McCann on Saltus: a genius died

After Francis Saltus Saltus's midnight death, his friend John Ernest McCann was immediately inspired to write a poem to the deceased poet. Simply titled "Francis S. Saltus," the poem's three stanzas pay tribute to a multi-talented genius, and is dated June 25, 1889:

A genius died last night, about whose brow
   Fame never twined the laurel and the rose.
   A master he of music, verse and prose,
Who lived, laughed, loved, and suffered, to endow

The world with buds and blossoms from the bough
   That sways within the garden where Thought grows
   When the gale of Inspiration madly blows
The daisies of sweet Song before God's plow!

Ah! who can wear the laurel, now he's dead?
   Not one among the many whom he knew!
      Pluck not the leaf for any—leave it there;
And Time will weave it for his wondrous head,
   And Fame may bear it up beyond the blue—
      To where he sits and laughs with Baudelaire! 

Saltus and McCann were close enough that they collaborated on at least three poems, which McCann published the next year in his compilation Songs from an Attic. That collection also included his memorial verses to Saltus, though it was altered to combine the first two stanzas into one longer stanza. In his poem, McCann (who was more well known as a playwright than a poem) also acknowledges Saltus's inspiration from French poet Charles Baudelaire, whose lifestyle was equally influential on Saltus; like Baudelaire, he had a strong affinity for alcohol, particularly absinthe.

Death of Saltus: when men perish, I rejoice

Francis Saltus Saltus died in Tarrytown, New York on June 24, 1889, at the age of 39. "His trouble was a gastric one," the New York Times reported, and for several days he was unable to eat. Despite his death at an early age, Saltus was quite accomplished: He could reportedly speak in 10 languages, had written four comic operas, had poetry published (in multiple languages) in periodicals throughout the country and the world, and edited his own humorous magazine. He left several thousand poems unpublished as well. Most of Saltus's poems were comical in nature and, as such, perhaps it is fitting he was buried in the famous Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, also the final resting place of another writer known for his humor, Washington Irving. His poem "The Delights of Doom":

I love to visit unknown graves
     When snow the woodland buries,
And hear the wild wind when it raves
     Over grim cemeteries.

I glory in the sight of tombs,
     O'er slabs I love to ponder;
And I am glad when in the glooms
     Of humid crypts I wander.

I love to hear the dolorous voice
     Of anguish and of mourning,
And when men perish, I rejoice
     At death's untimely warning.

I fain would have the poet's fire,
     To glorify in verses
Death, doom, and all disaster dire,
     Shrouds, monument, and hearses.

I see the morgue with eager eyes,
     The pastime never varies;
And I reap pleasure and surprise
     Reading obituaries.

Death in all forms to me is sweet,
     And I am a believer
In awful plagues and pests effete
     Polluting towns with fever.

War pleases me when thousands lie
     Mangled in woods and closes;
And of all flowers beneath the sky
     I worship tuberoses.

Do not misjudge and say I'm mad,
     And cry against my maker,
But the truth is, my biz is bad,
     And I'm an undertaker.

Josh Billings: Job Potter died of death

"Job Potter died of death," according to the listing for June 22, 1873 in the almanac Old Probability (Perhaps Rain—Perhaps Not) (1879) by Josh Billings. Billings, pen name of Henry Wheeler Shaw, was a journalist turned humorist and lecturer, who made his way from Massachusetts to New York to California (where he befriended Mark Twain). He became known for his phonetically spelled folksy witticisms.

Billings's book Old Probability collected a series of pseudo almanacs originally titled Farmer's Allminax. Filled with guesswork on weather patterns, vague advice on planting, and pithy aphorisms, the book began with this philosophical quote: "It is better to know less, than to know so mutch, that aint so." The calendar sections included completely nebulous and/or meaningless events — like the death of Job Potter mentioned above. Short poems pop up throughout the listings as well as semi-meaningful factoids, life advice, and brief news notices — all with humor intended. A few samples from the book:

Tew git wrong things out ov yure child's head,—comb it often.

I hope i shall never hav so mutch reputashun, that i shant feel obliged tew be civil.

Tew make a hen lay 2 eggs a day, reazon with her; if that dont dew, threaten to chastize her if she dont.

fakts are stubborn things & so be mules

I hav alwus notised one thing, when a man gits in a tite spot, he dont never call on hiz friend the Devil tew help him out.

Nov. 30 — now chop wood

In youth we run into difikultys, in old age, difikultys run into us.

To find out whether a man has got a good moral karakter or not, ask him pleasantly.

Opportunitys are like birds, they will slip out ov yure hands if yu giv them haff a chance.

Throughout the book, Billings included scattered illustrations with handwritten tales and pieces of advice like the above. He also included a page here and there of positive critical notices (some of which might not be legitimate), including: "It kured mi wife ov wanting to die."

Charles H. Crandall: silver-harnessed stars

Courtesy: Stamford
Historical Society

"One must needs be in a rarely appreciative mood fully to enjoy the privilege of listening to an old violin that bears the autograph inscription of Antonius Stradivarius," theorized Charles Henry Crandall. But, when those moods of appreciation strike, "one should approach the consideration of a gem in the domain of literature which has outlasted seven centuries." Crandall, born in Greenwich, New York on June 19, 1858, was referring particularly to the sonnet, a poetic form to which he dedicated his first book Representative Sonnets by American Poets (1890). The title was limiting, as he also included various sonneteers from around the world.

Crandall began his publishing career as a journalist for newspapers including the New York Tribune. In 1886, however, his poor health inspired a move to Connecticut. It was here that he began publishing more literary works, rather than journalistic ones. After his anthology of sonnets, he published his own poetry in Wayside Music: Lyrics, Songs and Sonnets (1893) and The Chords of Life (1898). He published several more books until he committed suicide in 1923 at age 64.

Crandall's poem "Each Day" from Wayside Music:

I watch the sun at morning, and it shines with all the gladness
  Of the million million happy eyes that greet its glorious birth.
I gaze again at evening, and it gives back all the sadness
  Of the million million weary eyes that watch it sink to earth.

And his poem "The Poet" from The Chords of Life:

I am not young, I am not old,
    For Time has fled before me;
All gates before my touch unfold,
    Transparent skies are o'er me.

I gaze in maiden's eyes, and ken
    Their never-uttered speech;
I look into the souls of men
    Deeper than they can reach.

The sun each morn I link anew
    Unto my kingly cars;
Each evening drive through realms of blue
    My silver-harnessed stars.

My spirit speaks, and birds and bees
    Obey my slightest will;
And silent things break out in speech,
    And noisy things are still.

No noble thing escapes my love,
    All maidens pure are mine,
And ever round me, from above,
    The rays of beauty shine.

Warfield: Such was Destiny's decree!

Catherine Anne Warfield, born in Missisippi in 1816, was popular in her native South as both a poet and writer of fiction. After her marriage, she moved to Kentucky and there lived through the Civil War. From her home of Beechmore, she wrote her poem "Drowned, Drowned" on June 15, 1867 (the title references a line in Shakespeare's Hamlet). The poem compares the struggle of the Confederate Army with diving for pearls and, like much of the Southern poetry of the period, elevates these veterans to angelic status in sentimental, patriotic verse:

In the dark Confederate sea
Rest the heroes of our race;
O'er them waves are sweeping free,
And the pearls of ocean trace
Temples, where the helm should be,
Worn with high heroic grace.
'Twas a desperate strife at best,
And they perished—let them rest
In their silent burial place!—

When our divers, dreading nought,
Plunged to depths, through ocean whirls,
It was all their hope and thought,
To bear back those precious pearls,
Passion freighted, Beauty fraught,
Such as gleam 'mid glowing curls,
Or on baldrick and on banner,
In the old heroic manner,
Broidered all, by high-born girls.

But the divers came no more
From that dark Confederate sea,
With its ceaseless muffled roar,
And its billows sweeping free,
And the pearls were never gathered,
And the storms were never weathered.
Such was Destiny's decree!—
Quench the tear, and stay the sigh,
Nothing now can these avail;

They who nobly strive and die,
Over Fate itself prevail.
Give to those, who on the shore
Wait for sires who come no more,
Shelter from the surf and gale.
Spread the board and trim the hearth,
For the orphans of our race,
Lift from weariness and dearth,
Each young drooping form and face,
Light anew the olden fires
Won from high heroic sires,
And may God bestow his grace!

Death of Rand: never will smile again

The Philadelphia-born poet Marion H. Rand died on Grahamville, South Carolina on June 9, 1849. She was about 25 years old. Rand began publishing her poetry as early as 14 years old, encouraged no doubt by her father, the author of several books of penmanship. By the end of her life, she had contributed to most of the major magazines of the day, including Graham's Magazine and Godey's Magazine in her native Philadelphia. She was collected in several anthologies of women's poetry, including those by Caroline May and Thomas Buchanan Read. Most of what is known about Rand comes from the short listings in these collections (such as the one pictured).

Her poem, "The Early Called," reflects a very real understanding of the reality of death, yet the speaker is reassured by their religious conviction. The poem was first published in Graham's in May 1844:

How lovely she lies in her long, last sleep—
While the eyes that may never more smile or weep
Are veiled in their fringed lids so close
That it seems but a slumber of deep repose.
She hath gone — as the rose-tinted cloud at even
Melts slowly away in the depths of heaven;
As the bud that rises from earth to bless
Our eyes in its innocent loveliness,
But with a worm in its heart unseen,
Droops in its bower of living green,
And ere the destroyer is yet revealed,
Its petals are withered — its doom is sealed.
So the hands that cherished her opening bloom,
Must lay her low in the silent tomb,
And the eyes that were wont in pride to dwell
On the beautiful form they loved so well,
Must sadly and mournfully turn away
From the cold, cold image of senseless clay.
Oh! 'tis a bitter thing to prove.
This hopeless yearning for one we love;
To look on the face, the cheek and brow,
In their marble purity, fairer now,
To wait for one smile, and wait in vain,
From lips that never will smile again.
Oh! what in this fleeting world hath power
To stem the agony of that hour?
Alas! with a shuddering heart and stern,
From all earth's comforts and gifts we turn,
And some might think that all is dark
In the dwelling where death has set his mark;
But praised be He who alone can bless,
For He doth not leave us comfortless.
When grief lies heaviest round our home,
And a blight on our fairest hopes has come,
When we scarce can lift our heavy eyes
To our lost one's dwelling beyond the skies—
He whom we sought when our day was bright
Will tenderly guide through this dark night;
Will lighten our burdens — charm our pain,
Till our hearts are almost glad again —
And the earth-stained love we bore to Him,
'Mid snares and temptations burning dim,
So often wearied — so often cold,
He will repay it a thousand fold.

Chivers's nightingale: sweet, mournful plaint

I hear the soft, Lethéan song
   Of many falling streams,
Winding oblivious, as they roll along,
   Beneath the moonlight's rain of beams.
I hear the plaintive Nightingale
   Singing with all his might,
Until the music seems to flood the vale
   Afar with deluge-like delight.

A rose-bud, in his song's sweet rain,
   Now bathes her drooping head,
Which so dissolves her beating heart of pain,
   That she seems languishing as dead.
A cascade of sweet, mournful plaint,
   He pours out through the grove,
As if his over-burthened heart would faint
   With the sweet summer-heat of love.

But now the Nightingale is still—
   A Spirit from above
Has drowned to silence each pellucid rill,
   With the soft music of her love.
Her soft breath, like an odorous breeze,
   Whispers to me to-night;
I am the soul of all such sounds as these—
   It was the Voice of my Delight. 

The above poem, "The Voice of My Delight," was dated June 8, 1840, by its author, Thomas Holley Chivers. The Georgia poet included it in his collection The Lost Pleiad (1845). Chivers often wrote on themes of love and of death (the latter particularly after the death of several of his children in their infancy). This poem, perhaps, combines the two. The theme of death is not the major one, however, but it is referenced in the first line with the "Lethéan song" — a reference to a river that flows in Hades, the Greek underworld.

Within the natural nocturnal landscape he describes, Chivers introduces us to a nightingale. This songbird in the poem is singing at night so strongly that it "floods" the scene. In fact, nightingales only sing at night when in search of a mate. The song is "plaintive," or sorrowful, perhaps because his love is dead. By the end of the poem, the nightingale has given up the search, presumably due to a lack of success. Further, the rose-bud hears the song as a "mournful plaint" (or "complaint"), and languishes near death because of it. In a foot-note, Chivers makes it known that he is referencing a work by the Persian poet Jami.

The poem, then, seems to be about an overburdened lover with no one to love, yet whose song of devotion impacts the world around it enough that it summons a spirit from the afterlife to the scene. That final image, the titular voice of delight, comes from a spirit representing the soul of the sounds heard throughout the poem, particularly the nightingale. The voice of Chivers's delight, then, might be (somewhat oddly) the spirit that recognizes those whose love is not returned.

Death of O'Hara: free from anguish now

Born and raised in Kentucky, Theodore O'Hara had a varied career as a lawyer, journalist, soldier, and poet. The Civil War broke out while he was the editor of a newspaper in Mobile, Alabama, and he immediately enlisted in the Confederate Army. Though his exemplary service was recognized, particularly with his previous stint in the Army in his 20s, he was refused promotions for being too outspoken and, particularly, for his criticism of President Jefferson Davis. After the war, he settled again in Alabama, where he died on June 6, 1867. He was originally buried in that state, before being re-interred in his native Kentucky.

O'Hara's greatest claim to fame is a poem about death, written during the Mexican-American War. "Bivouac of the Dead" has since been quoted in memorial markers and plaques in over a dozen cemeteries, including Arlington National Cemetery. Originally written to honor Kentuckians who died, it has since been read as a general lament for those who are killed in battle. From that poem:

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on life's parade shall meet
The brave and daring few.
On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumour of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind;
No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms;
No braying horn nor screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed;
Their haughty banner trailed in dust
Is now their martial shroud,
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And their proud forms in battle gashed
Are free from anguish now.

...
Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood you gave,
No impious footsteps here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless songs shall tell,
When many a vanished age hath flown,
The story how ye fell;
Nor wreck, nor change, or winter's blight
Not Time's remorseless doom,
Shall dim one ray of holy light
That gilds your glorious tomb.

Madison Cawein: done gone and got married

Madison Cawein married Gertrude McKelvey in Louisville, Kentucky, on June 4, 1903 at 7 a.m. The ceremony, which took place at St. Paul's Episcopal Church, was officiated by Rev. Reverdy Estell and was attended by only a few close relatives. The groom was 38, the bride (wearing a dark blue dress and white blouse and black hat) was 29. Almost exactly nine months later, they had their first and only child Preston Hamilton Cawein (mother and son are pictured here).

The happy husband had, by then, published nearly 20 books, mostly of poetry, and was earning a substantial income as a the popular "Keats of Kentucky." After the wedding, Mr. and Mrs. Cawein headed to Colorado for their honeymoon. As Mr. Cawein wrote a few days later, he wrote to his friend James Whitcomb Riley:

Well, here I am at the foot of Pike's Peak, in the heart of the Rockies, with the loveliest and sweetest girl in the world, spending my honeymoon. I have thought of you many a'time during our jaunts among the canons and cliffs, watching the mists gather and descend on the mountain heights, or gathering wild flowers, of which there is a vast profusion as well as variety, among the heaven-kissing hills, or sitting wondering by some mountain-torrent flinging its wild waters down the bouldered sides of a precipice in many a foaming and roaming cascade; like some snowwhite nymph tossing her arms of foam above her head and flaunting her wild hair of spray to the music of the wind-rocked pines.

Riley, you must not forget me now I have "done gone and got married." My wife is a beautiful, a talented girl; a singer as well as a musician; a reader of the best literature and appreciative of the best poetry, present and past. She has read your work, as every one has, and is full of enthusiasm for it. She is a girl of mind as well as soul...

Undoubtedly to Cawein's delight, Riley did not forget his newly married fellow writer. In fact, the Indiana poet dedicated a poem to his Kentucky friend, "To a Poet on his Marriage":

Ever and ever, on and on,
From winter dusk, to April dawn,
This old enchanted world we range
From night to light—from change to change—
Or path of burs or lily-bells,
We walk a world of miracles.

The morning evermore must be
A newer, purer mystery—
The dewy grasses, or the bloom
Of orchards, or the wood's perfume
Of wild sweet-williams, or the wet
Blent scent of loam and violet.

How wondrous all the ways we fare—
What marvels wait us, unaware! . . .
But yesterday, with eyes ablur
And heart that held no hope of Her,
You paced the lone path, but the true
That led to where she waited you.

Upon Cawein's death in 1914, he left his money, his property, his investments, and his copyright, to his widow, with the exception of a $1,000 fund for his son. By then, Cawein had suffered a reversal of fortune thanks to the stock market crash.

Death of Alfred B. Street: life's last breath

New York poet Alfred B. Street died June 2, 1881 in Albany, New York. He was 69 years old. The Poughkeepsie born poet started his career as a lawyer and served as the state librarian in New York for over 30 years until his death. As many did in the period, he took a literary turn and began submitting to newspapers and magazines before publishing his first collection, The Burning of Schenectady and Other Poems, in 1842. Several works followed, and Street was particularly noted for his forest imagery and ample use of Native American legends and folklore.

Street was buried in the Albany Rural Cemetery, an early example of the American landscape or rural cemetery movement, and today a National Historic Landmark. Street had written a poem about that burial ground decades earlier:

When life's last breath has faintly ebbed away,
And naught is left but cold unconscious clay,
Still doth Affection bend in anguish deep,
O'er the pale brow, to fondly gaze and weep.
What though the soul hath soared in chainless flight;
Round the spurned frame still plays a sacred light,
A hallowed radiance never to depart,
Poured from its solemn source, the stricken heart.
Not to the air should then be given the dead,
Not to the flame, nor yet cold ocean's bed,
But to the earth, — the earth from whence it rose,
There should the frame be left to its repose.
There our great mother guards her holy trust,
Spreads her green mantle o'er the sleeping dust;
There glows the sunshine — there the branches wave,
And birds yield song, flowers fragrance round the grave.

There oft to hold communion do we stray,
There droops our mourning memory when away,
And e'en when years have passed, our homeward feet
Seek first with eager haste that spot to greet;
And the fond hope lives ever in our breast
When death, too, claims us, there our dust shall rest.

Street then describes and praises the interplay of the natural landscape of the cemetery with its solemn duty to house the dead. He imagines a man in mourning who visits a grave and is joined in sympathy with Nature itself. The smile of his dead infant is reflected by the flowers, its laugh echoed by the birds. The poem goes on:

Through these branched paths will Contemplation wind,
And stamp wise Nature's teachings on his mind;
As the white grave-stones glimmer to his eye,
A solemn voice will thrill him, "Thou must die;"
When Autumn's tints are glittering in the air,
That voice will whisper to his soul, "Prepare;"
When Winter's snows are spread o'er knoll and dell,
"Oh this is death," that solemn voice will swell;
But when with Spring, streams leap and blossoms wave,
"Hope, Christian, hope," 'twill say, "there's life beyond the grave."