The Longfellow War — 1902 historical reading — reading text

above — He gave me a friend, and a true, true love, And the New Year will take ’em away. Old Year, you must not go, So long as you have been with us, Such joy as you have seen with us, Old Year, you shall not go. He frothed his bumpers to the brim; A jollier year we shall not see; But though his eyes are waxing dim, And though his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. Old Year, you shall not die; We did so laugh and cry with you, I've half a mind to die with you, Old Year, if you must die. He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o‘er; To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post haste, But he’ll be dead before. Every one for his own; The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New Year, blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own. How hard he breathes! Over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro: The cricket chirps: the light burns low ’Tis nearly one o'clock. Shake hands before you die; Old Year, we’ll dearly rue for you, What is it we can do for you? Speak out before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin — Alack! our friend is gone! Close up his eyes; tie up his chin; Step from the corpse and let him in That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door. I have no idea of commenting, at any length, upon this imitation; which is too palpable to be mistaken; and which belongs to the most barbarous class of literary piracy; that class in which, while the words of the wronged author are avoided, his most intangible, and therefore his least defensible and least reclaimable property, is appropriated. Here, with the exception of lapses, which, however, speak volumes, (such for instance as the use of the capitalized Old Year, the general peculiarity of the rhythm, and the absence of rhyme at the end of each stanza), there is nothing of a visible or palpable nature by which the source of the American poem can be established. But then nearly all that is valuable in the piece of Tennyson, is the first conception of personifying the Old Year as a dying old man, with the singularly wild and fantastic manner in which that conception is carried out. Of this conception and of this manner he is robbed. What is here not taken from Tennyson, is made up mosaically, from the death scene of Cordelia, in “Lear” — to which I refer the curious reader. In “Graham's Magazine” for February, 1843, there appeared a poem, furnished by Professor Longfellow, entitled “The Good George Campbell,” and purporting to be a translation from the German of O. L. B. Wolf. In “Minstrelsy Ancient and Modern by William Motherwell, published by John Wylie, Glasgow 1827,” is to be found a poem partly compiled and partly written by Motherwell himself. It is entitled “The Bonnie George Campbell.” I give the two side by side: (1)MOTHERWELL. Hie upon Hielands And low upon Tay, Bonnie George Campbell Rade out on a day. Saddled and bridled And gallant rade he; Hame cam his gude horse, But never cam he. Out cam his auld mither Greeting fu’ sair, And out cam his bonnie bride Rivin’ her hair. Saddled and bridled And booted rade he; Toom hame cam the saddle, But never cam he. “My meadow lies green, And my corn is unshorn; My barn is too big, And my baby's unborn.” Saddled and bridled And booted rade he; Toom hame cam the saddle, But never cam he. LONGFELLOW. High on the Highlands, And deep in the day, The good George Campbell Rode free and away. All saddled, all bridled, Gay gatments he wore; Home came his gude steed, But he nevermore. Out came his mother, Weeping so sadly; Out came his beauteous bride Weeping so madly. All saddled, all bridled, Strong armor he wore; Home came the saddle, But he nevermore. My meadow lies green, Unreaped is my corn, My garner is empty, My child is unborn. All saddled, all bridled, Sharp weapons he bore: Home came the saddle, But he nevermore! Professor Longfellow defends himself (I learn) from the charge of imitation in this case, by the assertion that he did translate from Wolff, but that Wofff copied from Motherwell. I am willing to believe almost anything rather than so gross a plagiarism as this seems to be — but there are difficulties which should be cleared up. In the first place how happens it that, in the transmission from the Scotch into the German, and again from the German into the English, not only the versification should have been rigidly preserved, but the rhymes, and alliterations? Again; how are we to imagine that Mr. Longfellow with his known intimate acquaintance with “Motherwell's Minstrelsy” did not at once recognize so remarkable a poem when he met it in Wolff? I have now before me a large volume of songs, ballads, etc. collected by Wolff; but there is here no such poem — and, to be sure, it. should not be sought in such a collection. No collection of his own poems has been published, and the piece of which we are in search must be fugitive — unless, indeed, it is included in a volume of translations from various tongues, of which O. L. B. Wolff is also the author — but of which I am unable to obtain a copy.(1) It is by no means improbable that here the poem in question is to be found — but in this case it must have been plainly acknowledged as a translation, with its original designated. How, then, could Professor Longfellow have translated it as original with Wolff? These are mysteries yet to he solved. It is observable — peculiarly so — that the Scotch “Toom” is left untranslated in the version of Graham's Magazine. Will it be found that the same omission occurs in Wolff's version? In “The Spanish Student” of Mr. Longfellow, at page 80, will be found what follows: Scene IV. — Preciosa's chamber. She is sitting with a book in her hand near a table, on which are flowers. A bird singing in its cage. The Count of Lara enters behind, unperceived. Preciosa reads. All are sleeping, weary heart! Thou, thou only sleepless art! Heigho! I wish Victorian were here. I know not what it is makes me so restless! [The bird sings. Thou little prisoner with thy motly coat, That from thy vaulted, wiry dungeon singest, Like thee I am a captive, and, like thee, I have a gentle gaoler. Lack-a-day! All are sleeping, weary heart! Thou, thou only sleepless art All this throbbing, all this aching, Evermore shall keep thee waking, For a heart in sorrow breaking Thinketh ever of its smart! Thou speakest truly, poet! and methinks More hearts are breaking in this world of ours Than one would say. In distant villages And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, And grow in silence, and in silence perish. Who hears the falling of the forest leaf? Or who takes note of every flower that dies? Heigho! I wish Victorian would come. Dolores! [Turns to lay down her book, and perceives the Count.] Ha! Lara. Señora, pardon me. Preciosa. How's this? Dolores! Lara. Pardon me — Preciosa. Dolores! Lara. Be not alarmed; I found no one in waiting. If I have been too bold — Preciosa [turning her back upon him]. You are too bold! Retire! retire, and leave me! Lara. My dear lady, First hear me! I beseech you, let me speak! ’Tis for your good I come. Preciosa [turning toward hint with indignation]. Begone! Begone! You are the Count of Lara, but your deeds Would make the statues of your ancestors Blush on their tombs! Is it Castilian honor, Is it Castilian pride, to steal in here Upon a friendless girl, to do her wrong? O shame! shame! shame! that you, a nobleman, Should be so little noble in your thoughts As to send jewels here to win my love, And think to buy my honor with your gold! I have no words to tell you how I scorn you! Begone! The sight of you is hateful to me! Begone, I say! A few passages farther on – in the same scene — we meet the following stage directions: — “He tries to embrace her, she starts back and draws a dagger from her bosom.” A little farther still and “Victorian enters behind.” Compare all this with a “Scene from Politian, an Unpublished Tragedy by Edgar A. Poe,” to be found in the second volume of the “Southern Literary Messenger.” The scene opens with the following stage directions: A lady's apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden. Lalage in deep mourning, reading at a table, on which lie some books and a hand mirror. In the background, JACINTA learn carelessly on the back of a chair. ... Lalage reading. “It in another climate, so he said, Bore a bright golden flower but not i’ this soil. [Pauses, turns over some leaves, and then resumes.] No ling’ring winters there, nor snow, nor shower, But ocean ever, to refresh mankind, Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind.” Oh, beautiful! most beautiful! how like To what my fever‘d soul doth dream of Heaven! O happy land! [pauses.] She died — the maiden died — O still more happy maiden who couldst die. Jacinta! [Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes. Again a similar tale, Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea! Thus speaketh one Ferdinand i’ the words of the play, “She died full young” — one Bossola answers him “I think not so; her infelicity Seemed to have years too many.” Ah luckless lady! Jacinta! [Still no answer.] Here's a far sterner story But like, oh very like in its despair, — Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily A thousand hearts, losing at length her own. She died. Thus endeth the history, and her maids Lean over her and weep — two gentle maids With gentle names, Eiros and Charmion. Rainbow and Dove — Jacinta! ... [Jacinta finally in a discussion about certain jewels, insults her mistress, who bursts into tears.] Lalage. Poor Lalage! and is it come to this? Thy servant maid! — but courage! — ’t is but a viper Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul! [Taking up the mirror.] Ha! here at least's a friend — too much a friend In earlier days — a friend will not deceive thee. Fair mirror and true! now tell me, for thou canst, A tale — a pretty tale — and heed thou not Though it be rife with woe. It answers me. It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks, And beauty long deceased — remembers me Of Joy departed — Hope, the Seraph Hope Inurned and entombed! — now, in a tone Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible Whispers of early grave untimely yawning For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true! thou liest not! Thou hast no end to gain — no heart to break. Castiglione lied who said he loved — Thou true — he false! — false! — false! [While she speaks a Monk enters her apartment, and approaches unobserved.] Monk. Refuge thou hast Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things! Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray. Lalage. I cannot pray! — my soul is at war with God! [Arising hurriedly.] The frightful sounds of merriment below Disturb my senses — go, I cannot pray! The sweet airs from the garden worry me! Thy presence grieves me — go! — thy priestly raiment Fills me with dread — thy ebony crucifix With horror and awe! Monk. Think of thy precious soul! Lalage. Think of my early days! — think of my father And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home And the rivulet that ran before the door! Think of my little sisters! — think of them! And think of me! — think of my trusting love And confidence — his vows — my ruin — think — think Of my unspeakable miser! — begone! Yet stay! yet stay! what was it thou saidst of prayer And penitence? Didst than not speak of faith And vows before the throne? Monk. I did. Lalage. ’T is well. There is a vow were fitting should be made — A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent — A solemn vow. Monk. Daughter, this zeal is well. Lalage. Father!