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."

Cable, Old Creole Days, heart of New Orleans

Jadis, Hammock and Fan, and Spanish Moss were among the titles suggested but, ultimately, George Washington Cable and his publisher Scribner's Sons chose to title the book Under the Cypress Orange. Then, likely at the last moment, it was renamed Old Creole Days when it was published on May 17, 1879. The book had been some seven years in the making in that it compiled stories he had published in Scribner's Monthly beginning in 1873.

The book proved successful, particularly in the author's native state of Louisiana and he was soon hailed as one of the most important writers in the region. This was in no small part due to Cable himself, who promoted the book personally. A review in the New Orleans Times noted, "The writings of Mr. Cable may be ranked with those of any American prose writer, not excepting those of Nathaniel Hawthorne, which they in many respects resemble, and in some respects excel." Unsurprisingly, local reviewers were particularly impressed with Cable's use of local vernacular and dialect among the Creoles (much like the work of Kate Chopin).

Indeed, the setting and people of New Orleans are an important element of the book. The opening story in the first edition,* "'Sieur George," begins "in the heart of New Orleans." As Cable often does, he also spends the first few paragraphs describing the architecture of the building where the story takes place: a majestic but decaying structure, with pride amid decay not unlike the Creole culture itself. The landlord, the elderly and mixed race man named Kookoo (who "smokes cascarilla, wears velveteen, and is as punctual as an executioner") becomes obsessed with a certain tenant, who arrived with only a single trunk. He intended to live there only 50 days, but stayed for 50 years.

As the story progresses, we learn more about George, an outsider who apparently made his money gambling, though an air of mystery surrounds him. His real name, for example, is unknown, but people take to calling him "Monsieur George" (unsure if it is a first or last name), which is eventually shortened. The crux of the story is really if a white American can cope with having a role in the unique Creole culture of New Orleans. Without revealing the plot, it might be best to summarize that George fails.

*When the book was reissued four years later, Cable inserted a new work, a novella titled "Madame Delphine" as the first story; "'Sieur George" was also moved closer to the end of the book.

Richard Henry Dana: Death bring thee rest

Richard Henry Dana, Sr. had lived through most of the early history of the United States. Born only two months after the adoption of the Constitution (his father had signed the Articles of Confederation), he lived through the entire Presidency of George Washington and 17 others before dying during the term of the 19th President Rutherford B. Hayes on February 2, 1879. He was 91 years old.

In his long life, Dana also saw the developing world of American literature as it unfolded. An early American romanticist, he was criticized for his support of the work of Lord Byron, William Wordsworth, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, but lived long enough to see his formerly controversial opinion become conventional. Dana wrote a novel before James Fenimore Cooper and befriended the earliest American poets, including William Cullen Bryant. An ardent patriot, he truly believed in the fervor that created his country and hoped to see its culture and arts flourish with genius. He played his own part in building the arts, not only as an author, poet, and critic, but as a supporter of the arts (he was a friend of painter Washington Allston).

But Dana was frequently ill throughout most of his long life. Unlike his son and namesake, who took to the ocean when faced with health problems, Dana lived an increasingly retired life and embodied the Idle Man, the title of the magazine he founded and edited. When he died, some accounts referred to him as "the oldest of American authors"; several also admitted he had written nothing in his elder years. Among his most famous works was one of his earliest, a poem titled "The Dying Raven." The blank verse poem is over 100 lines long; below is the beginning and ending:

Come to these lonely woods to die alone?
It seems not many days since thou wast heard,
From out the mists of spring, with thy shrill note,
Calling upon thy mates — and their clear answers.
The earth was brown then; and the infant leaves
Had not put forth to warm them in the sun,
Or play in the fresh air of heaven. Thy voice,
Shouting in triumph, told of winter gone,
And prophesying life to the sealed ground,
Did make me glad with thoughts of coming beauties.
And now they're all around us, — offspring bright
Of earth, — a mother, who, with constant care,
Doth feed and clothe them all. — Now o'er her fields,
In blessed bands, or single, they are gone,
Or by her brooks they stand, and sip the stream;
Or peering o'er it, — vanity well feigned —
In quaint approval seem to glow and nod
At their reflected graces. — Morn to meet,
They in fantastic labors pass the night,
Catching its dews, and rounding silvery drops
To deck their bosoms. — There, on high, bald trees,
From varnished cells some peep, and the old boughs
Make to rejoice and dance in warmer winds.
Over my head the winds and they make music;
And grateful, in return for what they take,
Bright hues and odours to the air they give.
Thus mutual love brings mutual delight —
Brings beauty, life; — for love is life — hate, death.
...

I needs must mourn for thee. For I, who have
No fields, nor gather into garners — I
Bear thee both thanks and love, not fear nor hate.
And now, farewell! The falling leaves ere long
Will give thee decent covering. Till then,
Thine own black plumage, which will now no more
Glance to the sun, nor flash upon my eyes,
Like armour of steeled knight of Palestine,
Must be thy pall. Nor will it moult so soon
As sorrowing thoughts on those borne from him, fade
In living man.
                    Who scoffs these sympathies,
Makes mock of the divinity within;
Nor feels he gently breathing through his soul
The universal spirit. — Hear it cry,
"How does thy pride abase thee, man, vain man!
How deaden thee to universal love,
And joy of kindred with all humble things,—
God's creatures all!"
                              And surely it is so.
He who the lily clothes in simple glory,
He who doth hear the ravens cry for food,
Hath on our hearts, with hand invisible,
In signs mysterious, written what alone
Our hearts may read. — Death bring thee rest, poor Bird.

Ambrose Bierce: The devil's purveyor

Though The Devil's Dictionary eventually became one of Ambrose Bierce's most well-known works, the book had a difficult beginning. The first "complete" version of the devilishly humorous reference work did not appear until 1911, sandwiched in volume 7 of a collection of the author's writings. The first half of the book, up through the entries for "L," had been published in the mid to late 1880s under the title The Cynic's  Dictionary. Bierce did not appreciate the watered-down title. As he wrote in 1906: "They (the publishers) won't have 'The Devil's Dictionary.' Here in the East the Devil is a sacred personage (the Fourth Person of the Trinity, as an Irishman might say) and his name must not be taken in vain."

The earliest published appearance of the book, however, came on December 11, 1875, when the San Francisco News Letter published a few "A" definitions under the heading "The Demon's Dictionary." 
That humble article, attributed to "Theophilus Smallbeer," included definitions through "accoucheur," though the later version of the Dictionary did not include any of these entries. He later explained he lost most of his early entries and re-wrote many of them; in a later preface, he denied the 1875 attempt and his first attempts began in 1881. A few entries from the "A" section of the later Devil's Dictionary:

Accoucheur, n. The devil's purveyor.

Acquit, v.t. To render judgment in a murder case in San Francisco.

Adam's Apple, n. A protuberance on the throat of a man, thoughtfully provided by Nature to keep the rope in place.

Admiration, n. Our polite recognition of another's resemblance to ourselves.

Alone, adj. In bad company.

Ambition, n. An overmastering desire to be vilified by enemies while living and made ridiculous by friends when dead.

Apologize, v.i. To lay the foundation for a future offence.

One can only imagine how Bierce might define "blog" or "internet" today. For more from The Devil's Dictionary, see this site.

*For the dates and details above, I am indebted to Robert F. Gale's An Ambrose Bierce Companion (Greenwood Publishing, 2001).

Bryant on Scott: brilliant luminary

William Cullen Bryant was busy in the fall of 1872. His day job as editor-in-chief of the New-York Evening Post was hectic amidst a presidential election, he was steadily working on a translation of Homer, and was editing a book on the unique scenery of the United States called Picturesque America. Still, when he was invited to give a speech on the dedication of a statue of Walter Scott at New York City's Central Park, he accepted.

His address, given on November 4, 1872, as the statue by Scottish artist John Steell was unveiled, honored the Americans of Scottish descent who had led the efforts to honor their countryman author. Bryant, after all, was old enough to remember Scott before his death in 1832. He remembered that "this brilliant luminary of modern literature" first drew attention for his ballad "Lay of the Last Minstrel." His work, the poet said, was infused with the traditions of Scotland: "In it we had all their fire, their rapid narrative, their unlabored graces, their pathos, animating a story to which he had given a certain epic breadth and unity." He goes on:

No other metrical narratives in our language seem to me to possess an equal power of enchaining the attention of the reader, and carrying him on from incident to incident with such entire freedom from weariness.

Bryant offered specific praise on several of Scott's works, and even the author's choice to print inexpensive editions which allowed his work to circulate more widely. His "Waverley" novels too, Bryant claimed, began a new era in literature. Those works were written in such rapid succession, he recalled, that they were similar to the fireworks shot off on the Fourth of July in the United States. He continued the metaphor, describing how each volume rose from the horizon and burst with a brilliant hue. Bryant was especially pleased that his statue should grace Central Park, which had only recently become a designed public space. He pictured the spirit of Scott's wandering about the park, a veritable army protecting the statue. Bryant concludes:

And now, as the statue of Scott is set up in this beautiful park, which a few years since possessed no human associations historical or poetic connected with its shades, its lawns, its rocks, and its waters, these grounds become peopled with new memories. Henceforth the silent earth at this spot will be eloquent of old traditions, the airs that stir the branches of the trees will whisper of feats of chivalry to the visitor. All that vast crowd of ideal personages created by the imagination of Scott will enter with his sculptured effigy and remain... They will pass in endless procession around the statue of him in whose prolific brain they had their birth, until the language which we speak shall perish, and the spot on which we stand shall be again a woodland wilderness.

Birth of Stephen Crane: Here I stay and wait

Born in Newark, New Jersey, on November 1, 1871, Stephen Crane went on to live a life where he seldom kept in one place for long. His parents were active in the church community and local religious-inspired causes; his father was a Methodist minister (the family moved a few times as he took jobs at different churches) and his mother worked with a local Christian Temperance Union. The Cranes had 14 children; Stephen was the last.

Young Stephen Crane was a sickly child and his parents questioned his weakness. He became interested in poetry early and wrote one asking for a dog when he was 8 years old. It was at that age that he began his schooling with the death of his father. He was left in the care of various relatives amid various deaths of family members and his mother possibly suffering from mental illness. He enrolled at boarding schools and, as a teenager, started writing for a news bureau with his brother.

Crane considered a military career but was persuaded to try college instead. He briefly attended Lafayette College in Pennsylvania then Syracuse University in New York but declared college "a waste of time." Instead, he turned to writing (and wandering). He met Hamlin Garland, who was traveling for a lecture, and the two discussed William Dean Howells and literary realism. Garland's was named on the dedication page on Crane's first book of poetry. By the end of his life when he died in Germany at age 28, Crane would have traveled the globe, become embroiled with various scandals and controversies, and struggled to move past his early fame from his book The Red Badge of Courage.

Poem titled "XXIII" from The Black Riders and Other Lines (1895), which was originally published solely with capital letters:

Places among the stars,
Soft gardens near the sun,
Keep your distant beauty;
Shed no beams upon my weak heart.
Since she is here
In a place of blackness,
Not your golden days
Nor your silver nights
Can call me to you.
Since she is here
In a place of blackness,
Here I stay and wait

Death of Kennedy: not worth a debate

John Pendleton Kennedy was 74 years old when he died in Rhode Island on August 18, 1870, so the Baltimore newspaper was rounding up when it asked, "Where is the young man of to-day who is so young as John P. Kennedy at seventy-five?" This tribute considered the man's life a model for all Americans who wished to live good lives, calling him: "A man of wealth, he did not labor to acquire untold riches; a man of leisure, he was not an idler, but dedicated his energies to politics and literature."

Kennedy had served under President Millard Fillmore as Secretary of the Navy after time in Congress for his home state of Maryland (and a stint as Speaker of the House of Delegates there). Earlier than that, however, Kennedy was one of the first American writers of note. His novel, Swallow Barn, or A Sojourn in the Old Dominion was published in 1832, and Horse-Shoe Robinson in 1835. The latter, a historical novel, was compared with the works of his contemporary James Fenimore Cooper; one reviewer called the title character "another Leather Stocking." 

Kennedy sent an early draft of Horse-Shoe Robinson to Washington Irving who, despite being asked to keep it secret, was so "tickled with some parts of it" that he read it aloud to friends. The novel is set during the American Revolution and, as the author noted in a preface, was an attempt "to furnish a picture, and embody the feelings of a period of great excitement and difficulty." Set in the Southern provinces, unlike many contemporary histories which focuses on northern battles, the title character makes his way through the Carolinas and Virginia. Much of the novel depicts the difficulty and uncertainty of this contentious time (especially when the main character meets a traitor to the cause).

Kennedy was mostly retired by the mid 1850s and wrote little other than his early novels. In 1870, he was directed by a physician to go north for his health. After a few weeks in Saratoga, he went on to Newport. In a letter from that summer, he wrote to a friend: "The doubt is, whether my trouble is organic or functional, to which i say that at seventy-five or thereabouts, the difference is not worth a debate." At his death, he was buried in Baltimore's Green Mount Cemetery, the same graveyard where lies Southern poets Sidney Lanier and Edward Coote Pinkney.

Alcott: A Golden Goose (and a phoenix)

Weary after the sudden success of Little Women after years of hard work as a writer, Louisa May Alcott traveled to Europe with her sister May Alcott and a friend. The trip was in part for rest but also because she found her new celebrity status more than a bit burdensome. In Bex, Switzerland on August 7, 1870, she wrote to Thomas Niles, her agent for the Roberts Brothers publishing house, that she was still receiving multiple requests for contributions. "I am truly grateful," she told him, "but having come abroad for rest I am not inclined to try the treadmill till my year's vacation is over." Instead, Alcott offered Niles a poem which she called "a trifle in rhyme," which she said would serve "as a general answer to everybody." The poem, "The Lay of a Golden Goose," is among her most autobiographical works (and the title is a pun; "lay" is a synonym for "poem"):

Long ago in a poultry yard
One dull November morn,
Beneath a motherly soft wing
A little goose was born.

Who straightway peeped out of the shell
To view the world beyond,
Longing at once to sally forth
And paddle in the pond.

"Oh! be not rash," her father said,
A mild Socratic bird;
Her mother begged her not to stray
With many a warning word.

But little goosey was perverse,
And eagerly did cry,
"I've got a lovely pair of wings,
Of course I ought to fly."

The poem obviously references Alcott's own upbringing and the influence of her parents, but it also references her lack of success before Little Women. Owl characters in the poem note, "No useful egg was ever hatched / From transcendental nest." But the little goose was determined and soon is able to fly. Here, the poem directly addresses Niles, who inspired and pushed Alcott to write the book that became her most famous:

At length she came unto a stream
Most fertile of all Niles,
Where tuneful birds might soar and sing
Among the leafy isles.

Here did she build a little nest
Beside the waters still,
Where the parental goose could rest
Unvexed by any bill.

And here she paused to smooth her plumes,
Ruffled by many plagues;
When suddenly arose the cry,
"This goose lays golden eggs."

At the revelation of the goose's golden eggs, her previous critics, including fellow fowl, change their tune and begin praising the awkward little goose ("Rare birds have always been evoked / From transcendental nests!"). In fact, her newly converted supporters demanded she keep laying more and more golden eggs. After a while, however, she refused:

So to escape too many friends,
Without uncivil strife,
She ran to the Atlantic pond
And paddled for her life.

Soon up among the grand old Alps
She found two blessed things,
The health she had so nearly lost,
And rest for weary limbs.

But still across the briny deep
Couched in most friendly words,
Came prayers for letters, tales, or verse,
From literary birds.

Whereat the renovated fowl
With grateful thanks profuse,
Took from her wing a quill and wrote
This lay of a Golden Goose.

Despite her promises to herself, however, Alcott did find time to write during her vacation. While she was in Rome, she completed the sequel to her book, Little Men. Still, she also enjoyed the rest she so desperately desired. In the same letter to Niles, she concluded, "I am rising from my ashes in a most phoenix-like manner."

Bierce: a selfish motive and a real benevolence

Tom Hood, editor of the British humor magazine Fun, asked Ambrose Bierce to contribute something appropriate for that publication. The commission was specifically to match a series of engraved illustrations already prepared for the weekly. The first of a series of "Fables of Zambri the Parsee" was published on July 13, 1872 under the curious byline "Dod Grile."

The fables Bierce produced were short, often featuring anthropomorphic animals, and usually ended with a tongue-in-cheek moral. The first fable included a letter to the editor from "Grile," revealing that these were merely translations and that the best of them were "quite equal to the worst of those written by the late Mr. Aesop." The series continued until March of 1873.

The first was "The Nobleman and the Oyster" and featured a man purchasing an oyster from a gypsy. "You must try to forgive me for what I am about to do," the man said to the oyster, preparing to eat it. "Opportunity is the strongest of all temptations," he says, and admits that he is a hungry orphan. Hearing this, the oyster replies that he is genuinely pleased to comfort him, considering his previous owner (the gypsy woman) would not eat him, knowing "we couldn't agree."

"I think, said the nobleman, rising and laying down the oyster, "I ought to know something more definite about your antecedents before succouring you. If you couldn't agree with your mistress, you are probably no better than you should be."

People who begin doing something from a selfish motive frequently drop it when they learn that it is a real benevolence.

Death of Burnham: To us is the weeping

Though born in New Hampshire, it was in Cambridge, Massachusetts that Samuel Burnham died on June 22, 1873. The son of a deacon and nephew to several ministers, Burnham was a poet, teacher, historian, and editor for such publications as the Congregational Quarterly and the Watchman and Reflector. At his death, he was working on a history of the Old South Meeting House in Boston.

Even from his college years, Burnham was frequently ill and physically weak, resulting in his abandoning of classes (Williams College granted him a degree anyway). "If I get well, to God will be all the praise," he wrote; "if not, I hope and pray that I may be prepared to submit cheerfully to anything he may have in store for me." Friends agreed that he made up for his ill health by having an unshakeable optimism and convivial personality. When his health recovered, he pursued his literary pursuits, contributing to a wide variety of magazines and periodicals. When he lapsed back into ill health at the end of his life, the doctor told him he would not recover. "It is all right," he responded. When he died at age 40, his final utterance was recorded as, "Beautiful!" His "Decoration Hymn" (addressed to soldiers of the Civil War):

They rest from the conflict, their labor is ended,
   Their battles are fought and their victories gained;
Their spirits heroic to God have ascended,
   Their memory is left us with honor unstained.

Beneath the green sod their bodies are sleeping,
   Above them in beauty the dewy grass waves,
While comrades this day are sacredly keeping,
   And strewing with flowers, their glorious graves.

We know that our flowers will wither and perish,
   Our flags too, will droop in the still summer air;
But deep in our hearts their memory we'll cherish,
   With love that the passing years ne'er will impair.

To us is the weeping, while theirs is the glory;
   From danger and duty they ne'er turned aside;
Heroic their deeds and immortal their story,—
   They fought for their country, and conquering, died.

No longer they listen the tramp of the legions
   That steadily marched to the field of the dead,
From East and from West, and from far distant regions,
   Resistless in numbers and firm in their tread.

Yes, honor and glory for them are eternal,
   The nation they ransomed their memory will keep;
Fame's flowers immortal will bloom ever vernal
   O'er the graves where our heroes in glory now sleep.

Death of Sarah Hale: I must bid farewell

Sarah Josepha Hale was 89 years old when she finally retired as "editress" from the extremely popular Godey's Lady's Book; she had served in that role for 40 years, becoming one of the most influential women of letters of the period. In her final editorial column, she wrote, "I must bid farewell to my countrywomen, with the hope that this work of half a century may be blessed to the furtherance of the happiness and usefulness in their Divinely appointed sphere." She died a year and four months later on April 30, 1879 at her Locust Street home in Philadelphia. She was 90 and interred at Laurel Hill Cemetery.

Hale was mostly an editor and did not create substantial content, though she did write short sketches, poems (including "Mary's Lamb"), novels, and editorials. She also used her role to advocate for various fundraising efforts, including the completion of the Bunker Hill Monument, the restoration of Mount Vernon, and raising money for the Perkins School for the Blind. She also advocated for the celebration of Thanksgiving as a national holiday celebrated on a Thursday in November. She believed strongly in the pure spirit of women and cautioned against their joining the public sphere, getting involved with politics, and the like. She nevertheless championed various reforms for women's health and women's education. She also must have supported women getting jobs; she began her role as a writer and editor specifically to support her family after the death of her husband.

The year before her death, at a family celebration of her 90th birthday, Hale presented a poem she had written for the occasion:

Growing old! growing old! Do they say it of me?
Do they hint my fine fancies are faded and fled?
That my garden of life, like the winter-swept tree,
Is frozen and dying, or fallen and dead?

Is the heart growing old, when each beautiful thing,
Like a landscape at eve, looks more tenderly bright,
And love sweeter seems, as the bird's wan'dring wing
Draws nearer her nest at the coming of night?

Is the mind growing old when with ardor of youth,
  Through the flower walks of Wisdom, new paths it would try,
And seek, not for shells from the ocean of truth,
  But the pearl of great price which the world cannot buy?

Is the soul growing old? See the planet at even,
  When rising at morn, melts in glory above!
Thus, turning from earth, we creep closer to Heaven,
  Like a child to her father's warm welcoming love.

Does the mortal grow older as years roll away?
  'Tis change, not destruction;—kind winter will bring
Fresh life to the germ and perfect it,
  Decay holds the youth bud IMMORTAL, and heralds its spring.

Growing old! growing old! Can it ever be true,
  While joy for life's blessings is thankful and warm.
And hopes sown for others are blooming anew,
  And the Rainbow of Promise bends over the storm?

Growing old! growing old! No, we never grow old
  If, like little, children we trust in the WORD,
And, reckoning earth's treasures by Heaven's pure gold,
  We lay our weak hands on the strength of the LORD.

Cranch and Story: poesy and art and mirth

Both Christopher Pearse Cranch and William Wetmore Story dabbled in art and poetry — and were successful in each field. They became particularly close in the 1850s. The two men went to Europe at the same time and spent time together in Rome, Paris, and London. In 1855, Cranch described Story as "a good, constant and warm-hearted friend, and congenial to all my tastes."

Story was particularly known as a sculptor, and Cranch praised his work and particularly the statue of Cleopatra, which he concluded was "great. I have seen no modern statue, American or European, that impressed me so much." Story, in turn, convinced Cranch to continue his series of writings for children (the "Huggermugger" series) and even secured his publisher.

Cranch reportedly had a portrait of Story in the study at his home on Ellery Street in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Story, in turn, sketched Cranch at least twice (one is pictured above, the other is here). Story made Europe his permanent home, however, and Cranch seldom saw him. Expressing his lament over the distance, Cranch wrote a poem (or, more accurately, a sonnet) to his artist friend, dated April 9, 1870, and titled "To W. W. S.":

So many years have passed, so far away
You seem, since arm in arm and eye to eye
We talked together, while the great blue sky
Of Rome smiled over us day after day,
Or on the flower-starred villa grounds we lay
Beneath the pines, while poesy and art
And mirth lent us one common mind and heart.
So long ago! while we are growing gray,
And neither knows the life the other leads,
Shut in our separate spheres of thought and change.
Friend of my youth, how oft my spirit needs
The old, responsive voice! Silence is strange,
That so conspires with Time. O, let us break
The spell, and speak, at least for old love's sake!

Gibson as chaplain: it seems rather novel

It was not until March 7, 1876, that Ella Elvira Gibson received payment from the United States Treasurer for her services as a chaplain during the Civil War. Though born in Massachusetts, she was living in Wisconsin and organizing charitable societies for soldiers' aid. This work, along with her lecture experience (she reportedly gave nearly 300 lectures in 1858 alone) inspired a recommendation for a chaplaincy with the First Wisconsin Heavy Artillery Regiment, then stationed at Fort Lyon in Virginia. The governor of Wisconsin himself, James T. Lewis, advocated the appointment.

When President Abraham Lincoln heard of this possibly appointment in 1864, he wrote to the Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton, "Miss Ella Elvira Gibson would be appointed chaplain... only that she is a female.The President has not legally anything to do with such a question, but he has no objection to her appointment."

Stanton apparently did not offer his approval. Even so, Gibson stepped into the role and performed its duties admirably — without pay but with the full support of the soldiers and officers until she was officially granted the title — but still no pay. Her job included offering three sermons every Sunday and on various weekdays (outdoors, as there was no chapel) as well as oversight of funerals and support in the hospitals. The soldiers reported on her efforts positively; one wrote home, "It seems rather novel to have a female chaplain, but I suppose if [she] is suited, we ought to be."

In 1869, Congress passed a bill authorizing payment to Gibson. The move, however, was controversial and met with several delays. Finally, 15 years after she first began her services, she received $1,210.56. Her health, however, was greatly affected by the exposure to the elements she endured without an indoor space; her appeal for a pension as an invalid, however, was denied. Gibson was also a published poet and an advocate for Free Thought after the war.

Death of Cary: I want to go away

Alice Cary was 51 when she died on February 12, 1871, never able to finish her final poem. Her last words were recorded as, "I want to go away." She was buried in Brooklyn's Green-Wood Cemetery; her pallbearers included showman P. T. Barnum and newspaperman Horace Greeley. Her sister and fellow poet Phoebe Cary died a few months later.

Alice knew her death from tuberculosis was coming soon and many of her later writings (and recorded conversations) refer to her readiness to die and her religious conviction. In a collection of her works published shortly after her death,  her last completed poem, excluding the incomplete one written a few days before her death, was included with the title "Her Last Poem":

Earth with its dark and dreadful ills,
    Recedes and fades away;
Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills;
    Ye gates of death, give way!

My soul is full of whispered song,—
    My blindness is my sight;
The shadows that I feared so long
    Are full of life and light.

My pulses faint and fainter beat,
    My faith takes wider bounds;
I feel grow firm beneath my feet
    The green, immortal grounds.

The faith to me a courage gives.
    Low as the grave to go, —
I know that my Redeemer lives, —
    That I shall live I know.

The palace walls I almost see
    Where dwells my Lord and King.
O grave, where is thy victory?
    O death, where is thy sting?

The rainbow comes but with the cloud

As she was on her death bed, Alice Cary allegedly wished she could live only ten more years. "I wouldn't ask for more time [than that]. I would live such a different life," she said, according to her sister Phoebe Cary, "I would never shut myself up in myself again." Her friends became her greatest delight. Shut out from the world in the final stage of tuberculosis, she took solace in hearing what others were doing, particularly their plans for the future. She began to see God in her friends, and anticipated meeting them again in the afterlife.

At the same time, Alice stayed committed to her role as a poet. One local publication expected a contribution from her every month and, diligently, on the first of every month she wrote a new poem. On the first of February that year, however, she was unable to write, nor even dictate a new poem. Finally, after a few days, she asked to be helped into a chair. It was February 7, 1871, and it was to be Alice Cary's last poem. Her hand trembled and she dropped her pen in the attempt. She only finished one stanza:

As the poor panting hart to the water-brook runs,
   As the water-brook runs to the sea,
So earth's fainting daughters and famishing sons,
   O Fountain of Love, run to Thee!

She attempted another poem which ended, "The rainbow comes but with the cloud." But Alice died peacefully in her sleep five days later. She was 51 years old. Her younger sister Phoebe joined her in death only a few months later.

Clodfelter: farewell, on earth, farewell

"I suppose it is natural for every parent to weep for his child," wrote Indiana poet Noah J. Clodfelter in a footnote, "but the ties that bound me to this little one certainly were strong, and if I were foolishly attached, it is a weakness for which I am innocently to be pitied." Clodfelter's son Byron (named after the poet) had died on January 27, 1879 at the age of 3 years, 7 months, and 28 days (as the mourning father meticulously recorded). "If there is any affection stronger than parental affection, I hope to never be fully acquainted with it." Clodfelter's poem "In Memoria" is dedicated to Byron and was written within 20 days after the boy's death:

Our home is sad since death came there,
               And bore our brilliant star away,
Our pride, our joy, our constant care,
               The hope of our declining day.

I weep, we weep, I know not why,
               But still we weep with hope and love,
Yet knowing, as I know, to die
               Is but to live with God above.

What hope, Oh, glorious hope, to think,
               Upon the river's golden side
Our friends stand waiting on the brink,
               To welcome us beyond its tide.

Methinks I see my little boy,
               With hands extended to me now,
As if in ecstacy of joy,
               To press fond kisses on my brow.

The narrative voice of the poem, Clodfelter himself, notes that time might "efface to some degree" the sadness felt by the boys' parents, but notes in particular that the branch torn from the [family] tree is particularly sorrowful. For now, their thoughts center on the lost child who "breathes" in "all things 'round us," particularly the vacant chair which Clodfelter sees rocking in his dreams. They conclude, however, that he was "too pure and fair for earth." The thought of reuniting in heaven gives him a bit of a boost:

A bleak cold world 'twould be indeed,
               If I but tho't I'd never meet
My little child — my heart would bleed
               Until its pulses ceased to beat.

I have an interest now in heaven,
               I never felt I had before,
And have had since that fatal even,
               That death came thro' our chamber door

But little Byron e'er will dwell
               Within our spirits, O, how true,
We can but say on earth farewell,
                But then 'tis sad this short adieu.

But now farewell, on earth, farewell,
               My little boy, farewell to you,
Soon will I go to thee and dwell,
               And there forget this sad adieu.

Lucas on Lee: Lie still in glory!

Though Robert E. Lee had died in October 1870, Virginia poet Daniel Bedinger Lucas did not write his poem to the former General of the Confederate Army until January 19, 1871 — the day on which Lee would have celebrated his 64th birthday. The three part, 110-line poem "The Death of Lee" praises Lee as "the greatest man," "the greatest spirit," both in war and in peace, and finally as a paragon. Lucas seemed particularly pleased that Lee had died in the "autumn" of his life, "ere age could tame" him.

In the poem, Lee's role as a general portrays him as an underdog ("twice baptized in blood"), struggling with firm resolve against a superior foe, though accepting his victories with modesty ("Then, from the summit smiled on those who stood / Below, and simply said, 'I did the best I could!'"). However, both in success and in defeat, Lee held one major trait which Lucas praised:

Success, defeat, a truer meaning have:
   'Tis Virtue dominates eternally.
'Tis Virtue makes the freeman or the slave,
   From whose green heights of wingless victory,
Our hero, conquered—only shone the more,
As, half-eclipsed, the moon burns ruddier than before!

Those who were more literally enslaved might quibble with Lucas somewhat, the poem is more focused on Lee's character than his accomplishments. He "clamored not for rank nor place," was never envious, never "betrayed a friend, nor laid a rival low." He was never vindictive, never loved war, and hid a tenderness in his heart. Because in his life he was so simple, so down to earth, Lucas writes, "we magnify him dead!" Whether true or not, the poem leaves Lee without fault in his whole life (though Lucas opens a window for a potential rising of the Confederacy, in which the spirit of Lee will return and lead the new war):

Lie still in glory! hero of our hearts,
   Sleep sweetly in thy vaulted chapel-grave!
The splendor of the far-excelling stars departs—
   Not so the lustre of the godlike brave!
Thy glory shall not vanish, but increase,
Thou boldest son of war, and mildest child of peace!

Lie still in glory! patient, prudent, deep!
   O, central form in our immortal strife,
With an eternal weight of glory, sleep
   Within her breast, who gave thee name and life!
Lie very still! no more contend with odds!
Transcendent among men—resplendent with the gods!

Lie still in glory! faithful, fervent, strong!
   Perchance the land we love shall need a name:
Perchance the breath of unresisted wrong
   Shall blow enduring patience into flame:
If so, thy name shall leap from star to star
In thunder, and thy sleeping army wake to war!

I am not in the imitation business

Mark Twain was not too happy to be accused of writing "a feeble imitation" of Bret Harte's poem "The Heathen Chinee" (published as "Plain Language from Truthful James" the previous year). He addressed his accuser, Thomas Bailey Aldrich of the Every Saturday in Boston, with a letter dated January 15, 1871. The actual parody poem, "The Three Aces: Jim Todd's Episode in Social Euchre," was about "a euchre game that was turned into a poker & a victim betrayed into betting his all on three aces when there was a 'flush' out against him," according to Twain. The poem had recently been published in a Buffalo newspaper, immediately drawing attention in New York and beyond. To Aldrich, he admitted he would never have written the "echo" of Harte, as he was accused:

I have had several applications from responsible publishing houses to furnish a volume of poems after the style of 'Truthful James' rhymes. I burned the letters without answering them, for I am not in the imitation business.

In fact, said Twain, the actual poet was "Hy Slocum" or "Carl Byng," both pseudonyms of Frank M. Thorn, who had been contributing to the Buffalo Express. Twain had been a part owner of that newspaper since 1869. After calling him a "plagiarist," Twain also vowed to make sure neither Byng nor Slocum (nor Thorn) was ever published in the Buffalo Express again.

Twain had second thoughts about sending such a cranky letter to Aldrich and only a few days later wrote him again, begging him not to publish the letter. By the time that request reached Aldrich, it was too late. 42,000 copies of the next issue of Every Saturday were already printed — including Twain's letter under the headline "Twain says he didn't do it." More than that, other newspapers began reprinting the works of "Hy Slocum" and "Carl Byng" as other pen names of Mark Twain. He was not bothered by it, however, and he and Aldrich continued their correspondence and, eventually, became good friends.

Rhodes: The surface of the moon

The first descriptions of the Lunarians, the native inhabitants of the moon, were described by a 9-year old boy named Johnny Palmer in San Francisco on January 9, 1876. "When fully grown," according to Johnny, "they resemble somewhat a chariot wheel, with four spokes, converging at the center or axle." The axle is the creature's head, which has four eyes, and the spokes are its limbs. They come in various colors — or races — including bright red, orange, and blue.

The surface of the moon is all hill and hollow. There are but few level spots, nor is there any water visible. The atmosphere is almost as refined and light as hydrogen gas. There is no fire visible, nor are there any volcanoes. Most of the time of the inhabitants seems to be spent in playing games of locomotion, spreading themselves into squares, circles, triangles, and other mathematical figures. They move always in vast crowds. No one or two are ever seen separated from the main bodies. The children also flock in herds, and seem to be all of one family. Individualism is unknown. They seem to spawn like herring or shad, or to be propagated like bees, from the queen, in myriads. Motion is their normal condition. The moment after a mathematical figure is formed, it is dissolved, and fresh combinations take place, like the atoms in a kaleidoscope. No other species of animal, bird, or being exist upon the illuminated face of the moon.

Johnny observes the moon, and other astronomical phenomena, without the use of any scientific equipment. Due to a malformed eye (it is almost flat), he can only see things which are at least 240,000 miles away. He has no vision of objects closer and, because of this, his parents assumed he was blind. The truth was discovered by a committee of scientists sent from the California College of Scientists.

A little over a month after these experiments, a journalist (the narrator of the story) pays a visit to the remarkable boy, with heaps of sugar candy to coax his story out of him. The journalist secures permission for the boy to use a powerful telescope and observe the surface of Mars.

The description comes from the short story "The Telescopic Eye" by William Henry Rhodes (who often wrote under the pseudonym "Caxton"). Born in North Carolina, educated at Harvard, he made his living in Texas and California, though his first book was published in New York in 1846. His story "The Telescopic Eye," published in 1876, has the air of "The Great Moon Hoax," a series from the New York Sun in 1835, usually attributed to Richard A. Locke.

OH! brother loved, thy name's forever dear

Noah Clodfelter wrote that he wished his name always be remembered with the name of his brother, A. N. Clodfelter.* His brother died of tuberculosis, however, on January 7, 1879. He was 24. The elder Clodfelter dedicated a massive three-part poem, "Humphrey's Forest," to his deceased brother:

OH! brother loved, thy name's forever dear,
It is inscribed in living letters here,
How oft I've marked this dear old pensive tree,
That bears the name so plainly here of thee;
Could smiles avert the tears from off my face,
Whene'er I tread upon this sacred place,
And read that name forever dear to me,
Thy own initials, brother, A. N. C.

The poem uses the forest — and, more specifically, the single tree upon which Clodfelter's brother has inscribed his initials — as a place to remember the man's time on earth, but also to look heavenward. The poem, which stretches across parts of 16 pages in the collection Early Vanities, is deeply personal while also being universally hopeful. The poem continues:

Time's sweetest wing has sped forever on,
And left our records blank and quite unknown,
Gaze back upon the idle hours enjoyed,
And see how well they might have been employed,
But then the days of youth are not for fame,
But merely to applaud the merry game;
Blessed be the day when science first does gain,
And crush bad thoughts from out thy youthful brain.
When mediocre's jests will only tease
The once lost minds they did so truly please —
But vernal winds that shake the verdant leaf,
You thrill me with that lone and solemn grief,
That time has wrought and clasped so firm on me,
Since we did jest beneath this old beach tree.
But, oh! to me, how changed and how sublime,
Is such a change that teaches me to rhyme,
And you to dive in murky depths to find,
What seems beyond the comprehensive mind...

In what seems like an endless series of rhyming couplets, Clodfelter continues seeing the passage of time, the passage of life to death in the tree, further emphasized when he finds his father's initials also carved there. The passing of generations also reminds him that the past can never be retrieved and that some will be remembered, others forgotten. From the second part of the poem:

In Humphrey's Woods the blooming wreaths will grow
While lasts the valleys, or the fountains flow,
I long while walking tho' those sober scenes,
To see them often in my vision'd dreams,
I'll call them up whene'er my mind's oppress'd,
To give me solace and to give me rest,
I'll think how oft I've roamed from shade to shade,
In search of game within this sylvan glade... 

*It seems that the majority of the Clodfelter men used merely their initials rather than their full names. Noah, for example, most often signed his work N. J. Clodfelter.