d 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