week, if possible. In 
 bad shape. Doctor says consumption. " A few days and he 
 was able again to hear "the notes of the Southern mocking- 
 bird." 
 
 "But you must live in the South, 
 
 Where the clear moon kisses with large cool mouth 
 
 The land she loves, in the secret of the night. 
 
 To hear such music — the soul-delight, 
 Of the moon-loved land." 
 
 For a little more than six months he was happy in being 
 
 "Back in the Old North State, 
 
 Back to the place of his birth, 
 Back through the pines' colonnaded gate 
 
 To the dearest spot on earth. 
 
[8] 
 
 No s-vv'eeter joy can a star feel 
 
 When into the sky it thrills 
 Than the rapture that wings a Tar Heel 
 
 Come back to his native hills." 
 
 In the exuberance of his joy at being among his "loved 
 ones in mothernook" he wrote "The Wanderer Back Home" 
 of which the foregoing is the initial stanza. It was published 
 in the Charlotte, N. C, Observe}^, of December 15, 1901, and 
 onl)^ a few days before he sent the following message to his 
 comrades in Washington: "I am in bed again and am mortally 
 sick. Have a new doctor who tries to jolly me along." This 
 message came from Raleigh, where much of his time was 
 spent, and of which place he wrote facetiously years before : 
 "I feel quite at home in New York. It reminds me so much 
 of Raleigh." His visit was near at an end, and to his friends 
 "he spoke of how he loved Raleigh and its people and hoped 
 to spend his last days there," "but not thus the stern fates 
 would. ' ' 
 
 In January he returned to Washington and tersel}^ an- 
 nounced his arrival with " 'And the cat came back!' I go to 
 work tomorrow. ' ' 
 
 For a little while he was able to continue at his desk, but 
 it soon became apparent that for him 
 
 "Night is falling — gentlj' falling, and the silver stars are shining." 
 
 With pain that was severe and with suffering that was cruel 
 he struggled against the inevitable through the year with a 
 courage as noble as that shown by those immortal comrades 
 who fought through the Wilderness with Lee. And then in 
 March, 1902, the end came and he realized 
 
 "The bHss of that Eternal Rest 
 Emancipated souls must know." 
 
 For he found 
 
 "Reunion with the loved and lost, 
 
 Revealment of the Almighty cause. 
 The Unknowable made plain — the cost 
 
 Of knowledge fixed by wondrous laws." 
 
 Let me add one more stanza 
 
 "How^e'er it be, one thing I know: 
 
 There is a faith which hath sufficed 
 Men mourning in the land of woe — 
 
 A simple faith in Jesus Christ. 
 
[9] 
 
 Among his earlier poems — doubtlessly one written before he 
 left North Carolina — I find the following words : 
 
 "Where shall my grave be— will a stone 
 
 Be raised to mark awhile the spot, 
 
 Or will rude strangers, caring not, 
 Bury a man to them unknown?" 
 
 His associates and friends bore him to a lonely grave — as yet 
 unmarked — and there far from home and far from those he 
 loved he rests. In one of his sweetest poems he tells how 
 
 "The bells are ringing— Sabbath bells," 
 and then 
 
 "I hear 
 
 The old Moravian bell ring clear. 
 But see no more — tears fill my eyes," 
 
 and then the wish 
 
 "Where'er it be my fate to die, 
 Beneath those trees in whose dark shade 
 The first loved of ni}^ life are laid 
 
 I want to lie." 
 
 And What of the Man? I have tried to tell, in his ow^n 
 words, as far as possible, the story of the life of my friend 
 Boner, and my effort will not have been in vain if perchance 
 my poor endeavor finds favor among the men and women of 
 the Old North State he loved so loyally, and of whose beauties 
 he sung so sweetly, and it may be — I pray that it may be so — 
 that they may bring him home at last to rest in the little 
 Moravian s:ravevard in Salem. 
 
m