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The Letters of James Whitcomb Riley

REALIZING SUCCESS-1883-90

Edited, with Comment, by EDMUND H. EITEL

HE following group of letters represents the period in James Whitcomb Riley's life when he was coming into his own. In 1882 and 1883 he gained some reputation through "The Old Swimmin'-Hole" and other poems in Hoosier dialect, and through his public readings. Lecturing in the East and West now afforded him. the opportunity to meet such men as John Hay and Matthew Arnold, of whom he gives unforgetable pictures in the letters following. In 1886 Riley gave a few entertainments with the popular humorist, Bill Nye, and in 1887 he was invited to join some of the foremost authors of the country in a benefit performance in New York City in the interest of copyright reform. Riley was the unexpected delight of the occasion, and appeared not only upon the first program, but, by request, upon the second also. On the latter occasion Lowell paid him a notable tribute. In that same year, 1887, appeared Afterwhiles, the first collection of Riley's poems to be formally published. In the next year Riley's Old-Fashioned Roses was published in England. The enormously successful reading tours of Nye and Riley came at the end of this period.

The following letter was written to a young minister, Howard S. Taylor, who was an intimate correspondent of Riley's from the time he encouraged the struggling poet in the lonely year of 1879:

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I have heretofore fancied him, but rather slight in build, a fine face, and head, and a keen dark eye-sees clean down into the bowels of things. I regret that he is rich, and half way think he hates it. Says he would like to write more, but business vexations take up all his time. He was very kind and courteous, and has invited me to his Euclid Avenue home. And did you know that he was born in Indiana? At a little old town called Salem, which he laughingly said had never appeared in history till John Morgan and his men swept through there 'durin' the Army" and burnt it down. You would like him I am very sure.

I am dodgin' round a good 'eal o' country, Crawfordsville, and your brother John joined and only a few nights ago "argied" below and went along. He is a very lovely character, and I think we like each other wholly. Hastily, but always heartily yours,

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JAMESY.

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You must not look for this to be a letter, since I have but a minute or two to tell you that your last good letter only reached me after the longest while. Since I last wrote you I have been almost constantly upon road, with never an hour to call my own, and still denied the delight of talking with old friends by mail-and it's all so lonesome! Night time I always like, for then I talk to crowds; but through the days-hurry-worry -bother-bluster-anxiety-and hunger for companionship. Strangers to the right of me, strangers to the left of me and always the spiteful and convulsive jerking of the car, and the din and clangor of the wheels, and the yelp of wide-mouthed bells of passing trains, ad hysterium! How well I enjoyed your letter-even though it came so lateI think you will not guess, for I so like earnestness, and without that there never was, or is, or can be a true artist, either in painting, poetry, or music-all, all so very beau

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EUGENE FIELD, RILEY, AND BILL NYE AT THE TIME OF THEIR JOINT LECTURE IN 1886

tiful that all the world holds else is as a worthless prize, for these only can speak out the language of the soul and tell God what our mighty yearnings are. I hope you are still writing, and in that spirit, too, that has made the great advance it has for you since your first efforts attracted me. That is good. That is, or ought to be, a vast joy to you. It is all Keats ever had or could have. It is all there is of heaven down here, so be very, very glad and all content. I know I counsel better than I act, always-but sometimes just the song is all I want. And I would like to chirp a little now, but Fate says no, and so I hold my peace. Hastily but very faithfully and truly yours, J. W. RILEY.

To the Rev. Myron W. Reed, of Indianapolis, a minister of distinction and an intimate friend for many years, Riley described Matthew Arnold:

VOL. CXXXVI.-No. 816.-106

DEAR REED:

BOSTON, January, 1884.

I don't know whether you will like Matthew Arnold or not-I know you like some things he has written. Two or three days ago I met him, coming out of New York into Binghamton, and had some opportunity to inspect him-my way.

He is English thoroughly, though quite Scotch in appearance. Until you hear him speak, you would say Scotch. A tall, strong face, with a basement-story chin, and an eye eager, unconscious, restless; gray and not large. A heavy man physically, though not of extra flesh-simply a fine, manly skeleton. properly draped. He is self-sufficient, and yet trying to do better, on his own advice, not at all snobbish, and yet with hardly enough vanity to stand the criticism. He is a marked combination of learning, fancy, and matter-of-fact. An hour before we became acquainted I inspected him and saw his

colossal mind lost in the lore of the railroad guide same as if it were Homer in the original text. I noticed, too, that when he bought a three-cent paper he took back his two cents change and put it away as carefully as he would a fi'-pound note. He is poor, however, and I mention this only as an instance of a national characteristic which may perhaps have been inherited-only in these "Godbless-us-every-one" times I could but remark in mental aside, "Tis very good to be American!"

He seemed greatly pleased with all he saw and spoke honestly of his surprise at the country he found here. Was utterly stolid, however, and enjoyed it all like working a sum. Didn't parade himself—and wore arctics, and never forgot his umbrella. Much of the time, too, he was studying his lecture -in printed form-and ignoring the dailies that were having so much to say about him. I think he has no sense of humor whatever. A joke that tackled him would hide its head in shame, and skulk away and weep.

He is not the genius Irving is. Irving is the Englishman you will like clean through. You must see and hear them both-but Irving is the boss.

Hastily and heartily,

J. W. RILEY.

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I am advised by your secretary, Mr. Barrett Wendell, of my election as a member of The Papyrus Club; and through you I desire to convey to that honorable body my thanks for the great honor it confers.

As direct and practical as is the official statement of my good fortune, the reading of it holds and affects me with an interest and delight my pen stammers to express. Will you, therefore, bear kindly with me through the deviations of an extra page or two.

When three years ago I first strayed like a foundling out of this primitive quarter of the country, and at last found myself staring, mute and helpless, at the brazen dome of your capitol, not knowing the way to any hotel-to say nothing of The Revere House -I think I never better appreciated my own personal insignificance. In the great turbulent stream of humanity that selvedged Boston Common I missed the friendly faces of the butcher and baker of my native heath, and secretly yearned for some voice out of all the wrangle to accost me with an old-time "Hello, there!" "Howdy-do?" or anything. In fact, in that hopeless hour of my desolation I would eagerly have "answered to 'Hi!' or to any loud cry." But I was not

called upon. I was lost utterly; in search of myself I shambled off alone. The ground I got over was historical-sacred, indeed; but it didn't seem to awe a fellow like it ought. It was Harvey's Meditations over again to peer through the iron pickets of the Old Granary Churchyard and brood on the loveliness of death; to again envy Paul Revere, and other members of the Revolutionary Clique who had secured entrance there and were enjoying their exclusive privileges with such quiet dignity and reticence. Even the spire of the Old South Church could not stab so deeply into the spirit of my patriotism as to arouse it to anything like normal action-for it only gibed and sneered at me as a common sentimentalist all the way to Boston Harbor where I next took myself to investigate an old historical rumor, and it so scouted a like movement on Bunker Hill that I abandoned the venture-threw down my arms and skulked back into the city like the wraith of a disgusted Redcoat. All was vain. The sense of loneliness would not be dissipated, and so, in utter desperation, I cast myself bodily into the lair of an editor [John Boyle O'Reilly]. You yourself, Mr. President, know the unfortunate man; and you further know his failings of forbearance, and the ungovernable impulses that are forever luring him on to deeds of violent kindliness and irreparable acts of charity and goodliness of the deepest dye. At that time I didn't know he was a member of your club, but I did know it, of a truth, the morning later-which was Sunday afternoon, by the way, when I awoke to greet it! But I anticipate! (now— I didn't then). The gentleman had asked me, in our interview, if I could meet him that (Saturday) evening at the Revere. I said I could—and I did. And there it was I was introduced to a merry convention of gentlemen who were balloting for a new president. This is the genesis of my first meeting with the Papyrus Club. And I wish I could recall all the jovial happenings of the occasion, but I can't. My memory that night even, had to drop back and pant everyonce-in-a-while. But I remember clearly that the club collectively and individuallystruck the target-center of my loftiest ideal of what a club should be. Editor and poet, I recall, happily combined, and witty paragraph and graceful verse were there as man and wife. I remember that the preacher and the dramatist were there, each loving the other all the more for the righteousness of his ambition and the religion of worksermon or comedy. And there, too, were the artist and the business man, not feeling sorry for each other in the least, but, indeed, heartily applauding Art and Enterprise alike,

and each happy fellow betting on the other as just his kind of a man. And the author and publisher were there, and mingling, too, with a warmth of affection suggestive of that glorious time when the monkey and the parrot shall lie down together, etc., etc. And the doctor and his patient, they were there, each permitting the other to eat and drink anything and everything in the broad range of the menu, and in whatever quantity his appetite or inclination might suggest. And a hundred other happy things do I remember; but head and front of all is my remembrance of the thanks I failed then to happily express, and the thanks I now as vainly seek a fitting voice for. Therefore, I beg you, Mr. President, in response to the newer honor shown me, to assure The Papyrus Club of my warmest gratitude and my fondest earnest love and allegiance for all time. Fraternally, J. W. RILEY. Riley was ready to publish a second book in 1884. With the en

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couragement of John Boyle O'Reilly, he assembled ten of his prose sketches, since they promised to sell better as a book than poetry.

This volume appeared in the following year as The Boss Girl, with the imprint of The Bowen-Merrill Company of Indianapolis.

In the mean time, having no better book, Riley sent his little "homespun volume," The Old Swimmin'-Hole and 'Leven More Poems, to Robert Browning with this letter:

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lectic poems or rhymes, rather, in the "Hoosier" idiom-the same as faithfully reproduced as a lifetime's acquaintance with a simple wholesome people and their quaint vernacular enables me to portray it.

For years I have believed that unusual poetical material, in fairly rich veins, lies in this country region, and a music, too, however rude, in the quaint speech of the people; and in the specimen I beg you to accept should you find any even trivial evidence of the truth of the theory I will be glad.

May I express in this way my individual thanks out of the universal gratitude so justly yours? Reading your poems I have better learned to love all Nature's musicthe mighty pæan of the Thunders, and the gentle laughter of the children.

And I have found a hale delight in the contemplation of your purely rustic studies -your faithful reproduction of the humble country people, and (as most wholesomely it seems) their dialect of thought and character as well as speech. And so it is I beg you

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I was glad to get your letter, however, and will try to build a little one in reply. I am lying flat on my gifted back and writing with my toes. I wrote to Mr. McIntyre and McConnell yesterday, but concealed my real condition knowing both would encourage me to die-one wanting to funeralize and the other to obituarize.

You ask for my life, but I'd rather give you my money. I am a blonde of fair complexion, with an almost ungovernable trend for brunettes. Five feet-six in height -though last state fair I was considerable higher than that-in fact, I was many times taken for old High Lonesome, as I went about my daily walk. I am a house,

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OLD SEMINARY," AT GREENFIELD, INDIANA, WHERE RILEY WAS EDUCATED

Riley is the first figure at the left

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