McCreery and Bulwer-Lytton

As John Luckey McCreery wrote in a preface to a reluctantly-published collection of poetry, he never wrote poems for public consumption. Instead, he shared them only with his family and close friends. Imagine his surprise, however, when he heard one of his poems was read before the United States Congress.

As McCreery explained,the poem "There Is No Death" was written in late 1862. Encouraged by friends, he sent it to a Philadelphia newspaper, which published it the next summer. A reader from Illinois, identified only as "E. Bulmer," copied it an sent it to a newspaper in Chicago, which printed it with his name instead of McCreery's. In turn, a Wisconsin newspaper saw the same poem and though "E. Bulmer" was a typesetting error — and so, the poem became credited to Edward Bulwer-Lytton, the well-known English poet and novelist. It became immensely popular amid the Civil War and was reprinted throughout the next couple decades.

Nearly twenty years later, on January 31, 1880, McCreery was sitting in the visitors gallery during a meeting of the House of Representatives. Pennsylvania Congressman Alexander Hamilton Coffroth quoted a few lines in honor of a recently-deceased colleague, again noting its author as Bulwer-Lytton. It spurred him to finally respond and, with the help of friends advocating on his behalf, he proved his authorship.

McCreery eventually took the confusion all in stride. As he wrote, "Every reader can decide for himself whether this wide-spread popularity has its basis in the merits of the poem or in the celebrity of its supposed author." The poem:

There is no death! the stars go down
   To rise upon some other shore,
And bright in heaven's jewelled crown
   They shine for evermore.

There is no death! the forest leaves
   Convert to life the viewless air;
The rocks disorganize to feed
   The hungry moss they bear.

There is no death! the dust we tread
   Shall change, beneath the summer showers.
To golden grain, or mellow fruit,
   Or rainbow-tinted flowers.

There is no death! the leaves may fall,
   The flowers may fade and pass away—
They only wait, through wintry hours,
   The warm, sweet breath of May.

There is no death! the choicest gifts
   That heaven hath kindly lent to earth
Are ever first to seek again
   The country of their birth;

And all things that for growth or joy
   Are worthy of our love or care,
Whose loss has left us desolate,
   Are safely garnered there.

Though life become a desert waste,
   We know its fairest, sweetest flowers,
Transplanted into paradise,
   Adorn immortal bowers.

The voice of birdlike melody
   That we have missed and mourned so long
Now mingles with the angel choir
   In everlasting song.

There is no death! although we grieve
   When beautiful, familiar forms
That we have learned to love are torn
   From our embracing arms,—

Although with bowed and breaking heart,
   With sable garb and silent tread,
We bear their senseless dust to rest,
   And say that they are " dead,"—

They are not dead! they have but passed
   Beyond the mists that blind us here,
Into the new and larger life
   Of that serener sphere.

They have but dropped their robe of clay
   To put their shining raiment on;
They have not wandered far away,—
   They are not "lost," nor " gone."

Though disenthralled and glorified,
   They still are here and love us yet;
The dear ones they have left behind
   They never can forget.

And sometimes, when our hearts grow faint
   Amid temptations fierce and deep,
Or when the wildly raging waves
   Of grief or passion sweep,

We feel upon our fevered brow
   Their gentle touch, their breath of balm,
Their arms enfold us, and our hearts
   Grow comforted and calm.

And ever near us, though unseen,
   The dear, immortal spirits tread—
For all the boundless universe
   Is Life:—there are no dead!

Pike: the soul of the Universe

Albert Pike wrote two poems he titled "Love," one which he never republished and another which was reprinted posthumously by his family. The latter was first published in the Boston Pearl on January 30, 1836. In it, "Love" tells its own story of how great a role it plays:

I am the soul of the Universe,
        In Nature's pulse I beat;
To Doom and Death I am a curse,
        I trample them under my feet.

Creation's every voice is mine,
        I breathe in its every tone;
I have in every heart a shrine,
        A consecrated throne.

The whisper that sings in the summer leaves,
        The hymn of the star-lit brook,
The martin that nests in the ivied eaves,
        The dove in his shaded nook,

The quivering heart of the blushing flower,
        The thick Aeolian grass,
The harmonies of the summer shower,
        The south wind's soft, sweet mass,

The psalm of the great grave sea,—are mine;
        The cataract's thunder tongue,
The monody of the mountain pine,
        Moaning the cliffs among.

I kiss the snowy breasts of the maiden,
        And they thrill with a new delight;
While the crimson pulses flush and redden,
        Along the forehead's white.

I fill the restless heart of the boy,
        As a sphere is filled with fire,
Till it quivers and trembles with hope and joy,
        Like the strings of a golden lyre.

I touch the poet's soul with my wing,
        It yields to my magic power,
And the songs of his mighty passions ring,
        Till the world is full of the shower.

The heart of the soldier bows to me,
        His arms aside are flung,
Unheeded the wild sublimity
        Of the silver trumpet's tongue.

I brood on the soul like a golden thrush,
        My music to it clings,
And its purple fountains throb and flush,
        In the crimson light of my wings.

Deep in a lovely woman's soul
        I love to build my throne,
For the harmonies that through it roll
        Are the echoes of one tone.

The sounds of its many perfect strings
        Have but one key-note ever,
Its passions are the thousand springs,
        All flowing to one river.

Interestingly, Pike (pictured above in Masonic regalia) was born in Massachusetts and it was in Boston that he published his first works. Nevertheless, he is more associated with Arkansas, where he lived for many years and was a member of the Confederacy.

Music did not sing as poets say she sung

The Harvard Musical Association was founded in Boston in 1837 by John Sullivan Dwight, a minister, former Brook Farmer, editor, and musical critic. On January 28, 1874, the annual dinner of the Association was held at the historic Parker House in Boston. The evening included a poem by Christopher Pearse Cranch (pictured). A friend of Dwight's, Cranch was an artist and musician as well as a poet. Years earlier, both were also in the same circle of Transcendentalists. Cranch's poetic contribution to the dinner was the simply titled "Music":

When "Music, Heavenly Maid," was very young,
She did not sing as poets say she sung.
Unlike the mermaids of the fairy tales,
She paid but slight attention to her scales.
Besides, poor thing! she had no instruments
But such as rude barbaric art invents.

In those early days, Cranch writes, there were no well-known instrument makers like Steinway or Chickerings — in fact, many instruments did not yet exist. After all, "Music was then an infant." Other arts developed more quickly, including painting and architecture.

But she, the Muse who in these latter days
Lifts us and floats us in the golden haze
Of melodies and harmonies divine,
And steeps our souls and senses in such wine
As never Ganymede nor Hebe poured
For gods, when quaffing at the Olympian board, —
She, Heavenly Maid, must ply her music thin,
And sit and thrum her tinkling mandolin,
Chant her rude staves, and only prophesy
Her far-off days of immortality.

Like Cinderella waiting for her prince, Music sits idly somewhat impatiently. As "the years and centuries rolled on," slowly the world of music grew and new instruments evolved:

But every rare and costly instrument
That skill can fabricate or art invent, —
Pianos, organs, viols, horns, trombones,
Hautboys, and clarinets with reedy tones,
Boehm-flutes and cornets, bugles, harps, bassoons,
Huge double-basses, kettle-drum half-moons,
And every queer contrivance made for tunes.

Through these the master-spirits round her throng,
And Europe rings with instruments and song.
Through these she breathes her wondrous symphonies,
Enchanting airs, and choral litanies.
Through these she speaks the word that never dies,
The universal language of the skies.
Around her gather those who held their art
To be of life the clearest, noblest part.

The great composers, like Handel, Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven (chief of all) swarm to her in long processions of, as Cranch writes, "the lords of Tone," who come to attend her "like a queen enthroned."

Ah! greater than all words of mine can say,
The heights, the depths, the glories, of that sway.
No mortal tongue can bring authentic speech
Of that enchanted world beyond its reach;
No tongue but hers, when, lifted on the waves
Of Tone and Harmony, beyond the graves
Of all we lose, we drift entranced away
Out of the discords of the common day;
And she, the immortal goddess, on her breast
Lulls us to visions of a sweet unrest,
Smiles at the tyrannies of time and space,
And folds us in a mother's fond embrace,
Till, sailing on upon that mystic sea,
We feel that Life is Immortality.

Dickinson and the modern consciousness

Because only a few of her poems were published during her lifetime, Emily Dickinson was not a major figure in American literature in the 19th century. Her first book of poems was published four years after her death in 1890, though they were heavily edited. The public (and critics) were suddenly interested, partly because of the poet's reputation as a recluse and partly because of how she played with standard syntax and punctuation. New editions were put out in rapid succession.

In fact, this turn-of-the-century curiosity was not restricted merely to the United States. The January 27, 1905 issue of the Manchester Guardian noted:

The place of Emily Dickinson among poets is not yet definitely fixed, but the fact that a seventeenth edition of her Poems has appeared shows that in spite of her disregard of form her thoughts appeal to the modern consciousness... This quality may secure remembrance, for some of her work will pass into the common inheritance.

The Guardian disagreed with Dickinson's posthumous promoter Thomas Wentworth Higginson that her work was similar to that of William Blake ("beyond originality they have little in common"). In fact, the Guardian was right in noting the appeal to "modern" consciousness; Dickinson's unique style of poetry was a turning point for poetry and today she is considered among the first "modern" poets — in part due to her willingness to play with standard rules of the language. Still, the newspaper's hesitation in predicting her longevity did allow that some day she would be anthologized alongside Blake's "The Lamb," particularly singling out this poem (as it appeared at the time):

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain:
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

*Some of the information for this post comes from Emily Dickinson's Reception in the 1890s: A Documentary History (1989) by Willis J. Buckingham.

Birth of Dawes: his heart is always young

Born in Boston on January 26, 1803, Rufus Dawes was the youngest of sixteen children. His family for generations had been important politicians, patriots, and judges. A teenaged Rufus, however, was kicked out of Harvard College for what turned out to be a false accusation of impropriety. Nevertheless, the incident pushed him into poetry — his first verses were a satire on the college and faculty that had scorned him.

During his lifetime, Dawes was most recognized for his long poem Geraldine. His poems are generally highly-wrought, often focused on themes of romance, history, nature, or mythology. Among his most tolerable is "The Poet":

The poet's heart is always young,
   And flows with love's unceasing streams;
Oh, many are the lays unsung,
   Yet treasured with his dreams!

The spirits of a thousand flowers,—
   The loved,—the lost, — his heart enshrine;
The memory of blessed hours,
   And impulses divine.

Like water in a crystal urn,
   Sealed up forever, as a gem,
That feels the sunbeams while they burn,
   But never yields to them; —

His heart may fire —his fevered brain
   May kindle with concentrate power,
But kind affections still remain
   To gild his darkest hour.

The world may chide — the heartless sneer, —
   And coldly pass the Poet by,
Who only sheds a sorrowing tear
   O'er man's humanity.

From broken hearts and silent grief,
   From all unutterable scorn,
He draws the balm of sweet relief,
   For sufferers yet unborn.

His lyre is strung with shattered strings, —
   The heart-strings of the silent dead, —
Where memory hovers with her wings,
   Where grief is canopied.

And yet his heart is always young,
   And flows with love's unceasing streams;
Oh, many are the lays unsung,
   And treasured with his dreams!

Birth of Edith Wharton

It was 150 years ago today that the "grand dame" of American letters, Edith Wharton was born. Upon her birth in New York City on January 24, 1862, her given name was Edith Jones; she later married Edward "Teddy" Wharton. Though they eventually divorced, she kept the married name. Her identity, she recalled later in her 1934 autobiography A Backward Glance, was born shortly after her more literal birth:

It was on a bright day of midwinter, in New York. The little girl who eventually became me, but as yet was neither me nor anybody else in particular, but merely a soft anonymous morsel of humanity — this little girl, who bore my name, was going for a walk with her father. The episode is literally the first thing I can remember about her, and therefore I date the birth of her identity from that day.

Today, Wharton is particularly remembered for novels like The House of Mirth (1905) and Ethan Frome (1911); her 1920 novel The Age of Innocence earned her the Pulitzer Prize, making her the first woman recipient of that award. Earlier, however, her first published work was a book on interior design, The Decoration of Houses (1897), which she co-authored with Ogden Codman. Her first work of fiction, perhaps surprisingly, was a book of poetry, simply titled Verses. The book was self-published in 1878 when she was still a teenager, subsidized by her mother. In addition to her writing on interior design, her novels, and her poetry, she also wrote short stories. One of her longest is "Bunner Sisters." Like many of her works, the tale subtly comments on social class, society, and women's roles and relationships. Here is a portion of a birthday scene:

"Why, Ann Eliza," she exclaimed, in a thin voice pitched to chronic fretfulness, "what in the world you got your best silk on for?"

..."Why, Evelina, why shouldn't I, I sh'ld like to know? Ain't it your birthday, dear?" She put out her arms with the awkwardness of habitually repressed emotion...

"Oh, pshaw," she said, less peevishly. "I guess we'd better give up birthdays. Much as we can do to keep Christmas nowadays."

"You hadn't oughter say that, Evelina. We ain't so badly off as all that. I guess you're cold and tired. Set down while I take the kettle off: it's right on the boil."

She pushed Evelina toward the table..."Why, Ann Eliza!" Evelina stood transfixed by the sight of the parcel beside her plate... The younger sister had rapidly untied the string, and drawn from its wrappings a round nickel clock of the kind to be bought for a dollar-seventy-five.

"Oh, Ann Eliza, how could you?" She set the clock down, and the sisters exchanged agitated glances across the table.

"Well," the elder retorted, "ain't it your birthday?"

*Recommended reading: Edith Wharton (2008) by Hermione Lee.

Dawson on O'Brien: time should not assail

Though born in Ireland, Fitz James O'Brien moved to the United States in the early 1850s and considered it his adopted home. He soon began contributing poems and short stories to various journals and newspapers, bringing him in association with the Bohemians in New York who frequented the famous literary/artistic circle at Pfaff's.

O'Brien's literary life was cut short by the American Civil War; his brief stint in the Union Army ended with a mortal wound in 1862. A quarter century later, O'Brien was honored in a poem by Daniel Lewis Dawson. "Uncrowned" is dated January 23, 1887:

While the round sun forgets its noonday glare,
       And following after clouds the evening comes,
And sounds of city feet more fleetly fare
       To some kind haven, in the town of homes,
I stop to look along these shabby walls,
       And almost naked floor, I claim as mine.
No priceless hanging to the wainscot falls,
       No marvels painted out of oil divine
Look at this sad, worn, weary face with love.
       Only a rug or twain lies here or there,
And from its case peeps out a boxing-glove.
       I see the long black easel's horns still wear
My colors,—black and gold. Above the bed,
       Dusk Cleopatra foils the folded snake
That drives across her golden thigh its head,
       And the strange love-dreams in her eyes awake;
And on the other wall, Lucretia, slim,
       Beautiful, bare except of gauzy veil
That cannot hide the shapely breast and limb
       And those wild eyes that time should not assail.

The poem — thick with allusions to folklore, mythology, and history — is Dawson's response to a story O'Brien often told that he was descended from a heroic chief prophesied to rule the Ithians in Ireland for eternity. In "a ruined castle by an Irish sea," the speaker hears Cleena (queen of the Banshees in Irish folklore) is sad and "calling for her king." He alludes to the holder of the pen, a writer who follows Shakespeare, Morris, and Ovid as well as the Bible. This figure "serves" the Queen of Song, uncomplainingly compelled into the service of writing. But, he is destined for more:

Scant in her favor, but I serve her still;
       The measure of my toil is incomplete;
She drapes these bare walls at her fickle will,
       To fill me with her presence over-sweet.
Ah, mighty mother, I have drunk thy milk!
       I cannot turn me from thy service now.
A priest forever, robed in rag or silk,
       According to Melchisedec, my vow
Calls me to worship on the bended knee,
       And such Gregorian chanted melodies
Should rise upon a western slope to thee,
       As once, more virile, by the Grecian seas,
Saner and worthier than these weaker words,
       And fuller of the pictured thought of gods
Who dwelt 'mid trees, and watched the moving herds,
       And saw those nymphs divine on Delian sods,
Who loved, ah me! who loved in greater wise,
       With stronger bodies, in a fairer clime,
Beneath the beauty of Idalian skies
       And in the fair creation of a time.

Futile belike my toil, my theme, my song;
       Wasted my effort, incomplete my toil;
And in the turf cast with a larger throng,
       My works and I shall be Time's common spoil.
But on these western ways my days endure,
       And from yon castle ruined by the sea
The spirit warders of a life secure
       Call o'er the white waves, calling faithfully:
"Cease not, O kinsman, till the toil be done;
       Saint Kieran gave us rule for evermore;
Our names are now unknown beneath the sun;
       A barren sceptre in our hands we bore;
But you, you have not asked for land or power,
       Or gold, or much of love or anything,
And thus you gain the guerdon from this hour,
       That you, not we, henceforward shall be King."

The earth for his pillow, his curtain the skies

Sarah Louisa Forten published only a couple handfuls of poems, usually inspired by her anti-slavery leanings. Among her earliest known works is "The Grave of the Slave," published in William Lloyd Garrison's abolitionist newspaper The Liberator on January 22, 1831. In much of her work, Forten plays with the humanity of her subjects despite their inhumane treatment. In this poem, she assets that death for an enslaved person is a substitute for true freedom:

The cold storms of winter shall chill him no more,
His woes and his sorrows, his pains are all o'er;
The sod of the valley now covers his form,
He is safe in his home at last, he feels not the storm.

The poor slave is laid all unheeded and lone,
Where the rich and the poor find a permanent home;
Not his master can rouse him with voice of command;
He knows not, he hears not, his cruel demand.

Not a tear, not a sigh to embalm his cold tomb,
No friend to lament him, no child to bemoan;
Not a stone marks the place, where he peacefully lies,
The earth for his pillow, his curtain the skies.

Poor slave! shall we sorrow that death was thy friend,
The last, and the kindest, that heaven could send?
The grave to the weary is welcomed and blest;
And death, to the captive, is freedom and rest.

Death of Prentice: though I am far away

The accounts of George D. Prentice's death in 1870 are unclear; contemporary sources say he died on January 21, others list his death as January 22. His grave is marked as January 20. Either way, it was pneumonia that ended his life at the age of 68.

Though born in Connecticut, Prentice remains much more associated with Kentucky, where he served as editor of the Louisville Journal for most of his life (it eventually merged with the Courier). A graduate of Brown University (where he was tutored by Horace Mann), he practiced law only briefly before turning to journalism. His writings were so satirical and caustic that he was invited to write the campaign biography of Henry Clay. He served minor roles with various newspapers before he published the first issue of the Louisville Journal in 1830. His reputation was soon made, thanks to his biting wit — particularly in response to critics or to his competitors. To quote a couple:

The editor of the —— says more villainy is on foot. We suppose the editor has lost his horse.

The editor of the —— speaks of his 'lying curled up in bed these cold mornings.' This verifies what we said of him some time ago—'he lies like a dog.'

After his death, Prentice's body laid in state at a Masonic temple (he was a long-standing member of the Masons) before his burial at Cave Hill Cemetery. Efforts were soon made to memorialize Prentice. The resulting statue, dedicated in 1912, today sits across from the Louisville Public Library. Its existence remains controversial (and not only because it is somewhat unflattering); Prentice was also a bigoted, anti-immigrant, anti-Catholic advocate. He was also a poet, and John James Piatt edited a posthumous collection of his complete poems. Included in that collection was "The Parting":

The signal from the distant strand
   Streams o'er the waters blue—
It bids me press thy parting hand,
   And breathe my last adieu;
But oft on fancy's glowing wing
   My heart will love to stray,
And still to thee with rapture spring,
   Though I am far away.

With thee I've wandered oft to hear,
   On Summer's quiet eves,
The wild-bird's music, soft and clear,
   Borne through the whispering leaves,
Or see the moon's bright shadow laid
   Upon the waveless bay:
Those eves—their memory can not fade,
   Though I am far away.

My life may feel Hope's withering blight,
   Yet Fancy's tearful eye
Will turn to thee—the dearest light .
   In retrospection's sky;
And still the memory of our love,
   While life was young and gay,
Will sweetly o'er my spirit move,
   Though I am far away.

'T is hard, when Spring's first flower expands,
   To pass it coldly by,
Or see upon the desert sands
   The gem unheeded lie;
The gentle thoughts that bless the hours
   Of love can ne'er decay,
And thou wilt live in memory's bowers,
   Though I am far away.

The sun has sunk, with fading gleam,
   Down evening's shadowy vale,
But see—his softened glories stream
   From yonder crescent pale;
And thus affection's chastened light
   Will memory still display,
To gild the gloom of sorrow's night,
   Though I am far away.

The Sea-Wolf: Then everything happened

After having signed up just over a week earlier, a teenaged Jack London shipped out from San Francisco aboard the Sophia Sutherland on January 20, 1893. The sealing expedition was bound for Japan and many experiences on board were later translated into The Sea-Wolf, a novel which London published in 1904, the year after his more famous book The Call of the Wild.

The Sea-Wolf features a character named Humphrey van Weydon, nicknamed "Sissy" for his lack of masculinity. A gentleman and occasional literary critic with a substantial inheritance, van Weydon starts the story aboard a ferry, living a calm, boring upper-class life. "Then everything happened, and with inconceivable rapidity": his ship is destroyed and he is cast adrift before blacking out in the cold water.

When he awakens, he is aboard a sealing vessel named Ghost. Within moments, he witnesses the callous removal of the dead first mate, who is unceremoniously cast into the sea (London himself witnessed a similar burial at sea aboard the Sophia Sutherland). Another crew member is promoted in his place, leaving room for "Hump," as the protagonist is now renamed — though his membership in the crew is not voluntary. The captain, described as a gorilla or tiger (or later, "devil"), is Wolf Larsen, a powerhouse of a man who takes Hump under his wing. Throughout the book, the two debate "immortality" versus "materialism"; the human soul versus animalistic survival instincts; the nature of manhood and masculinity. According to the captain:

"I believe that life is a mess... It is like yeast, a ferment, a thing that moves and may move for a minute, an hour, a year, or a hundred years, but that in the end will cease to move. The big eat the little that they may continue to move, the strong eat the weak that they may retain their strength. The lucky eat the most and move the longest, that is all."

Wolf Larsen is, without doubt, one of the most horrifically compelling characters in American literature. He is manipulative, cruel, intense, and unstoppable. Soon enough, Hump sees his old "sissy" nature being replaced by one closer to Wolf Larsen's image, at the same time gaining power and influence (as well as animosity) aboard the Ghost. Both allies and enemies, the tension between the two never ends and the reader of The Sea-Wolf is in constant fear that one will kill the other. Contemporary Gilded Age readers were shocked by the violence, cruelty, and nihilistic philosophical debate; readers today might feel equally shocked and equally enthralled. As Hump describes to a newcomer aboard the Ghost:

"You must understand... and understand clearly, that this man is a monster. He is without conscience. Nothing is sacred to him, nothing is too terrible for him to do. It was due to his whim that I was detained aboard in the first place. It is due to his whim that I am still alive. I do nothing, can do nothing, because I am a slave to this monster."

Harris: Ole Satun is loose

Joel Chandler Harris was not among the first American authors to write with an authentic dialect, nor was he the first to try it out in the form of vernacular poetry. Nevertheless, the Georgia-born author is remembered for his "Uncle Remus" stories employing the style which defined him. His first attempt at dialect in poetry is "Revival Hymn," published in the Constitution for January 18, 1877. It was soon reprinted, particularly in Southern newspapers, occasionally with the variation on the title "Revival Song," and was later set to music. It also inspired at least one attempt at a copy of the style but the critics quickly judged it as sub-par to Harris's own work.

Oh, whar shill we go w'en de great day comes,
Wid de blowin' er de trumpits en de bangin' er de drums?
How many po' sinners'll be kotched out late
En fine no latch ter de golden gate?
No use fer ter wait twel ter-morrer!
De sun musn't set on yo' sorrer,
Sin's ez sharp ez a bamboo-brier—
Oh, Lord! fetch de mo'ners up higher!

W'en de nashuns er de earf is a stan'in all aroun,
Who's a gwineter be choosen fer ter w'ar de glory-crown?
Who's a gwine fer ter stan' stiff-kneed en bol'
En answer to der name at de callin' er de roll?
You better come now ef you comm—
Ole Satun is loose en a bummin'—
De wheels er distruckshun is a hummin'—
Oh, come long, sinner, ef you comin'!

De song er salvashun is a mighty sweet song,
En de Pairidise win' blow fur en blow strong,
En Aberham's bosom, hit's saft en hit's wide,
En right dar's de place whar de sinners oughter hide!
Oh, you nee'nter be a stoppin' en a lookin';
Ef you fool wid ole Satun you'l git took in;
Youil hang on de aidge en get shook in,
Ef you keep on a stoppin' en a lookin'.

De time is right now, en dish yer's de place—
Let de sun er salvashun shine squar' in yo' face;
Fight de battles er de Lord, fight soon en fight late,
En you'll allers fine a latch ter de golden gate.
No use fer ter wait twel ter-morrer,
De sun musn't set on yo' sorrer—
Sin's ez sharp ez a bamboo-brier,
Ax de Lord fer ter fetch you up higher!

* For information in this post, I am particularly indebted to Brer Rabbit, Uncle Remus, and the 'Cornfield Journalist': The Tale of Joel Chandler Harris (2000) by Walter M. Brasch.

Death of Bancroft: a world of truth

George Bancroft was 90 years old when he died in Washington, D.C., on January 17, 1891. Though his most well-known role was probably as the Secretary of the Navy, appointed by President James K. Polk, he was also an author. His writings are almost exclusively focused on the history of the United States and in that field he was highly regarded.

He also wrote an essay called "The Last Moments of Eminent Men" (1834), in which he described advice on dying mostly from famous political leaders and writers. He begins by stating his disagreement with Lord Byron that heaven prefers the young. Instead, he says, that "length of days" is desirable and, further, that "gray hairs are a crown of glory: the only object of respect that can never excite envy." By then, Bancroft suggests, ambition transitions to observation, and an old man can be satisfied with their experience, and the happy man always wishes to prolong life.

Even so, Bancroft notes, despite this love for life, one need not look at death "with abjectness." He refers to the bravery of soldiers or of sailors who venture into stormy seas as a sign that death can be faced with courage. His essay further discusses deathbed superstitions, those who seek death through suicide, and men who vainly build their monuments while yet living. The essay, really, talks about the value of life and the peace of death. Bancroft concludes with a paragraph dedicated to people like himself:

A tranquil death becomes the man of science, or the scholar. He should cultivate letters to the last moment of life; he should resign public honors as calmly as one would take off a domino on returning from a mask. He should listen to the signal for his departure, not with exultation, and not with indifference. Respecting the dread solemnity of the change, and reposing in hope on the bosom of death, he should pass without boldness and without fear, from the struggles of inquiry to the certainty of knowledge, from a world of doubt to a world of truth.

Elia W. Peattie: from the thrall of the forest

Elia Wilkerson Cahill was born in Kalamazoo, Michigan on January 15, 1862. As a child, she and her family (including four sisters) moved to Chicago. She stopped her schooling in sixth grade and became a typesetter in her father's print shop. After her 1883 marriage to Robert Burns Peattie, she became more involved in the literary scene. Under the name Elia W. Peattie, she became the art and society editor for the Chicago Tribune, later worked for a newspaper in Nebraska, and contributed to various journals and magazines. By the end of her life, she was a published journalist, short story writer, poet, novelist, and playwright.

Among her works is the short story "Michigan Man," and it is tempting to consider the work a reflection on her own life. The story follows Luther Dallas, an experienced "axe-man" who has spent 25 years of his 40-year life among the solemn pine trees of Michigan. The setting is a depressing one, described as "perennial gloom," but which allows a quiet, peaceful solitude.

More importantly, Luther is good at his job chopping down trees with the skills "of an executioner." He had no knowledge of the "progress" that inspired him to take so many lives, yet he feared a tree would some day return the favor. Sure enough, a large tree nearly crushes him and, in need of time to recover, he travels to Chicago to find his sister. Once there, however, the city confuses him and leaves him in a daze. He misses the solitude of the woods, but feels equally alone surrounded by tall, menacing buildings. He runs out of money and is sent to jail, still seriously injured from the tree. The lack of humanity in the urban environment is emphasized by the tale's closing lines:

The next morning the lock-up keeper opened the cell door. Luther lay with his head in a pool of blood. His soul had escaped from the thrall of the forest.

"Well, well!" said the little fat police justice, when he was told of it. "We ought to have a doctor around to look after such cases."

Howells and Webb: safe-harbored!

After the publication of Vagrom Verse by Charles Henry Webb, critics were quick to praise the well-established New York writer. The influential William Dean Howells wrote to Webb (who occasionally used the pen name "John Paul") just how much respect he earned by the book's publication. In a letter dated January 14, 1889, Howells wrote to Webb:

The low standard of literature in Boston may be guessed from the following paragraph out of the Transcript: —

"No book of poems has touched the people's heart for a long time like Charles Henry Webb's (John Paul) 'Vagrom Verse,' from which we copied 'Alec Dunham's Boat' the other day.

Webb already had a long career in the literary world, including serving as an editor in California for a time (his writers included Mark Twain and Bret Harte). Some of his work was humorous (including his dedication to Vagrom Verse, which included the lines, "I dedicate my verse to those / Who really do not like my prose"), though much was serious. The poem which Howells referenced, "Alec Dunham's Boat," got a fair amount of attention.

There she lies at her moorings,
    The little two-master,
Answering not now
    The call of disaster.
Loose swings the rudder,
    Unshipped the tiller;
Crossing the Bar so,
    One sea would fill her!

Foresail and mainsail
    In loose folds are lying:
Naked the mast-heads —
    No pennon flying;
Seaweed and wreck
    Alike may drift past her;
There lies the pilot-boat —
    Where is her master?

Lantern at Great Point,
    Brightly it burns;
Beacon on Brant Point
    The signal returns.
Far out to sea
    Sankoty flashes;
White on the shore
    The crested wave dashes.

Strident No'th-easter
    And smoky Sou'-wester
Call for the pilot-boat,
    Eager to test her.
And a ship on the Bar,
    Just where the waves cast her!
Moored lies the pilot-boat —
    Where is her master?

Oh, barque driving in,
    God send that you lee get,
Past Tuckernuck shoals,
    The reefs of Muskeget.
There go minute guns;
    Now faster and faster —
But no more to their aid
    Flies the little two-master.

For the pilot one night
    Left his boat as you see her —
Light moored, that at signal
    He ready might free her.
But not from her moorings
    Came the pilot to cast her,
Though a signal he answered —
    One set by the Master.

Gone, say you, and whither?
    Do you ask me which way
Went good pilot as ever
    Brought ship into bay?
Who shall say how he cast off,
    If to starboard or larboard?
But of one thing I'm sure —
    The pilot's safe-harbored!

Birth of Horatio Alger, Jr.

Horatio Alger, Jr. was born in Chelsea, Massachusetts on January 13, 1832. Today, he is remembered for two things: the "Ragged Dick" series which virtually invented the "rags-to-riches" story, and "unnatural familiarity with boys."

A graduate of Harvard College and member of Phi Beta Kappa, Alger became a journalist and teacher before returning to Harvard to attend its Divinity School. Publishing occasional poems, tales, and novels, his full-time minister job was in Brewster, Massachusetts, in the center of Cape Cod. About two years later, in 1866, Alger was forced to resign. It was later revealed that the parish found his relationship with some of the boys in the congregation was a "gross immorality." He moved to New York to start anew.

No further accusations were ever made against Alger, but his writing began to follow a very specific pattern. The first was his 1867 novel Ragged Dick; or, Street Life in New York with the Boot Blacks. In Alger's fiction, the main character, always a boy, rises from poverty through hard work and moral behavior (though, in reality, few of his characters became supremely wealthy, they were financially comfortable; furthermore, most had a benefactor who assisted them monetarily). By the end of the 19th century, he had written over 100 novels following this theme. Some scholars today suggest his prolific yet formulaic output was to make up for his prior misdeeds.

The first physical description of the shoe-shining Ragged Dick gives an idea not only of his look, but his cleverness:

His pants were torn in several places, and had apparently belonged in the first instance to a boy two sizes larger than himself. He wore a vest, all the buttons of which were gone except two, out of which peeped a shirt which looked as if it had been worn a month. To complete his costume he wore a coat too long for him, dating back, if one might judge from its general appearance, to a remote antiquity.

Washing the face and hands is usually considered proper in commencing the day, but Dick was above such refinement. He had no particular dislike to dirt, and did not think it necessary to remove several dark streaks on his face and hands. But in spite of his dirt and rags there was something about Dick that was attractive. It was easy to see that if he had been clean and well dressed he would have been decidedly good-looking. Some of his companions were sly, and their faces inspired distrust; but Dick had a frank, straight-forward manner that made him a favorite.

Dick's business hours had commenced. He had no office to open. His little blacking-box was ready for use, and he looked sharply in the faces of all who passed, addressing each with, "Shine yer boots, sir?"

"How much?" asked a gentleman on his way to his office.

"Ten cents," said Dick, dropping his box, and sinking upon his knees on the sidewalk, nourishing his brush with the air of one skilled in his profession

"Ten cents! Isn't that a little steep?"

"Well, you know 'taint all clear profit," said Dick, who had already set to work. "There's the slacking costs something, and I have to get a new brush pretty often."

"And you have a large rent too," said the gentleman quizzically, with a glance at a large hole in Dick's coat.

"Yes, sir," said Dick, always ready to joke...

"What tailor do you patronize?" asked the gentleman, surveying Dick's attire.

"Would you like to go to the same one?" asked Dick, shrewdly.

"Well, no; it strikes me that he didn't give you a very good fit."

Jack London: the reign of primitive law

On January 12, 1876, Flora Wellman gave birth to a son (it is unclear if she was married at the time, or if William Chaney was or was not the boy's father). After injuring herself, she left the baby with a caretaker until after her second marriage, when she took him back and re-named him Jack London.

London's most famous book was certainly The Call of the Wild (1903), a story of Alaskan adventures told through the eyes of a dog named Buck. London originally planned it to be a short story of about 4,000 words but it quickly became a novel. Full of both pathos and violence, the book was a gritty and dark look at the nature of both man and beast:

He was beaten (he knew that), but he was not broken. He saw, once for all, that he stood no chance against a man with a club. He had learned the lesson, and in all his afterlife he never forgot it. That club was a revelation. It was his introduction to the reign of primitive law... The facts of life took on a fiercer aspect, and while he faced that aspect uncowed, he faced it with all the latent cunning of his nature aroused. (From Chapter 1)

The work was first published by the Saturday Evening Post, which paid the cash-strapped London $750. When printed in book form, Macmillan publishers worried about taking a risk on the relatively unknown writer. Instead of offering royalties, they paid London $2,000 outright. When it became a huge success, London made no additional money.

But when still a teenager, London already had cash problems — that and a need for adventure propelled him to sea. On his 17th birthday, January 12, 1893, he acquired a space on board the schooner Sophie Sutherland, bound for Japan to hunt seals. Already known locally as a bit of a ne'er-do-well with a drinking problem, London set sail about a week later. This experience inspired the next novel he published in his own name after The Call of the Wild. He named this one The Sea-Wolf, published in 1904.

*I must acknowledge a debt to James L. Haley, who provided some of the information in this post in his 2010 book Wolf: The Lives of Jack London.

Prescott: I have kept my resolve

It wasn't quite a New Year's resolution that propelled William Hickling Prescott forward in writing his history of Peru — it was a bet. His friend Edmund B. Otis had wagered $50 that Prescott could not write 100 pages in 100 days. After that 100 days was over, the bet was renewed for another 100 days until writing was finished.

But it was not mere laziness that was slowing down the project. "If I can once get in harness and work I shall do well," Prescott wrote, "but my joints are stiff, I think, as I grow old." The bet was his motivation. "Shame on me if I fail."

On January 11, 1846, a journal entry gives an update on his progress: "A miracle — I have kept my resolve thus far and been industrious three whole days! Now, meliora spero." (Translation: "I am better"). By then, Prescott was only 49 years old, but not in the best health. His eyes were always a concern. After an accident while a student at Harvard, he had lost sight in one eye and too much work left him blind in the other one as well.

Prescott's efforts were also hampered by a lack of interest in his subject, which he concluded was "second-rate." Still, he worked hard. By April, he admitted the book's "great defect is want of unity." He hoped the book would read like an adventure tale alone the lines of the Iliad, though he earlier warned himself, "It would not be decent, nor politic, to turn out histories like romances." Finally, in 1847, Prescott's History of the Conquest of Peru was published in two volumes. I haven't found for sure how much Otis paid him for its completion.

Campbell: beneath the sun's eclipse

The death of African-American poet and author Alfred Gibbs Campbell was recorded as January 9, 1884. During his life, he was an advocate of temperance, religious individualism, as well as civil rights for both blacks and women. His most famous role was as editor of The Alarm Bell, the newspaper he founded which lasted only about 15 months from 1851 to 1852. The newspaper was published in Paterson, New Jersey; Campbell's three decades later was in Newark. His poems were collected into a complete edition just a few months before his death — including his powerful Independence Day poem, "Lines" (1855):

Wake not again the cannon's thundrous voice,
Nor to the breeze throw out the stars and stripes;
'Tis not the time to revel and rejoice
Beneath the shadow of our nation's types —
Types of her ancient glory, present shame.
The stars have faded of her old renown,
For Liberty is but an empty name,
While Slavery wields the sceptre, wears the crown.

In verse, Campbell echoes sentiments which Frederick Douglass had expressed only a few years earlier:  America is a lie so long as it does not practice the freedom it preaches. Slavery, Campbell says, is a "sterner tyrant" than the king who was overthrown. Man was created in God's image, but some are transformed "into merchandise" which is denied "God-given liberties." He continues:

We are not free! In every Southern State
Speech and the Press are fettered; — and for him
Who dares speak out, the martyr-fires await,
Or hangman's rope from tallest pine-tree's limb.
We are not free! One man in every seven,
Throughout our false Republic, groans beneath
The vilest despotism under heaven,
Which leaves no hope of freedom but in death.

Nearly four million in our land in chains!
One-half our country slave-land! and the whole
Man-hunting ground! And Kansas' virgin plains,
(Once pledged to Freedom,) under the control
Of the Slave Power! Say, Boaster, are we free?
See if the huge lie blister not your lips:
Where Slavery reigns, there Freedom cannot be!
Light vanishes beneath the sun's eclipse.

Woodworth and the hunters of Kentucky

The Battle of New Orleans on January 8, 1815 was the final major battle of the War of 1812. The American victory pushed the British troops to withdraw from Louisiana. Commanding the battle was Andrew Jackson, future President of the United States. A significant portion of Jackson's troops were from Kentucky, mostly riflemen.

Some sources suggest that New England poet Samuel Woodworth wrote his poem, "Hunters of Kentucky," immediately after the battle. It was certainly sung at a public commemoration of the battle about six years later.

Ye gentlemen and ladies fair,
   Who grace this famous city,
Just listen, if ye've time to spare,
   While I rehearse a ditty;
And for the opportunity,
   Conceive yourselves quite lucky,
For't is not often that you see,
   A hunter from Kentucky.
Oh! Kentucky, the hunters of Kentucky,
   The hunters of Kentucky.

We are a hardy free-born race,
   Each man to fear a stranger,
Whate'er the game, we join in chase,
   Despising toil and danger;
And if a daring foe annoys,
   Whate'er his strength.and forces,
We'll show him that Kentucky boys
   Are "alligator horses."
Oh! Kentucky, the hunters of Kentucky,
   The hunters of Kentucky.

I s'pose you've read it in the prints,
   How Packenham attempted
To make Old Hickory Jackson wince,
   But soon his scheme repented;
For we with rifles ready cocked,
   Thought such occasion lucky,
And soon around the general flocked
   The hunters of Kentucky.
Oh! Kentucky, the hunters of Kentucky,
   The hunters of Kentucky.

You've heard, I s'pose, how New Orleans
   Is famed for wealth and beauty —
There's girls of every hue, it seems,
   From snowy white to sooty:
So Packenham he made his brags,
   If he in fight was lucky,
He'd have their girls and cotton bags,
   In spite of Old Kentucky.
Oh! Kentucky, the hunters of Kentucky,
   The hunters of Kentucky.

But Jackson, he was wide awake,
   And was n't scared at trifles;
For well he knew what aim we take,
   With our Kentucky rifles;
So he led us down to Cypress swamp,
   The ground was low and mucky;
There stood John Bull, in martial pomp,
   And here was Old Kentucky.
Oh! Kentucky, the hunters of Kentucky,
   The hunters of Kentucky.

A bank was raised to hide our breast,
   Not that we thought of dying,
But then we always like to rest,
   Unless the game is flying;
Behind it stood our little force —
   None wished it to be greater,
For every man was half a horse,
   And half an alligator.
Oh! Kentucky, the hunters of Kentucky,
   The hunters of Kentucky.

They did not let our patience tire,
   Before they showed their faces —
We did not choose to waste our fire,
   So snugly kept our places;
But when so near we saw them wink,
   We thought it time to stop them;
And't would have done you good, I think,
   To see Kentucky pop them.
Oh! Kentucky, the hunters of Kentucky,
   The hunters of Kentucky.

They found at last, 't was vain to fight
   Where lead was all their booty,
And so they wisely took to flight,
   And left us all the beauty.
And now, if danger e'er annoys,
   Remember what our trade is,
Just send for us Kentucky boys,
   And we'll protect you, ladies.
Oh! Kentucky, the hunters of Kentucky,
   The hunters of Kentucky.

During his campaign for the presidency, Jackson used Woodworth's work as his campaign song.  Jackson himself was nicknamed "the Hero of New Orleans" (Jackson, incidentally, was from Tennessee, not Kentucky).

Birth of Kirkland: it takes a full bag

Joseph Kirkland was born in Geneva, New York on January 7, 1830. By age 5, however, he and his family relocated to Michigan. Inspired by their travels, his mother Caroline Kirkland published a book, A New Home. The family's attempts at settling in the west, however, failed and they eventually moved back to New York.

As Joseph Kirkland grew up, he moved to Chicago, joined the Union Army during the Civil War, and worked as a lawyer. He also became a writer, publishing his first book in 1887: Zury; The Meanest Man in Spring County, subtitled "A Novel of Western Life." Though set in Illinois, the novel makes a quick jab at Michigan and the Kirkland family's inability to be financially successful there, referring specifically to "when a Massychusetts caounterfeit one dollar bill wuz worth more than a ginuyne Michigan ten!"

The title character, Zury, certainly draws curiosity but Kirkland answers a reader's most important question in one of the book's chapters, "How the Meanest Man Got So Mean, and How Mean He Got." Much of it was the influence of his father Ephraim; the competed severely to save more money than the other. On his death bed, for example, Ephraim tells Zury he hopes to die on Thursday so that his funeral can be held on Sunday. That way, Zury doesn't have to go to mass twice and miss extra work. When Ephraim instead died on a Saturday, he held the funeral on Sunday anyway. Yet, despite his "meanness," Zury was not disliked and was noted for his honesty:

"Honest? Me? Wal, I guess so. Fustly, I wouldn't be noth'n' else, nohoaw; seck'ndly, I kin 'fford t' be, seein' 's haow it takes a full bag t' stand alone; thirdly, I can't 'fford t' be noth'n' else, coz honesty's th' best policy."

Hamlin Garland saw Kirkland's novel as the birth of a new nationalist type of literature. Zury, he said, "is completely unconventional" and had "not a trace of the old-world literature or society, — and every character is new and native."

Bryant: a day-dream by the dark blue deep

Though he wrote it in Italy in 1858, William Cullen Bryant did not publish his poem "A Day-Dream" until 1861, when the New York Ledger included it in its issue for January 5. Inspired by a walk through Naples, the poem expresses Bryant's love of Italy and its seashore:

A day-dream by the dark-blue deep;
   Was it a dream, or something more?
I sat where Posilippo's steep,
   With its gray shelves, o'erhung the shore.

On ruined Roman walls around
   The poppy flaunted, for 'twas May;
And at my feet, with gentle sound,
   Broke the light billows of the bay.

I sat and watched the eternal flow
   Of those smooth billows toward the shore,
While quivering lines of light below
   Ran with them on the ocean-floor:

Till, from the deep, there seemed to rise
   White arms upon the waves outspread,
Young faces, lit with soft blue eyes,
   And smooth, round cheeks, just touched with red.

Their long, fair tresses, tinged with gold,
   Lay floating on the ocean-streams,
And such their brows as bards behold—
   Love-stricken bards — in morning dreams.

Then moved their coral lips; a strain
   Low, sweet and sorrowful, I heard,
As if the murmurs of the main
   Were shaped to syllable and word.

"The sight thou dimly dost behold,
   Oh, stranger from a distant sky!
Was often, in the days of old,
   Seen by the clear, believing eye.

"Then danced we on the wrinkled sand,
   Sat in cool caverns by the sea,
Or wandered up the bloomy land,
   To talk with shepherds on the lea.

"To us, in storms, the seaman prayed,
   And where our rustic altars stood,
His little children came and laid
   The fairest flowers of field and wood.

"Oh woe, a long, unending woe!
   For who shall knit the ties again
That linked the sea-nymphs, long ago,
   In kindly fellowship with men?

"Earth rears her flowers for us no more;
   A half-remembered dream are we;
Unseen we haunt the sunny shore,
   And swim, unmarked, the glassy sea.

"And we have none to love or aid,
   But wander, heedless of mankind,
With shadows by the cloud-rack made,
   With moaning wave and sighing wind.

"Yet sometimes, as in elder days,
   We come before the painter's eye,
Or fix the sculptor's eager gaze,
   With no profaner witness nigh.

"And then the words of men grow warm
   With praise and wonder, asking where
The artist saw the perfect form
   He copied forth in lines so fair."

As thus they spoke, with wavering sweep
   Floated the graceful forms away;
Dimmer and dimmer, through the deep,
   I saw the white arms gleam and play.

Fainter and fainter, on mine ear,
   Fell the soft accents of their speech,
Till I, at last, could only hear
   The waves run murmuring up the beach.

At the time of the poem's composition, the newly-bearded Bryant was relieved that his wife had recovered from an illness. He was also happily surrounded by friends (including the sojourning Nathaniel Hawthorne and family). By the time of its publication, the poet was absorbed in the coming conflict that became the Civil War. His poetry soon took a more political turn.

Death of Wynne: peculiarly ethereal

Madeline Yale Wynne died on January 4, 1918. Today, she is mostly remembered as a leader in the Arts and Crafts movement, particularly in metalworking. However, she was also an author. Perhaps her most famous work remains the supernatural story "The Little Room," first published in 1895. Her final published work, however, was Si Briggs Talks (1917), a collection of character sketches in verse using Yankee dialect. The selections are fairly pointless doggerel, including "Black List":

I've jest seen Ed Buzzell's black-list.
   It's a caution to snakes!
      He keeps a list of all the folks to hate;
      Keeps it strictly up to date,
   'Cause he makes
Changes from time to time,
As 'fusion warrants, and
Won't trust his mem'ry.
      Now I 'm waitin'
To see a white-list;
But I guess folks don't keep 'em.
      Mebbe hatin'
Comes more natchral.

Though born in New York (the granddaughter of the inventor of the Yale lock), Wynne spent the majority of her life in Deerfield, Massachusetts, buying a home there in 1885 (she had separated from her husband and changed her married name from "Winn" to "Wynne"). Shortly after her death, a book was published in her honor: In Memory of Madeline Yale Wynne began with a short tribute by fellow author George Washington Cable. It reads, in part:

No brief phrase can possibly define the beautiful character and presence of Madeline Wynne. She was peculiarly ethereal without a hint of detachment from the tangible world by which she was surrounded, and which she loved for everything in it that was good and fair, or that rightfully called for understanding or sympathy. To her, life, all life, was unfailingly real and earnest, and even poignant. She saw everything with a beautifying and poetic vision, and so reflected it to others. She was one of the most joyous souls I ever came in touch with, and yet saw everything true. She did not merely prefer the bright side of things.

Bierce: A Cargo of Cats

Ambrose Bierce was editor-in-chief of Wasp when the San Francisco magazine's January 3, 1885 issue published his short story "A Cargo of Cat." Presented as a true story (its original subtitle was "A True Story of the Mediterranean"), the tale follows a ship leaving Malta with a cargo of 127,000 cats — a cargo which resulted in "a good deal of trouble." Rather than tied in bundles, however, the felines are left loose in the hold. The first mate, worried they would be thirsty, hoses a supply of water with them. This decision caused the death by drowning of several thousand of them.

The gruesome tale is supposed to turn comical when the waterlogged cats begin to swell up. This "feline expansion" puts pressure on the body of the ship until planks begin to break free. Captain Doble, informed by the first-person narrator of this development, shows no concern. Then, suddenly, the surviving cats burst up like a volcano and clutch one another with their claws, making a huge column of cats pointing upwards like the ship's mast. No longer able to steer the ship, crew members fear the worst (and, further, have lost access to their food supplies below). The chaplain leads the crew in prayer — until the cats join in with their own hymn:

Each had a pretty fair voice, but no ear. Nearly all their notes in the upper register were more or less cracked and disobedient. The remarkable thing about the voices was their range. In that crowd were cats of seventeen octaves, and the average could not have been less than twelve... It was a great concert. It lasted three days and nights.

The cat calamity is ended when the ship passes the southern part of Italy. Seeing the boot shape, the cats fear they are about to be collectively kicked, and abandon ship.

The story reflects Bierce's own dislike of cats, but it also shows his dark humor. At the time he was editing The Wasp, he was also serializing bitingly witty definitions in a series he called The Devil's Dictionary.

Cranch: My mind did swoon

Chrisopher Pearse Cranch — Transcendentalist, painter, and poet — did not publish his first book of poems until 1844. Born in Alexandria, Virginia, he frequently attended public speeches by major politicians of the day (and even claimed to witness the inauguration of John Quincy Adams). He went to Harvard Divinity School and started a long series of travels. It was in Cincinnati, Ohio, that he and James Freeman Clarke founded the Western Messenger as an outlet of Transcendentalism. Cranch's earliest poems were published in that journal as well as The Dial, and usually signed "C.P.C." One of those early poems, "Night and the Soul," was written on January 2, 1839:

I went to bed with Shakespeare's flowing numbers
      Within me chiming,
As I sank slowly to my pleasant slumbers,
      My thoughts with his were rhyming.

Out of the window I saw the moonlight shadows
      Go creeping slow;
The sheeted roofs of snow — the broad white meadows
      Lay silently below.

A few keen stars were kindly winking through
      The frost-dimmed panes,
And dreaming Chanticleer woke up and crew
      Far o'er the desolate plains.

But soon into the void abyss of sleep
      My mind did swoon;
I saw no more the broad house-shadows creep
      Beneath the silent moon.

I woke; the morning sun was mounting slowly
      O'er the live earth: —
Say, fancy, why the shade of melancholy
      Which then in me took birth?

Why does the night give to the spirit wings,
      Which day denies?
Ah, why this tyranny of outward things
      When brightest shine the skies?

My soul is like the flower that blooms by night,
      And droops by day;
Yet may its fruit expand, though in the light
      Night-blossoms drop away.

The visions thus in dreamy stillness cherished,
      Like dreams may fly;
But day's great acts, o'er thoughts that nightly perished,
      may ripen, not to die!