The Arkansaw traveler., 1888-02-04
'Dls the country ideal, where nothing is real,
 But everything only seems.

And we will sail out under starlIt sklesI
 To the land where the fairies dwell.
 Down the river of sleep our barque shall
 Till 1t reaches that my ystical Isle
 And there we will pause awhile.
 I will crOon you song as we nOat along
 To that shore that IS blessed of God,
 Then hol for that fair land we're of for that
 That beautiful Land of Nod"
 It is sad that her baby boy died, for she would make a lovely mother. Mrs. Wilcox was born in Wisconsin, in vine-clad cottage, ten miles from Madison, without influential friends, and of poor parents. She inherits her talent, as well as beauty, from her mother, who is said to possess rare beauty and grace of person, being brilliant conversationalist who charms all who have the pleasure of her &C., quaintance.
 In an autobiography, Mrs. Wilcox says: "With the wisdom of the world, our neighbors called me lazy dreamer who sat scribbling all day while her folks hired help to do the work ought to have done. The truth was, my pen paid servant to tighten my mothers labors, besides supporting myself. I knew nothing of the world as yet, nothing of human nature, nothing of myself even, yet with the assurance of youth and the boldness of ignorance, wrote of sor- rows, joys, passion, and emotion (which I have since experienced) with all the crudity and lack of art by which those poems are marred. They surprise me to-day by their truthfulness to oNhuman emotion. Af- forwards, in a time of great trouble and suffering, canre upon some of those early verses, and it seemed to me they voiced perfectly the travail through which my soul was passing. People of intellect, wealth and social position began to seek me out; invi- tations began to flow in upon me, to visit in the city houses. These visits increased my ambitions, and my ne- cessities. I saw how other people lived and dressed, and my desire for money excelled my love of art. was passionately fond of social pleas ures, and the desire of appearing in becoming toilet at party overcame my resolve to write only two poems in week. 1 wrote ten instead, and sacrificed art to fashion, and the next day, when I discovered that I had danced through my slippers, l wrote four more extremely faulty poems. But they purchased new pair of slippers and new pair of gloves. These are shocking confessions, but they are absolutely true, and 1 hope my brethren and sisteren,' who lis, en to these experiences of one who is partially reformed, will offer up prayers on my behalf. l am afraid you will say had no high ideal in art; that l placed purely commer- cial value on my gifts, and l am com- pelled to say, through my love of truth, it would be almost true. Yet l loved and gloried in my work. It was an ecstacy to me, and many a time have knelt in my little room under the sloping caves and fervently thanked God for the gifts that en- abled me to be such a help to my pa- rents."
 Can anything be more delightfully."- refreshing in these days of sham than the candor. of this little western girl? "I had ceased to expect any sudden success in literature when I published Poems of Passion The intense ex- citement the book caused, the hue and cry raised against its alleged immor- ality, and the consequently remarka- ble sales, were all stunning surprise to me. had written of human na- ture as had found it; I had no idea even that was saying anything un- usual. I meant to describe strong emotion strongly, and with truth. Born into this world absolutely with out caution, and blind faith in the good sense of people, l supposed the critics would say that I had written with force and fire and increased vigor, and with more finish than heretofore. It is curious fact that the loudest denunciation of the book came from people whose lives were the most immoral. They construed the poems from their own standpoint, l suppose. Since the publication of Poems of Passions,' have had more demands for my work than I could supply. When the newspapers an- nounced that my recent (and only) novel, Nal Maolee,' was finished, six publishing houses wrote me for the first reading of the manuscript"
 Was there ever person more criti- cized, abused and praised in the same breath than this little woman? It has been said of her writings, that they seemed to be possessed of a cer- tain something, combustible in their composition, that on striking outer air invaribly rends it with more or less
 O q lxasias, &kAIoaa s,x,N