Riley and Garland: Dont y' Darst!

James Whitcomb Riley was not long involved with politics, but he visited Washington, D.C. and the White House in 1888 and advocated for international copyright. When his friend and fellow Hoosier stater Benjamin Harrison became President of the United States, there were rumors that Riley would get some kind of political appointment. Nothing came of these rumors but, years later, when William McKinley was President, rumors were renewed. Wisconsin-born writer Hamlin Garland warned his friend in a letter dated December 19, 1898:

There is some talk here of your going abroad as a consul — but dont y' do it. Dont y' Darst! You've got a bigger mission than t'go to any dam ol' forin port. 

Garland was playfully using the same kind of dialect Riley became known for in his poetry. Garland also couldn't resist a stab at another writer, Bret Harte, who had recently taken successive consul appointment in Germany and Scotland. After his political appointments were up, Harte stayed in Europe and settled in London — causing some critics to suggest that his time overseas took the American-ness out of him. As Garland writes to Riley:

You'll be like Bret Harte git fat an' forget what y'r country looks like — an you'll fergit the "County Ditch" an' Kingry's Mil an' all them thare things we like t' hear about.

Riley never was offered an appointment after all, and his work continued to utilize the same kind of folksy tone that Garland seemed to love, like that used in Riley's poem "Kingry's Mill":

On old Brandywine — about
Where White's Lots is now laid out,
And the old crick narries down
To the ditch that splits the town,—
Kingry's Mill stood. Hardly see
Where the old dam ust to be;
Shallor, long, dry trought o' grass
Where the old race ust to pass!

That's be'n forty years ago —
Forty years o' frost and snow —
Forty years o' shade and shine
Sence them boyhood-days o' mine—!
All the old landmarks o' town.
Changed about, er rotted down!
Where's the Tanyard? Where's the Still?
Tell me where's old Kingry's Mill?

Don't seem furder back, to me,
I'll be dogg'd! Than yisterd'y,
Since us fellers, in bare feet
And straw hats, went through the wheat,
Cuttin' 'crost the shortest shoot
Fer that-air old ellum root
Jest above the mill-dam — where
The blame' cars now crosses there!

Through the willers down the crick
We could see the old mill stick
Its red gable up, as if
It jest knowed we'd stol'd the skiff!
See the winders in the sun
Blink like they wuz wonderun'
What the miller ort to do
With sich boys as me and you!

But old Kingry—! Who could fear
That old chap, with all his cheer—?
Leanin' at the window-sill,
Er the half-door o' the mill,
Swoppin' lies, and pokin' fun,
'N jigglin' like his hoppers done—
Laughin' grists o' gold and red
Right out o' the wagon-bed!

What did he keer where we went—?
"Jest keep out o' devilment,
And don't fool around the belts,
Bolts, ner burrs, ner nothin' else
'Bout the blame machinery,
And that's all I ast!" says-ee.
Then we'd climb the stairs, and play
In the bran-bins half the day!

Rickollect the dusty wall,
And the spider-webs, and all!
Rickollect the trimblin' spout
Where the meal come josslln' out—
Stand and comb yer fingers through
The fool-truck an hour er two—
Felt so sorto' warm-like and
Soothin' to a feller's hand!

Climb, high up above the stream,
And "coon" out the wobbly beam
And peek down from out the lof'
Where the weather-boards was off—
Gee-mun-nee! w'y, it takes grit
Even jest to think of it—!
Lookin' 'way down there below
On the worter roarin' so!

Rickollect the flume, and wheel,
And the worter slosh and reel
And jest ravel out in froth
Flossier'n satin cloth!
Rickollect them paddles jest
Knock the bubbles galley-west,
And plunge under, and come up
Drippin' like a worter-pup!

And to see them old things gone
That I onc't was bettin' on,
In rale p'int o' fact, I feel
kindo' like that worter-wheel—,
Sorto' drippy-like and wet
Round the eyes — but paddlin' yet,
And in mem'ry, loafin' still
Down around old Kingry's Mill!

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.

Cawein to Riley: recognition of your genius

"Dear old boy," began Madison Cawein's telegram to James Whitcomb Riley, dated, January 25, 1912:

I want to be the first to congratulate you on receiving the gold medal for poetry. Great enthusiasm at Institute dinner over the award. Am proud of you over this national recognition of your genius.

The award in question was from the National Institute of Arts and Letters, an organization which Riley joined in 1908. Cawein was in attendance at that dinner, not because he had any hope of receiving the award but, as he wrote, "I want to be present on that occasion and see to whom the gold medal is to be presented." Cawein and the other voting members selected Riley unanimously. Riley himself, however, was not present; only two years before his award, Riley suffered a debilitating stroke that left him without the full use of his writing hand, but also in a deep depression. He was also still battling his alcoholism. But the very public admiration was a bit of a boost to him, and 1912 became an important year for the "Hoosier Poet."

He was asked, for example, to record himself reading some of his poems. By October of that year, the governor of Indiana declared Riley's birthday as Riley Day, and schools celebrated his poetry that day. In that year, he also re-published Rhymes of Childhood, which became his highest selling book. By 1913, he returned to public appearances with the aid of a cane.

Cawein wrote to a friend that Riley's gold medal was "the crown for his life work." He admitted that Riley should "feel proud of that medal, as doubtless he does, and should now be content to die, as perhaps he is." The year 1912 proved less fortunate for the Kentuckian poet Madison Cawein, however. His financial situation suffered miserably from the stock market crash, though he also began writing some of his most ambitious poems. Two years later, he was added to the relief list of the Authors Club before he died in 1914. Riley joined him in death two years later.

Birth of Riley, Hoosier Poet

James Whitcomb Riley was born October 7, 1849 in Greenfield, Indiana, a short ride from Indianapolis (where he spent his later years). Named after the previous governor of the state, Riley came to embody Indiana and has been claimed by his home state in a way unparalleled for any other writer of the period. As a boy, he was quiet and not very studious; by his 20th year, he had only completed a sixth grade education.

Riley struggled in his early adulthood, making a living with whatever job came his way (including as a huckster selling bogus medicines). Eventually, he became a bit of a local sensation as a poet and public reader celebrating Indiana culture. After some time, and even a poetic prank equal to his earlier huckstering, Riley became one of the most financially successful poets of the Gilded Age. Even as a nationally recognized figure, however, he was always an Indiana writer first and foremost — earning him the nickname "the Hoosier Poet."

One of his poems celebrating his Indiana boyhood remains among his most famous, "The Ole Swimmin' Hole," which illustrates his light-hearted verse and his Hoosier dialect:

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep
Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,
And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below
Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know
Before we could remember anything but the eyes
Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise;
But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,
And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole.

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore,
When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,
Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,
It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.
But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll
From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy-days
When the humdrum of school made so many run-a-ways,
How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,
Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane
You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole
They was lots o'fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole.
But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll
Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.

There the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,
And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;
And it mottled the worter with amber and gold
Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled;
And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by
Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,
Or a wounded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle
As it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'-hole.

Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place,
The scene was all changed, like the change in my face;
The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot
Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot.
And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be —
But never again will theyr shade shelter me!
And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,
And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole.

Today, the home where Riley was born and grew up in Greenfield, Indiana is open to the public as a museum. The town is also the host of an annual celebration for their native poet's birthday: the Riley Festival.

Stoddard: most favored of the gods

The Authors' Club in New York threw a dinner in honor of Richard Henry Stoddard on March 25, 1897. Edmund Clarence Stedman opened the evening with a welcoming address, calling Stoddard "the most distinguished poet of his country and generation." In a toast, Stedman asked for "the continued years, service, happiness of our strong and tender-hearted elder comrade, our white-haired minstrel, Richard Henry Stoddard."

In response, the 71-year old Stoddard himself stood (amid cheers) and recited a few lines from his poem "A Curtain Call." Several others offered short speeches and toasts. Perhaps the most memorable came from a relative up-and-comer named James Whitcomb Riley, who offered a poem "Your Height is Ours":

O Princely poet!—kingly heir
   Of gifts divinely sent,—
Your own!—nor envy anywhere,
   Nor voice of discontent.

Though, of ourselves, all poor are we,
   And frail and weak of wing,
Your height is ours—your ecstasy—
   Your glory, when you sing.

Most favored of the gods, and great
   In gifts beyond our store,
We covet not your rich estate,
   But prize our own the more.—

The gods give as but gods may do—
   We count our riches thus,—
They gave their richest gifts to you,
   And then gave you to us.

Riley on McCulloch: heroically voicing

Oscar C. McCulloch moved to Indianapolis from Wisconsin at a terrible time in the state's history. Hurt by a bank panic, its citizens were poverty-stricken and despondent. Becoming the minister of the Plymouth Congregational Church in 1877, he wanted to do something. He soon became one of the strongest charity organizers the state had ever seen.

McCulloch emphasized the need to focus on individual suffering, and to find the causes of poverty and other obstacles in life in order to address them. One of those causes, he initially believed, was genetic (early on, he was an advocate of eugenics) before realizing that anyone can fall on hard times, regardless of background. Seeking inspiration from his religion, he often called upon Biblical stories and parables of Jesus. "We can do nothing, unless we see, as he saw, the divine humanity in each one,— broken, disfigured, deformed, all but obliterated," McCulloch once wrote. "This, and this only, gives the impulse to personal charity... As each blade of grass differs from each other, so each nature is different from each other." He further saw inspiration in literature and his speeches are full of references to Walter Scott, Charles Dickens, and even Bret Harte.

When McCulloch died in 1891, Indiana poet James Whitcomb Riley honored him with a poem for his funeral; it was printed in the Indianapolis Journal on December 12, 1891 (two days after McCulloch's death). Titled simply as "Oscar C. McCulloch," the poem asks its readers to avoid "sighs and tears" and, instead, honor him by continuing his work:

What would best please our friend, in token of
    The sense of our great loss?—Our sighs and tears?
Nay, these he fought against through all his years,
    Heroically voicing, high above
Grief's ceaseless minor, moaning like a dove,
    The paean triumphant that the soldier hears,
Scaling the walls of death, midst shouts and cheers,
    The old Flag laughing in his eyes' last love.

Nay, then, to pleasure him were it not meet
    To yield him bravely, as his fate arrives?—
Drape him in radiant roses, head and feet,
    And be partakers, while his work survives,
Of his fair fame,—paying the tribute sweet
    To all humanity—our nobler lives.

Riley: sailing off, with never word at all

The "Hoosier Poet" James Whitcomb Riley had such difficulty getting published in his early career that he turned to gimmicks. Eventually, his first book was published by a friend named George C. Hitt, business manager of the Indianapolis Journal. When Hitt and his family set sail for Europe on October 15, 1890, Riley wrote a poem titled "The Whitheraways" for the family (he references each member of the family):

The Whitheraways!—That's what I'll have to call
You—sailing off, with never word at all
Of parting!—sailing 'way across the sea,
With never one good-bye to me—to Me!

Sailing away from me, with no farewell!—
Ah, Parker Hitt and sister Muriel—
And Rodney, too, and little Laurance—all
Sailing away—just as the leaves, this Fall!

Well, then, I too shall sail on cheerily
As now you all go sailing o'er the sea:
I've other little friends with me on shore—
Though they but make me yearn for you the more!

And so, sometime, dear little friends afar,
When this faint voice shall reach you, and you are
All just a little homesick, you must be
As brave as I am now, and think of me!

Or, haply, if your eyes, as mine, droop low,
And would be humored with a tear or so,—
Go to your Parents, Children! let them do
The crying—'twill be easier for them to!

O'Reilly and Riley: Beyond wonderment

After the death of Irish-born poet John Boyle O'Reilly (pictured), the "Hoosier Poet" James Whitcomb Riley was moved to write a memorial poem. The poem was dated three days after O'Reilly's death, August 13, 1890 (the day of his funeral, which Riley may have attended):

DEAD? this peerless man of men—
Patriot, Poet, Citizen!—
   Dead? and ye weep where he lies
      Mute, with folded eyes!

Courage! All his tears are done;
Mark him, dauntless, face the sun!
   He hath led you.—Still, as true,
      He is leading you.

Folded eyes and folded hands
Typify divine commands
   He is hearkening to, intent
      Beyond wonderment.

'Tis promotion that has come
Thus upon him. Stricken dumb
   Be your moanings dolorous!
      God knows what He does.

Rather, as your chief, aspire!—
Rise and seize his toppling lyre,
   And sing Freedom, Home and Love,
      And the rights thereof!

Ere in selfish grief ye sink,
Come! catch rapturous breath and think—
   Think what sweep of wing hath he,
      Loosed in endless liberty.

Years earlier, O'Reilly, who was editor of the Boston Pilot, had helped Riley break into the the literary scene of that city. At a time when he most needed it, O'Reilly offered high praise: "He has a rare quality as a writer," he wrote, and predicted his reputation would soon burst outside of his native Indiana. "Hoozierdom cannot hold his reputation locally. He will grow to be an American poet, or we know nothing of the signs of genius."

O noble, true and pure and lovable

In 1893, James Whitcomb Riley was traveling on a lecture tour of the United States. At some point, he stopped at his childhood home where a photograph was taken (shown above). The incident may have reminded him of his mother, Elizabeth Marine Riley, who had died in 1870. She had taught him to read and write as a boy and encouraged his creativity. Whether or not she was the inspiration for the sonnet "To Elizabeth" is uncertain, but the poem is listed as an "obit" and dated July 8, 1893:

O noble, true and pure and lovable
As thine own blessed name, Elizabeth!—
Aye, even as its cadence lingereth
Upon the lips that speak it, so the spell
Of thy sweet memory shall ever dwell
As music in our hearts. Smiling at Death
As on some later guest that tarrieth,
Too gratefully o'erjoyed to say farewell,
Thou hast turned from us but a little space—
We miss thy presence but a little while,
Thy voice of sympathy, thy word of cheer,
The radiant glory of thine eyes and face,
The glad midsummer morning of thy smile,—
For still we feel and know that thou art here.

In 1915, an edition of Riley's collected works was called the "Elizabeth Marine Riley Edition." Only 150 were produced and each set included hand-colored watercolor illustrations. If she inspired this particular poem or not, Riley's work often refers to mothers or motherhood, as in "When Mother Combed My Hair," "A Boy's Mother," "Being His Mother," and several others.

Dana and Riley: I do not like it at all

Critic (and former Brook Farmer) Charles Anderson Dana wrote to James Whitcomb Riley about "the great talent" in his poetry. He had accepted a couple of Riley's poems in previous issues of the New York Sun, including "Silence," but Dana's May 17, 1880 letter was not entirely positive. Dana roundly dismissed some of Riley's other submissions:

'The Wandering Jew' I return. It lacks both originality of imagination and finish of execution. 'Tom Johnson's Quit' I do not like at all. It has the radical defect of attempting to joke with a shocking subject.

"I was too profoundly impressed with my literary attainments," Riley later recalled. "I sent Dana blooming, wildwood verse. He pruned it and at first the pruning hurt, but afterward I saw the benefit." Riley was, after all, still struggling in his young career, and even resorted to gimmicks to get attention. Nevertheless, Riley took Dana's advice quite seriously and he later published a revised version of both rejected poems. "Tom Johnson's Quit," however, continued to joke about a shocking subject when it was published under the pseudonym John C. Walker. The poem is a satire of the temperance movement (ironic, considering Riley's own drinking problems), when townspeople hear the local drunk has given up alcohol:

Well, we was stumpt, an' tickled, too,—
  Because we knowed ef Tom hed signed
There wa'n't no man 'at wore the "blue"
  'At was more honester inclined:
An' then and there we kind o' riz,—
  The hull dern gang of us 'at bit—
An' th'owed our hats and let 'er whiz,—
      "Tom Johnson's quit!"

I've heerd 'em holler when the balls
  Was buzzin' 'round us wus'n bees,
An' when the ole flag on the walls
  Was flappin' o'er the enemy's,
I've heerd a-many a wild "hooray"
  'At made my heart git up an' git—
But Lord !—to hear 'em shout that way!—
      "Tom Johnson's quit!"

But when we saw the chap 'at fetched
  The news wa'n't jinin' in the cheer,
But stood there solemn-like, an' reched
  An' kind o' wiped away a tear,
We someway sort o' stilled ag'in,
  And listened—I kin hear him yit,
His voice a-wobblin' with his chin,—
      "Tom Johnson's quit—

"I hain't a-givin' you no game—
  I wisht I was! ... An hour ago,
This operator—what's his name—
  The one 'at works at night, you know?—
Went out to flag that Ten Express,
  And sees a man in front of hit
Th'ow up his hands an' stagger—yes,—
      Tom Johnson's quit!"

*The "blue ribbon" was used as a symbol by those who took temperance pledges. Recommended reading: James Whitcomb Riley: A Life (1999) by Elizabeth J. Van Allen.

Riley: children by Divine birthright

On April 2, 1904, Collier's Weekly published "The Children of the Childless" by James Whitcomb Riley. The Indiana-based poet (the "Hoosier Poet," as they called him), was then approaching 55 years old. That year he would receive an honorary doctorate from the University of Pennsylvania, following up another from Yale University two years earlier.

The Children of the Childless!—Yours—and mine.—
Yea, though we sit here in the pitying gaze
Of fathers and mothers whose fond fingers twine
Their children's locks of living gold, and praise
With warm, caressing palms, the head of brown,
Or crown
Of opulent auburn, with its amber floss
In all its splendor loosed and jostled down
Across
The mother-lap at prayer.—Yea, even when
These sweet petitioners are kissed, and then
Are kissed and kissed again—
The pursed mouths lifted with the worldlier prayer
That bed and oblivion spare
Them yet a little while
Beside their envied elders by the glow
Of the glad firelight; or wresting, as they go,
Some promise for the morrow, to beguile
Their long exile
Within the wild waste lands of dream and sleep.
Nay, nay, not even these most stably real
Of children are more loved than our ideal—
More tangible to the soul's touch and sight
Than these—our children by Divine birthright. . . .
These—these of ours, who soothe us, when we weep,
With tenderest ministries,
Or, flashing into smiling ecstasies,
Come dashing through our tears—ay, laughing leap
Into our empty arms, in Fate's despite,
And nestle to our hearts. O Heaven's delight!—
The children of the childless—even these!

Shortly after the turn of the century, Riley had been diagnosed with a nervous disorder and often turned to alcohol for relief. His poem above — uniquely experimental in structure as it is — is in marked contrast to the more light-hearted verses, as some commentators note, aimed to teach children moral lessons. Whatever "children" Riley referred to in this poem, he had none of his own and never married (though he was a devoted uncle).

Riley: the horror crept

August 1886 ended with a massive earthquake in Charleston, South Carolina. Though it lasted less than a minute, it caused substantial damage and some estimate over 100 people were killed.

Certainly, natural disasters inspire strong emotional responses in writers. Within 24 hours, on September 1, 1886, the Hoosier Poet James Whitcomb Riley wrote a poem about the disaster. It was published only a few days later in the Indianapolis Journal. The poem may be an unusual one in Riley's career. He is often considered a humorist or a children's poet and his verses usually reflect less serious topics.

"The Earthquake"
Charleston, September 1, 1886

An hour ago the lulling twilight leant
Above us like a gentle nurse who slips
A slow palm o'er our eyes, in soft eclipse
Of feigned slumber of most sweet content.
The fragrant zephyrs of the tropic went
And came across the senses, like to sips
Of lovers' kisses, when upon her lips
Silence sets finger in grave merriment.
Then—sudden—did the earth moan as it slept,
And start as one in evil dreams, and toss
Its peopled arms up, as the horror crept.
And with vast breast upheaved and rent across,
Fling down the storied citadel where wept,
And still shall weep, a world above its loss.

Cawein and Riley: bridging the gap

By the end of the 19th century, the so-called Fireside Poets were all dead, writers like Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, James Russell Lowell, John Greenleaf Whittier, and Oliver Wendell Holmes. But, with their deaths, who took their place as the greatest American poets?

Kentucky poet Madison J. Cawein earned the nickname "The Keats of Kentucky" and published over 1,000 poems. But, he looked to another as a leader among poets. To James Whitcomb Riley, he wrote on August 31, 1898:

You are surely making your way among the best readers of poetry; after the death of Holmes,—is borne in upon me more and more with every new book by you—that you are our greatest poet, the worthy successor and equal of our greatest,—Longfellow, Emerson, and Lowell. In all respect and honor to you I take my hat off... you are their equal, against odds, in literary art; and in my estimation surpass them often in truth, imagery and music:—winning, or having won, your way through your own efforts and inherent genius.

Cawein and Riley were part of a period in American poetry growing beyond the old-fashioned traditions of the Fireside Poets. In fact, when both died early in the 20th century, a critic noted in 1916 that they belonged to "the same school," an era of transition, "bridging the gap between the older poets, Longfellow, Lowell, Whittier and the rest." After their deaths, "that period may be said to have closed; and it was a period that deserves memory and respect."

Cawein once noted proudly "I have met all the poets that are poets at present in the United States." He listed Holmes and Lowell as people he visited at their homes but warned, "It would take too long to enumerate all the writers who have been my guests." From Cawein's poem "Beauty and Art":

The gods are dead; but still for me
  Lives on in wildwood brook and tree
Each myth, each old divinity...

To him, whose mind is fain to dwell
  With loveliness no time can quell,
All things are real, imperishable.

To him — whatever facts may say —
  Who sees the soul beneath the clay,
Is proof of a diviner day.

The very stars and flowers preach
  A gospel old as God, and teach
Philosophy a child may reach;

That cannot die; that shall not cease;
  That lives through idealities
Of Beauty, ev'n as Rome and Greece.

That lifts the soul above the clod,
  And, working out some period
Of art, is part and proof of God.

A great Poe hoax

A headline in the August 2, 1877 issue of The Dispatch announced the discovery of a "Hitherto Unpublished Poem of the Lamented Edgar Allan Poe." The poem had been discovered inside the fly-leaf of an old book, apparently written as a gift. "After a thorough investigation," the paper noted, it was confirmed as a "genuine production" of Poe's, one never before been seen by the public.

The poem, titled "Leonainie," was dropped off by "an uneducated, illiterate man" who seemingly knew nothing of the value of this discovery. The poem, it was reported, was written in such good handwriting that it resembled a typeface. The editor proudly noted the poem was printed "verbatim," as follows:

Leonainie — angels named her;
And they took the light
Of the laughing stars and framed her
In a smile of white:
And they made her hair of gloomy
Midnight, and her eyes of bloomy
Moonshine, and they brought her to me
In the solemn night.

In a solemn night of summer,
When my heart of gloom
Blossomed up to meet the comer
Like a rose in bloom;
All the forebodings that distressed me
I forgot as joy caressed me —
(Lying joy that caught and pressed me
In the arms of doom!)

Only spake the little lisper
In the angel-tongue;
Yet I, listening, heard her whisper, —
"Songs are only sung
Here below that they may grieve you —
Tales are told you to deceive you —
So must Leonainie leave you
While her love is young."

Then God smiled and it was morning,
Matchless and supreme;
Heaven's glory seemed adorning
Earth with its esteem:
Every heart but mine seemed gifted
With the voice of prayer, and lifted
Where my Leonainie drifted
From me like a dream.

The poem caused quite a stir, and word spread through major cities like New York, Cincinnati, Indianapolis, Boston, Chicago, Louisville... The problem? The poem is not by Edgar Allan Poe (though he would likely have enjoyed the ruse).

The whole thing was a hoax perpetrated by James Whitcomb Riley, who used the elaborate scheme to prove that good poems by unknown poets were ignored, whereas mediocre poems by well-known writers were accepted without question. The editor of The Dispatch was Riley's only accomplice.

James Whitcomb Riley: every hope serene

In his early career as a poet, James Whitcomb Riley struggled to get attention. He approached several newspapers to print his works, particularly in his home state of Indiana. Soon, he became one of the state's most famous writers, earning the nickname of "The Hoosier Poet."

Yet, in 1879, he was 29 years old and still struggled (he is pictured at right at age 28). It took the publication of a play to convince newspapers to publish his poetry. One such publication was The Indianapolis Saturday Herald, which published four of his poems in its July 26, 1879 issue: "Last Words," "At Bay," "A Worn-Out Pencil," and "God Bless Us Every One." The latter two were later included in book-length poetry collections in the author's lifetime; the first two never were.

"At Bay" directly addresses "Fate," who the narrator is ready to either embrace or "strike blow for blow." Fate is an enemy in the poem, and its narrator offers harsh words of threatened violence and vengeance. "You have crouched along my track like a hound," the poem says, as Fate blocks "every hope serene." After years of experience, however, the narrator is now ready to confront Fate "hand or fist."

For something completely different, "Last Words" is written in the voice of a woman:

He left me for a foreign land:
  I could not even free
One little tear to gem the hand
  That God had give me;
For "I will follow soon, my dear,"
  I laughed with girlish air, —
"The sun that cheers our pathway here
  Shall beam upon us there!"

And so we parted... Listen, God! —
  I may not even free
One little tear to dew the sod
  Where, sleeping peacefully,
He waits in foreign lands — my dear!
  But prophecy and prayer, —
"The sun that cheers our pathways here
  Shall beam upon us — there!"

Coates: For Death make room!

On May 31, 1889, the town of Johnstown, Pennsylvania suffered a massive flood when a neglected dam failed during a storm. The man-made Conemaugh Lake was released, dumping 20 million tons of water on the town. A stone bridge temporarily blocked the onslaught of water but as debris piled up a fire was sparked (it burned for three days). All in all, the disaster caused the death of over 2,200 people.

Philadelphia poet Florence Earle Coates was one of several who paid poetic tribute to the tragic event. Coates frequently published poems in periodicals but here first book, Poems, was published in 1898 and included "By the Conemaugh":

Foreboding sudden of untoward change,
   A tight'ning clasp on everything held dear,
A moan of waters wild and strange,
   A whelming horror near;
And, 'midst the thund'rous din a voice of doom, —
"Make way for me, O Life, for Death make room!

"I come like the whirlwind rude,
   'Gainst all thou hast cherished warring;
I come like the flaming flood
   From a crater's mouth outpouring;
I come like the avalanche gliding free —
And the Power that sent thee forth, sends me!

"Where thou hast builded with strength secure,
   My hand shall spread disaster;
Where thou hast barr'd me, with forethought sure,
   Shall ruin flow the faster;
I come to gather where thou hast sowed, —
But I claim of thee nothing thou has not owed!

"On my mission of mercy forth I go
   Where the Lord of Being sends me;
His will is the only will I know,
   And my strength is the strength He lends me;
Thy loved ones I hide 'neath my waters dim,
But I cannot hide them away from Him!"

Coates's poem is collected with several others which were written about the Johnstown Flood. The town's residents immediately set to rebuilding (rather than abandoning) and Clara Barton came to aid in their efforts.

Coates published a few other books. James Whitcomb Riley (who also wrote of a natural disaster around this time) said of her work, "The poems are truly poems because of their simple, natural inspiration. A new uplift and hopefulness comes with the reading of the volume — every line!"

*The image above depicts Johnstown after the flood. Photographers rushed to the scene to create stereograph images which were sold to tourists and others.