HE WHO differs from the world in important matters should be the more careful to conform to it in insignificant ones.

PHILOSOPHY and the nymph Echo never let you have the last

word.

THE belief in immortality is by no means incompatible with the belief in atheism: for the same Necessity which in this life threw my shining dewdrop of Me into a flower-bell and under a sun, can repeat the process in a second life; indeed, it can embody me more easily the second time than the first.

MEN deny the existence of God with as little feeling as the most affirm it. Even in our true systems we are constantly collecting mere words, counters and medals, as misers do coins; and not till late do we convert the words into feelings, the coins into enjoyments. A man may believe in the immortality of the soul for twenty years, and not till in the one-and-twentieth, in a great moment, be amazed at the rich contents of this belief, the warmth of this naphtha-well.

CHILDHOOD, and its terrors rather than its raptures, take wings and radiance in dreams, and sport like fireflies in the little night of the soul. Do not crush these flickering sparks!

IT is a fine thing that authors, even those who deny the immortality of their souls, seldom dare to contest that of their names; and as Cicero affirmed that he would believe in another life even if there were none, so they wish to cling to the belief in the future eternal life of their names, although the critics may have furnished positive proofs to the contrary.

LET us not despise the slender thread upon which we and our fortune may depend. If, like the spider, we have spun and drawn it out of ourselves, it will hold us quite well; and we may hang on it safely as the tempest tosses us and the web uninjured to and fro.

POVERTY is the only burden which grows heavier when loved ones help to bear it.

THE human body is a musical instrument, in which the Cremona chords are twisted out of living intestines, and the breast is the sounding-board and the head the damper.

SINCE there are in our world so many delicate and Divine sentiments hovering about, so many rich blossoms unfolding and bearing no seed, it is fortunate that poesy was invented to preserve all these unborn spirits and the fragrance of flowers in its halo.

IF YOU are an author, picture to yourself the best man, one who cherishes in his heart all that is most holy and most beautiful, and never suffers anything impure to enter there; then take your pen and strive to enrapture this imaginary reader.

MAN is like horse-radish: the more it is grated the more it bites. The satirist is sadder than the jester, for the same reason that the orang-outang is more melancholy than the monkey,because he is nobler.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

(1852-)

AMES WHITCOMB RILEY, the western-American dialect poet, is one of the younger writers who have given to the newer native literature a quality expressive of interesting and typical local conditions. A man of the people, he has in his homely and heartfelt song uttered their joys and sorrows,- -to be repaid by the affectionate admiration of his Indiana Hoosier folk and by a wide popularity throughout the United States. Riley's work is honestly a product of the soil. It reflects the life of the Middle West, and at its best calls for recognition as something more than social documents; namely, as lyric utterance vital with feeling and full of a truly democratic sympathy for common humanity.

JAMES W. RILEY

Riley was born in 1852 in Greenfield, Indiana, a small town twenty miles from Indianapolis. His father, a country lawyer, wished his son to read for that profession: but it took the latter, after a course at the village school, but a short time to learn that Blackstone was not for him, and he ran away from home with a patent-medicine and concert wagon, it being his function to beat the bass-drum; then he worked at the trade of sign-painting, coming back to Greenfield to do some experimental journalism on a local paper, the failure of which sheet sent him to Indianapolis, where his labors on the Journal of that city resulted in a connection which introduced him as a writer and brought him fame and fortune. Riley's boyhood in the little town, with its simple honest ways, among his kin and comrades, is described in the autobiographic book 'A Child World' (1897). His upbringing was typical of the place and time, and richly has he made use in his writings of these early experiences. For a while Riley used the penname "B. F. Johnson of Boone" in signing his Journal contributions; and a great deal of his verse and prose first appeared in the columns of that paper,- the rapidly thrown off "copy" of the practical newspaper man. Yet this long apprenticeship helped Riley to acquire the firm technique, the grasp on the art of verse-making, which he now possesses.

Since Riley has come into prosperity and fame he has returned to Greenfield, and purchased and fitted up for his summer home the old family residence, endeared to him by so many associations. He is in demand all over the country as a reader, his gifts as a platform speaker being remarkable. A tour made with the late humorist Bill Nye was very successful. A friend thus describes his personal appearance: "In physical stature he is below the average height. His complexion is fair. His hair has never changed from the flaxen whiteness of boyhood. His eyes are large, light-blue, wide open, and marvelous in their expression. His face is smooth-shaven; his attire neat and fashionable. To his friends, to all the associations, interests, and memories of his life, he is profoundly, patriotically loyal."

His literary bow as a maker of poems was made in 1883, when he was turned thirty, with the volume entitled 'Old Swimmin' Hole.' It was brought out by an Indianapolis firm, the Bowen-Merrill Company, which has continued to issue Riley's books; although the Century Company of New York in 1893 published a handsome volume of his representative lyrics, Poems Here at Home.' That maiden volume, with its quaint verse depicting the rustic haunts and characters he knew as a lad, pleased the public, and Riley's road was smooth thereafter. Other collections of poems, typical of the man and his quality, are 'Afterwhiles' (1887), 'Old-Fashioned Roses' (1888), 'Pipes o' Pan' (1889), Green Fields and Running Brooks' (1893). Riley's publications also include several volumes of humorous prose sketches; but this side of his work, when compared with his poetry, is unimportant. His most winning verse is that which blends pathos and humor. His dialect pieces have made him most broadly known, and his choicest in this kind are admirable. He catches the idiom of the middle-class home, and interprets the homely human heart with sure divination. He chose this medium of expression because he wished to speak for and of the plain people, and believed this the most direct and honest way As he says himself, "I went among the people: I learned their wants, their sufferings, their joys; and I put them into rhyme." But it would be a mistake to regard Riley exclusively as a dialect poet. The Poet of the Future,' for example, with its healthy democratic teaching, its vigorous lilt, its unforced melody, is one of numerous inspiring poems written in more conventional English. This is true too of the exquisite sonnet, 'When She Comes Home,' showing what lovely work he can do in one of the most difficult of verse forms; while his 'Away' is another illustration of his tender simplicity which makes magic effects. Riley believes that"The tanned face, garlanded with mirth, It hath the kingliest smile on earth; The swart brow, diamonded with sweat, Hath never need of coronet.»

He is a genuine people's poet; and although his work suffers here and there from prolixity and suggests the pressure of over-production, he is, judged by his highest accomplishment (as every literary maker should be), a true singer, who has contributed authentically to the content of American letters.

[All the following poems are quoted from 'Afterwhiles,'-copyright 1887, by James Whitcomb Riley,—and are reprinted by permission of The BowenMerrill Co., publishers.]

With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand,

He has wandered into an unknown land,

And left us dreaming how very fair

It needs must be, since he lingers there.

And you-O you, who the wildest yearn
For the old-time step and the glad return,—

Think of him faring on, as dear

In the love of There as the love of Here;

And loyal still as he gave the blows

Of his warrior strength to his country's foes.

Mild and gentle, as he was brave,

When the sweetest love of his life he gave

To simple things: where the violets grew
Pure as the eyes they were likened to,

The touches of his hands have strayed

As reverently as his lips have prayed;

When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred
Was dear to him as the mocking-bird;

And he pitied as much as a man in pain

A writhing honey-bee wet with rain.

Think of him still as the same, I say:
He is not dead - he is just away!