The Longfellow War — 1902 historical reading — reading text

And again — It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.” Mr. Coleridge says, (running two lines into one); “For all averred I had killed the bird that made the breeze to blow, ‘Ah, wretch!’ said they, ‘the bird to slay, that made the breeze to blow.’ ” And again — “They all averred I had killed the bird, that brought the fog and mist, ‘ ’T was right,’ said they, ‘such birds to slay, that bring the fog and mist.’ ” The “rather quaint” is ingenious. Fully one-third of whatever effect “The Raven” has, is wrought by the quaintness in question — a point elaborately introduced to accomplish a well-considered purpose. What idea would Outis entertain of me, were I to speak of his defence of his friends as very decent, very respectable, but rather meritorious? In the passages collated, there are two points upon which the “snarling critic” might base his insinuation — if ever so weak a “snarling critic” existed. Of these two points one is purely hypothetical — that is to say, it is disingenuously manufactured by Mr. Longfellow's acquaintance to suit his own purposes — or perhaps the purposes of the imaginary snarling critic. The argument of the second point is demolished by my not only admitting it, but insisting upon it. Perhaps the least tedious mode of refuting Outis, is to acknowledge nine-tenths of everything he may think proper to say. But, in the present instance, what am I called upon to acknowledge? I am charged with imitating the repetition of phrase in the two concluding lines of a stanza, and of imitating this from Coleridge. But why not extend the accusation, and insinuate that I imitate it from every body else? for certainly there is no poet living or dead who has not put in practice the identical effect — the well-understood effect of the refrain. Is Outis’ argument to the end that I have no right to this thing for the reason that all the world has? If this is not his argument, will he be kind enough to inform me (at his leisure) what it is? Or is he prepared to confess himself so absurdly uninformed as not to know that whatever a poet claims on the score of original versification, is claimed not on account of any individual rhythmical or metrical effects (for none are individually original), but solely on account of the novelty of his combinations of old effects? The hypothesis, or manufacture, consists in the alteration of Coleridge's metre, with the view of forcing it into a merely ocular similarity with my own, and thus of imposing upon some one or two grossly ignorant readers. I give the verses of Coleridge as they are: For all averred, I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow, Ah, wretch, said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow. The verses beginning, “They all averred,” etc., are arranged in the same manner. Now I have taken it for granted that it is Outis’ design to impose the idea of similarity between my lines and those of Coleridge, upon some one or two grossly ignorant individuals: at the same time, whoever attempts such an imposition is rendered liable at least to the suspicion of very gross ignorance himself. The ignorance or the knavery are the two uncomfortable horns of his dilemma. Let us see. Coleridge's lines are arranged in quatrains — mine in couplets. His first and third lines rhyme at the closes of the second and fourth feet — mine flow continuously, without rhyme. His metre, briefly defined, is alternately tetrameter acatalectic and trimeter acatalectic — mine is uniformly octameter catalectic. It might be expected, however, that at least the rhythm would prove to be identical — but not so. Coleridge's is iambic (varied in the third foot of the first line with an anapæst) — mine is the exact converse, trochaic. The fact is, that neither in rhythm, metre, stanza, or rhyme, is there even a single point of approximation throughout; the only similarity being the wickedly or sillily manufactured one of Outis himself, appealing from the ears to the eyes of the most uncultivated classes of the rabble. The ingenuity and validity of the manufacture might be approached, although certainly not paralleled, by an attempt to show that blue and yellow pigments standing unmixed at separate ends of a studio, were equivalent to green. I say “not paralleled,” for even the mixing of the pigments, in the case of Outis, would be very far, as I have shown, from producing the supposititious effect. Coleridge's lines, written together, would result in rhymed iambic heptameter acatalectic, while mine are unrhymed trochaic octameter catalectic — differing in every conceivable circumstance. A closer parallel than the one I have imagined, would be the demonstration that two are equal to four, on the ground that, possessing two dollars, a man will have four when he gets an additional couple — for that the additional couple is somewhere, no one, after due consideration, will deny. If Outis will now take a seat upon one of the horns of his dilemma, I will proceed to transcribe the third variation of the charges insinuated through the medium of the “snarling critic.”(1) The first point to be attended to is the “ten to one that I never saw it before.” Ten to one that I never did — but Outis might have remembered that twenty to one I should like to see it. In accusing either Mr. Aldrich or Mr. Hood, I printed their poems together and in full. But an anonymous gentleman rebuts my accusation by telling me that there is a certain similarity between a poem of my own and an anonymous poem which he has before him, and which he would like to transcribe if it were not too long. He contents himself, therefore, with giving me, from this too long poem, three stanzas which are shown, by a series of intervening asterisks, to have been culled, to suit his own purposes, from different portions of the poem, but which (again to suit his own purposes) he places before the public in consecutive connexion! The least that can be said of the whole statement is that it is deliciously frank — but, upon the whole, the poem will look quite as well before me, as before Outis, whose time is too much occupied to transcribe it. I, on the other hand, am entirely at leisure, and will transcribe and print the whole of it with the greatest pleasure in the world — provided always that it is not too long to refer to — too long to have its whereabouts pointed out — as I half suspect, from Outis’ silence on the subject, that it is. One thing I will take it upon myself to say, in the spirit of prophecy: — whether the poem in question is or is not in existence (and we have only Nobody's word that it is), the passages as quoted, are not in existence, except as quoted by Outis, who in some particulars, I maintain, has falsified the text, for the purpose of forcing a similarity, as in the case of the verses of Coleridge. All this I assert in the spirit of prophecy, while we await the forthcoming of the poem. In the meantime, we will estimate the “identities” with reference to the “Raven” as collated with the passages culled by Outis — granting him everything he is weak enough to imagine I am in duty bound to grant — admitting that the poem as a whole exists — that the words and lines are ingenuously written — that the stanzas have the connexion and sequence he gives them — and that although he has been already found guilty of chicanery in one instance, he is at least entirely innocent in this. He has established, he says, fifteen identities, “and that, too, without a word of rhythm, metre, or stanza, which should never form a part of such comparison” — by which of course we are to understand that with the rhythm, metre, and stanza (omitted only because they should never form a part of such comparison) he would have succeeded in establishing eighteen. Now I insist that rhythm, metre and stanza, should form and must form a part of the comparison, and I will presently demonstrate what I say. I also insist therefore, since he could find me guilty if he would upon these points, that guilty he must and shall find me upon the spot. He then, distinctly, has established eighteen identities — and I proceed to examine them one by one. “First,” he says “in each case the poet is a broken-hearted lover.” Not so: — my poet has no indication of a broken heart. On the contrary he lives triumphantly in the expectation of meeting his Lenore in Aidenn, and is so indignant with the raven for maintaining that the meeting will never take place, as to call him a liar, and order him out of the house. Not only is my lover not a broken-hearted one — but I have been at some pains to show that broken hearts and matters of that kind are improperly made the subject of poems. I refer to the last chapter of an article entitled “Marginalia” and published, in the last December number, I believe, of the” Democratic Review.” “Second,” says Outis, “that lover longs for some hereafter communion with the bird.” In my poem there is no expression of any such longing — the nearest approach to it is the triumphant consciousness which forms the thesis and staple of the whole. In Outis’ poem the nearest approach to the “longing” is contained in the lover's request to the bird to repeat a strain that assures him (the lover) that it (the bird) has known the lost mistress. “Third — there is a bird, “says Outis. So there is. Mine however is a raven, and we may take it for granted that Outis’ is either a nightingale or a cockatoo. “Fourth, the bird is at the poet's window.” As regards my poem, true; as regards Outis’, not: — the poet only requests the bird to come to the window. “Fifth, the bird being at the poet's window, makes a noise.” The fourth specification failing, the fifth, which depends upon it, as a matter of course fails too. “Sixth, making a noise attracts the attention of the poet.” The fifth specification failing, the sixth, which depends upon it, fails, likewise, and as a matter of course, as before. “Seventh, [the poet] was half asleep, dozing, dreaming.” False altogether: only my poet was “napping,” and this in the commencement of the poem, which is occupied with realities and waking action. Outis’ poet is fast asleep and dreams everything. “Eighth, the poet invites the bird to come in.” Another palpable failure. Outis’ poet indeed asked his bird in; but my raven walked in without any invitation. “Ninth — a confabulation ensues.” As regards my poem, true; but there is not a word of any confabulation in Outis’. “Tenth — the bird is supposed to be a visiter from the land of spirits.” As regards Outis’ poem, this is true only if we give a wide interpretation to the phrase “realms of light.” In my poem the bird is not only not from the world of spirits, but I have specifically conveyed the idea of his having escaped from “some unhappy master” of whom he had caught the word “Nevermore” — in the concluding stanza, it is true, I suddenly convert him into an allegorical emblem or personification of Mournful Remembrance, out of the shadow of which the poet is “lifted nevermore.” “Eleventh — allusion is made to the departed.” Admitted. “Twelfth — intimation is given that the bird knew something of the departed.” True as regards Outis’ poem only. No such intimation is given in mine. “Thirteenth — that he knew her worth and loveliness.” Again — true only as regards Outis’ poem. It should be observed here that I have disproved the twelfth and thirteenth specifications purely for form's sake: — they are nothing more than disingenuous repetitions of the eleventh. The “allusion to the departed” is the “intimation,” and the intimation is that “he knew her worth and loveliness.” “Fourteenth — the bird seems willing to linger with the poet.” True only as regards my poem — in Outis’ (as quoted) there is nothing of the kind. “Fifteenth — there is a repetition, in the second and fourth lines, of a part, and that the emphatic part, of the