The Man could be known—­and was—­of all men.  The Poet could be read—­as he was—­and he understood.  He could Sing—­as he did—­Songs which caught the Hearts of the People—­from the Cradle to the Grave!  The Mystic!

O!  James Whitcomb Riley!  That Mystic Element in your Nature!  It was held under a Strong Curb:  It was constantly held in Check:  But it was never Overcome!  It was a Mood—­not a Madness.  It seldom made an Outward Sign.  Then, it was brief, spasmodic, eratic.  It was known to but few, even of those who came with you, in constant contact.  To this Man, that Mystic Element in your Nature, made a most wonderful Appeal, deep, strong.  To him, it was the real James Whitcomb Riley!  You were a Mystic, but never a Reformer.  You cheerfully rendered unto Ceasar all things that were his just due.  You had no desire to overturn Natural Law, Human Regulation.  You accepted, without question, the Established Order of Things.  But so strong was this touch of the Mystic that, it you had desired, you could have, quickly, thickly, populated some far off Smiling Isle, of the Fair Summer Seas, with a Band of Cultured Men, of Cultured Women, ready, eager, to follow you—­that Mystic You! into the Creation of a New Cult, of a New Religion!  In your Poems there is but a trickle of the Mystic —­a flash a dash—­as the falling of a Star!  That Edgar Allen Poe Episode, is the Answer.  You were unduly humiliated by that Incident—­ —­and it was but as Nothing But your Super-Sensitiveness, made you Suffer!

O!  James Whitcomb Riley!  Death, hath yet other Compensations!  It has placed you Beyond the Cloy of Fulsome Praise:  Beyond the Sting of Cruel Blame:  the One, may not help You the Other, cannot hurt You!

O!  James Whitcomb Riley!  Once, when under the Spell of a Mystic Mood, you sought—­as you had often sought before—­that Wise Wizard of White River.  He met you, when you came into that Peaceful Indiana Valley—­where dwells this Wizard—­by the Flowing Fountain of those Healing Waters.  He knew your need; he spoke no unnecessary word; he quickly set his place in order, and was ready to go with you—­anywhere.  There had been, on your arrival, a clamor to have you Read that afternoon—­but the Wizard quietly slipped you away.  Out into the Open you drove, in an old Barouche, behind a Pair of Good Horses.  It was a long Drive; it was a beautiful Drive.  It was driven in Silence.  After several hours—­the spell was still upon you—­a sharp turn brought you to the Banks of White River; and there—­under a Clump of the Sycamore, of the Willow, in a deep, Shady Pool, an Eddy, undisturbed by the current of the broad, shallow Stream—­a Batch of Boys, swimming, chattering, diving.  “Stop” you said to the driver; “Come here” you called to the Lads.  They came trooping, dripping, out of the Pool.  A change came over you; flinging off your coat, your hat, you arose to your feet.