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!