It was now the last of May, and the intense heat induced me to go northward; indeed those who hope to enjoy a visit in that part of Texas must go at some time between the months of September and May, for during the remainder of the year the inhabitants do nothing but “try to keep cool.”

We stopped over one train at the beautiful town of Sherman, and then hurried on to St. Louis, where I found my old friend Mrs. Anderson, who, having visited Baltimore the previous summer, had learned all the particulars of the death of the beloved Superintendant of our Institution during my life there.

Mr. Charles H. Keener was the son of Christian Keener, the founder of Greenmount Cemetery of Baltimore, a sweet resting place which could fitly receive the appellation given their cemeteries by the Turks—­“A City of the Living.”  He was the brother of Bishop J.C.  Keener, of the Methodist Episcopal Church South, who is quite celebrated as a Divine.  His life was characterized by a succession of shining acts of self-sacrifice and affection, and his nature, so quiet and unobtrusive, shrunk so sensitively from ostentation, that greatness must have been “thrust upon him” ere he held a name emblazoned upon the roll of fame.  His character in contrast with publicly great men has been most graphically told by the German poet, who sang—­

    “One on earth in silence wrought,
    And his grave in silence sought;
    But the younger, brighter form,
    Passed in battle, and in storm.”

As the Superintendent of our Institution, he held the hearts of every inmate.  His younger brother, in a letter of response to some queries, said—­“He was an Engineer in the United States Navy during the War of the Rebellion, a devoted son, a true patriot, and an earnest Christian man.”  He was afterward stationed on the “Island of Navassa,” one of the West India Group, within one hundred miles of Cuba, and was acting as Superintendent of a Phosphate Company which owned, and worked the Island.  He had been there during eighteen months, when, in September, 1872, the yellow fever broke out in the Island.  After several weeks’ resistance he, too, succumbed to this terrible scourge, and, after a six days’ illness, died on the 9th of November, 1872.

His brother also feelingly makes mention of his last letter, written upon the day of his attack, as “a marvel of calm resignation.”  It runs thus:  “I am fast getting ready to be counted among the sick.  When you know I am really dead write to—­(here follow the names of many friends) and tell them to meet me in Heaven.  One by one we are passing over, why should we hesitate? why should I with no one to care for?  Surely I have seen trouble enough in this life!  May I feel as little dread of dying at the last moment as I do now.”

His last words were addressed to his second officer, who had been addicted to dissipation, but who had pledged himself to reform.  As he was carried out to look upon the sea which he loved so well, he said:  “Mawson, remember your pledge,” when his head immediately dropped and he entered into the life eternal.