The raven. With literary and historical commentary by John H. Ingram

THE RAVEN

BY

EDGAR ALLAN POE

WITH

lifoarg anft Ststnriral

BY

JOHN H. INGRAM

>tf

i L "^
''A^***

LONDON

GEORGE REDWAY
YORK STREET COVENT GARDEN NX

1885

X-

<b

DRYDEN PRESS :
J. DAVY AND SONS, n?, LONG ACRE, LONDON.

To

STEPHANE MALLARME,

Parts,

EDUARD ENGEL,

Berlin,

AND

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN,
New York,

translator of antr Commentators on
"^te flaton,"

This Volume is Inscribed by

JOHN H. INGRAM.

PREFACE.

DGAR FOE'S Raven may safely be
termed the most popular lyrical poem
in the world. It has appeared in all
shapes and styles, from the little penny 'Glasgow
edition to the magnificent folios of Mallarme in
Paris and Stedman in New York. The journals
of America and Europe are never weary of
quoting it, either piece-meal or in extenso, and
no collection of modern poetry would be deemed
complete without it. It has been translated and
commented upon by the leading literati of two
continents, and an entire literature has been
founded upon it. To make known that litera-
ture, and to present the cream of it in a com-
prehensive and available form, is the object of
this little volume.

JOHN H. INGRAM.

April, 1885.

I*

CONTENTS.

PAGE

GENESIS i

THE RAVEN, WITH VARIORUM READINGS ... 17

HISTORY 24

ISADORE ... ... ... ... ... ... 35

TRANSLATIONS: FRENCH ... ... ... 40

„ GERMAN ... 58

„ HUNGARIAN 74

„ LATIN 79

FABRICATIONS 84

PARODIES ... ... ... ... ... 94

BIBLIOGRAPHY 123

INDEX ' 124

GENESIS.

HELLEY'S exclamation about Shakespeare,
" What a number of ideas must have been
afloat before such an author could arise ! "
is equally applicable to the completion of a
great poem. How many fleeting fancies must have
passed through the poet's brain ! How many crude
ideas must have arisen, only to 'be rejected one
after another for fairer and fitter thoughts, before
the thinker could have fixed upon the fairest and
fittest for his purpose ! Could we unveil the various
phases of thought which culminated in The Sensitive
Plant, or trace the gradations which grew into The
Ancient Mariner, the pleasure of the results would even
rival the delight derived from a perusal of the poems
themselves.

"A history of how and where works of imagination
have been produced," remarked L. E. L., "would often
be more extraordinary than the works themselves."
The "where" seldom imports much, but the "how"
frequently signifies everything. Rarely has an attempt
been made, and still more rarely with success, to in-
vestigate the germination of any poetic chef tfxuvre :
Edgar Poe's most famous poem — The Raven — has, how-
ever, been a constant obje'ct of such research. Could

2 Genesis.

the poet's own elaborate and positive analysis of the
poem — his so styled Philosophy of Composition — be
accepted as a record of fact, there would be nothing
more to say in the matter, but there are few willing to
accept its statements, at least unreservedly. Whether
Edgar Poe did— as alleged — or did not profess that his
famed recipe for manufacturing such a poem as The
Raven was an afterthought — a hoax — our opinion will
not be shaken that his essay embodies, at the most, but
a modicum of fact. The germs of The Raven, its pri-
mitive inception, and the processes by which it grew
into a " thing of beauty," are to be sought elsewhere.
" I have often thought," says Poe, " how interesting
a magazine paper might be written by any author who
would— that is to say, who could — detail, step by step,
the processes by which any one of his compositions
attained its ultimate point of completion ... Most
writers— poets in especial — prefer having it understood
that they compose by a species of fine frenzy — an
ecstatic intuition — and would positively shudder at
letting the public take a peep behind the scenes at
the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought —
at the true purposes seized only at the last moment —
at the innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not
at the maturity of full view — at the fully matured
fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable — at the
cautious selections and rejections — at the painful
erasures and interpolations — in a word, at the wheels
and pinions — the tackle for scene-shifting — the step-
ladders and demon-traps — the cock's feathers, the red
paint and the black patches, which, in ninety-nine
cases out of the hundred, constitute the properties
of the literary ftistrio"

Genesis. 3

Besides the unwillingness there is, also, as Poe
acknowledges, frequently an inability to retrace the
steps by which conclusions have been arrived at : the
gradations by which his work arrived at maturity are
but too often forgotten by the worker. " For my own
part," declares Poe, " I have neither sympathy with
the repugnance alluded to, nor, at any time, the least
difficulty in recalling to mind the progressive steps of
any of my compositions."

Having made so positive a declaration the poet
attempts to prove its trustworthiness by assuming to
show the modus operandi by which The Raven was
put together. The author of The Balloon Hoax ; of
Von Kempelen and his Discovery ; of The facts in the
Case of M. Valdemar, and of other immortal hoaxes,
confidingly assures us that it is his design to render
manifest that no one point in the composition of his
poetic master-piece The Raren, " is referrible either
to accident or intuition" and "that the work proceeded,
step by step, to its completion with the precision and
rigid consequence of a mathematical problem."
^ From the premises thus precisely laid down, Edgar
Poe proceeds to trace step by step — phase by phase —
to their logical conclusion, the processes by which his
famous poem was manufactured. . We not only doubt,
we feel assured that The Raven was not built entirely
upon the lines thus laid down. Some commentators —
notably Mr. William Minto, in a remarkably thought-
ful and original essay* — have elected to place entire
reliance upon Poe's statements, as given in The Philo-
sophy of Composition ; we, for reasons to be given, can

* The Fortnightly Review, July 1st, 1880.
B 2

4 Genesis.

only regard them as the result of an afterthought, as
the outcome of a desire — or perhaps of a necessity —
to produce an effect ; to create another sensation.

Those unable or unwilling to accept the poet's
theory for The Raven's composition have diligently
sought for the source of its inspiration — for the germ
out of which it grew. To satisfy this desire for in-
formation many fraudulent statements and clumsy
forgeries have been foisted on the public : these things
will be referred to later on, for the present they are
beside our purpose. Among the few suggestions worth
noticing, one which appeared in the Athenceum* re-
quires examination. In The Gem for 1831, it is
pointed out, appeared two poems by Tennyson, "in-
cluded, we believe, in no collection of the poet's
works. The first poem is entitled No More, and
seems worthy, in all respects," says the writer, "of
preservation." It reads thus : —

" Oh sad No More ! oh sweet No More !
Oh strange No More !

By a mossed brook bank on a stone

I smelt a wildweed-flower alone ;

There was a ringing in my ears,

And both my eyes gushed out with tears.
Surely all pleasant things had gone before,
Low-buried fathom deep beneath with thee, No More !"
The other poem, entitled Anacreontic, contains the
name of Lenora. " It is not suggested," says the
writer, "that Poe took from these verses more than
the name Lenora or Lenore, and the burden ' Never
More.' The connection of the two in The Raven

* No. 2473, page 395, March 2Oth, 1875.

Genesis. 5

renders all but certain that the author had come
across the book in which the poems appear."

Whether or no Poe ever saw The Gem for 1831,
is almost immaterial to inquire, but that so common
a poetic phrase as " No More" supplied him, fourteen
years later, with his melancholy burden of " Never
MqreJ' no one can believe. In truth, for many years
" No More " had been a favorite refrain with Poe : in
his poem To One in Paradise, the publication of which
is traceable back to July, 1835, is the line,

" No more — no more — no more ! "
In the sonnet To Zante, published in January, 1837,
the sorrowful words occur five times,

" No MORE ! alas, that magical sad sound

Transforming all ! "

whilst in the sonnet To Silence, published in April,
1840, "No More" again plays a leading part. The
first at least of these three poems there is good reason
to believe had been written as early as 1832 or 1833.
As regards Poe's favorite name of Lenore, an early
use of it may be pointed out in his poem entitled
"Lenore," published in the Pioneer for 1842, the
germ of the said poem having been first published
in 1831.

We are now about to touch more solid ground.
In 1843 Edgar Poe appears to have been writing for
The New Mirror, a New York periodical edited by
his two acquaintances, G. P. Morris and N. P. Willis.
In the number for October the i4th appeared some
verses entitled Isadore : they were by Albert Pike, the
author of an Ode to The Mocking Bird 'and other pieces
once well-known. In an editorial note by Willis, it
was stated that Isadore had been written by its author

6 Genesis.

"after sitting up late at study,— the thought of losing
her who slept near him at his toil having suddenly
crossed his mind in the stillness of midnight."

Here we have a statement which must have met
Poe's gaze, and which establishes the first coincidence
between the poems of Pike and of The Raverfs author :
both write a poem lamenting a lost love when, in fact,
neither the one has lost his " Isadore " nor the other
his " Lenore " : — the grief is fictitious. In The Philo-
sophy of Composition Poe states that he selected for
the theme of his projected poem, "a lover lament-
ing his deceased mistress." Pike, we are told by
Willis, in the statement certainly seen by Poe, wrote
his lines " in the stillness of midnight" " after sitting
up late at study," and the initial stanza of The Raven
begins, —
" Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered,

weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume."

The key-note has been struck, and all that follows
is in due sequence. Poe, in his Philosophy of Compo-
sition, says that when he had determined upon writing
his poem, " with the view of obtaining some artistic
piquancy " in its construction, 1" some pivot upon
which the whole structure might turn," he did not fail
to at once notice that of all the usual effects, or points,
adopted by writers of verse, "no one had been so
universally employed as that of the refrain. The
universality of its employment," he declared " sufficed
to assure me of its intrinsic value, and spared me the
necessity of submitting it to analysis." _\ Now it may
be noticed in passing that the refrain was neither uni-
versal— nor common, save with ballad makers — up to

Genesis. 7

Poe's days, and that either of those attributes would
have sufficed to repel him — whose search was ever
after the outre — the bizarre. But the truth was Poe
found as the most distinctive — the only salient —
feature in his contemporary's poem the refrain,
" Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore."

Naturally, Poe's genius impelled him to improve
upon the simple repetend : " I considered it," he says,
" with regard to its susceptibility of improvement, and
soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. V" As com-
monly used the refrain, or burden, not only is limited
to lyric verse, but depends for its impression upon the
force of monotone — both in sound and thought. The
pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of identity —
of repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten
the effect, by adhering in general to the monotone of
sound, while I continually varied that of thought : that
is to say, I determined to produce continuously novel
effects, by the variation of the application of the refrain
— the refrain itself remaining, for the most part, un-
varied.

" These points being settled," continues Poe, " I
next bethought me of the nature of my refrain. Since
its application was to be repeatedly varied it was clear
that the refrain itself must be brief, for there would
have been an insurmountable difficulty in frequent
variations of application in any sentence of length.
In proportion to the brevity of the sentence would of
course be the facility of the variation. This led me
at once to a single word as the best refrain.

" The question now arose," pursues the poet, " as
to the character of the word. Having made up my
mind to a refrain, the division of the poem into stanzas

8 Genesis.

was of course a corollary, the refrain forming the
close to each stanza. That such a close, to have
force, must be sonorous and susceptible of protracted
emphasis, admitted no doubt, and these considera-
tions inevitably led me to the long o as the most
sonorous vowel in connection with r as the most pro-
ducible consonant.

" The sound of the refrain being thus determined
it became necessary to select a word embodying this
sound, and at the same time in the fullest possible
keeping with that melancholy which I had predeter-
mined as the tone of the poem. In such a search,"
avers Poe, " it would have been absolutely impossible
to overlook the word ( Nevermore.' In fact it was the
very first which presented itself." _J

Thus the author of The Raven would lead his readers
to believe that he was irresistibly impelled to select
for his refrain the word " Nevermore," but, evidently,
there are plenty of eligible words in the English
language both embodying the long sonorous o in con-
nection with r as the most producible consonant, and
of sorrowful import. A perusal of Pike's poem, how-
ever, rendered it needless for Poe to seek far for the
needed word, for, not only does the refrain to Isadore
contain the antithetic word to never, and end with the
ore syllable, but in one line of the poem are " never "
and "more," and in others the words "no more,"
"evermore," and "for ever more"; quite sufficient, all
must admit, to have supplied the analytic mind of our
poet with what he needed.

Thus far the theme, the refrain, and the word se-
lected for the refrain, have been somewhat closely
paralleled in the poem by Pike, whilst over the trans-

Genesis. 9

mutation of the heroine's name from Isadore into
Lenore no words need be wasted.

But the ballad of " Isadore " contains no allusion to
the "ghastly grim and ancient Raven" — the ominous
bird whose croaking voice and melancholy "never-
more " has found an echo in so many hearts. Where
then did Poe obtain this sable, sombre auxiliary, the
pretext, at he tells us, for the natural and continuous
repetition of the refrain ? Observing the difficulty of
inventing a plausible reason for this continuous repeti-
tion, he did not fail to perceive, is his declaration, " that
this difficulty arose solely from the presumption that
the word was to be so continuously or monotonously
spoken by a human being. I did not fail to perceive,
in short," is his remark, "that the difficulty lay in the
reconciliation of this monotony with the exercise of
reason on the part of the creature repeating the word.
Here, then, immediately arose the idea of a non-
reasoning creature capable of speech, and, very natur-
ally, a parrot in the first instance suggested itself, but
was superseded forthwith by a raven as equally capable
of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the in-
tended tone."

Now it will be recalled to mind that Pike was not
only the author of a well-known Ode to The Mocking
Bird, but that in his poem of Isadore, which has
already served us so well, is the line —
" The mocking-bird sits still and sings a melancholy
strain."

Poe would naturally desire to avoid introducing any
direct allusion to the mocking-bird of his contempo-
rary— which, indeed he had already noticed in print —
even if that creature had been capable of enacting the

io Genesis.

needful role, so for a while, it is possible, he may have
deemed the parrot suitable for his purpose. Cresset's
Per- Vert — that most amusing of birds! — with whose
history he was familiar, may indeed have been recalled
to mind, but that he would speedily discard all idea of
such a creature as out of all keeping with the tone of
his projected poem is evident. To us it appears clear
that it was in Barnaby Rudge he finally found the
needed bird. In a review which he wrote of that
story Poe drew attention to certain points he deemed
Dickens had failed to make : the Raven in it, the well-
known "Grip," he considered, "might have been
made more than we now see it, a portion of the con-
ception of the fantastic Barnaby. Its croaking might
have been prophetically heard in the course of the
drama. Its character might have performed, in regard
to that of the idiot, much the same part as does, in
music, the accompaniment in respect to the air."
Here would seem to be, beyond question, shadowed
forth the poet's own Raven and its duty.

'It has been seen that Poe found much of what he
wanted in Isadore, and it might not be investigating
too nicely to question whether the "melancholy strain"
of its " mocking bird " may not have suggested the
"melancholy burden" of the Raven; but more pal-
pable similarities are apparent. In order to justify the
following portion of our argument it will be necessary
to cite some specimens of Pike's work, this stanza of
it shall, therefore, be given : —
" Thou art lost to me forever — I have lost thee Isa-

dore, —

Thy head will never rest upon my loyal bosom more,
Thy tender eyes will never more gaze fondly into mine,

Genesis. 1 1

Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly
entwine —

Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore."*

As might be expected Pike's metre and rhythm are
very much less dexterously managed than are Poe's,
but, to some extent the intention was to produce an
effect similar to that carried out afterwards in the
Raven, and this is the greatest proof of all that the
author of the latter poem derived the germ thought of
it from Isadore. The irregularities of the prototype
poem, however, are so manifold and so eccentric, it is
easy to perceive that its author was unable to get
beyond the intention, and that his acquaintance with
the laws of versification was limited.

"Of course," remarks Poe, "I pretend to no origin-
ality in either the rhythm or metre of the Raven"
adding, " what originality the Raven has, is in their
(the forms of verse employed) combination into stanza,
nothing even remotely approaching this combination
has ever been attempted."

In concluding this section of our analysis it will not
be superfluous to reiterate the points in which we have
endeavoured to demonstrate the various similarities
between the poems of Pike and of Poe. Firstly, the
theme : upon a dreary midnight a toilworn student is\
sitting in his study, lamenting his lost love. Secondly,
with a view of giving some originality to his ballad the
poet adopts a refrain. Thirdly, the refrains, which
are of melancholy import, conclude with the similarly
sounding words "forever," and "nevermore," whilst
fourthly, Poe's stanzas have the appearance of being

* For the satisfaction of the reader the whole of this poem is
given at pp. 35—39.

12 Genesis.

formed upon the basis of Pike's, though it is true, so
improved and expanded by extra feet, and the addition
of another long line, that they need a very careful
and crucial examination ere the appearance becomes
manifest. Minor, or less salient points of resem-
blance, such as " the melancholy strain " of the mock-
ing bird, and the " melancholy burden " of the raven
need no further comment, as the reader will be able
to detect them for himself.

It is now necessary to examine the claims of another
poem to having been an important factor in the in-
ception and composition of The Raven. A few months
previous to the publication of Poe's poetic master-
work he read and reviewed the newly published Poems
of Elizabeth Barrett Barrett (Mrs. Browning). From
amid the contents of the volumes he selected for most
marked commendation Lady GeraMine's Courtship,
strongly animadverting, however, upon its paucity of
rhymes and deficiencies of rhythm. The constructive
ability of the authoress he remarks "is either not
very remarkable, or has never been properly brought
into play : — in truth her genius is too impetuous for
the minuter technicalities of that elaborate art so need-
ful in the building-up of pyramids for immortality."

It has been hastily assumed that the author of the
Raven drew his conception of it from Lady Geraldinds
Courtship. The late Buchanan Read even informed
Mr. Robert Browning that Poe had described to him
the whole construction of his poem and had stated the
suggestion of it lay wholly in this line of Mrs. Brown-
ing's poem —

"With a murmurous stir uncertain, in the air, the
purple curtain."

Genesis. 1 3

There was necessarily a misunderstanding in this : as-
suredly, Poe did derive useful hints from Lady Geral-
dine's Courtship but not to the extent surmised : he has
one line too close a parallel to that just cited to admit
of accidental resemblance : —
" And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple

curtain,"
together with other points to be noted.

We know by experience how greatly Poe revised, and,
how differently from the original drafts, he re-wrote his
poems. The Bells, for instance, was originally only
an unimportant colourless piece of seventeen lines,
and underwent numerous transformations before it
reached its present form. It is fairly safe to assume,
therefore, that upon the strength of the suggestions
given by Pike's Isadore, Poe had devised if, indeed, he
had not already written the Raven in its original form
when he met with Lady Geraldine's Courtship. Here
was something instinct with genius and replete with
that Beauty which he worshipped. Do we go beyond
probability, in deeming he returned to his unpublished
poem, already, there is reason to believe, the rejected
of several editors, and, fired by Mrs. Browning's
attempt, determined to make his poem one of those
"pyramids for immortality" of which he had spoken?

It may be further assumed that by the light of this
new pharos he revised and rewrote his poem, as he
did so reflecting, amid its original beauties, some stray
gleams from his new beacon.

Besides the line already pointed out there are several
lesser points of likeness, as between, —

"And she treads the crimson carpet and she breathes
the perfumed air,"

14 Genesis.

and the lines, —

"Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed

from an unseen censer
Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the

tufted floor."*

Again, not only are there resemblances in thought,
but a marked resemblance in rhythm and metre, to
Poe's words and work in this stanza of Mrs. Browning's
poem : —
" Eyes, he said, now throbbing through me ! are ye

eyes that did undo me ?

Shining eyes like antique jewels set in Parian statue-
stone !

Underneath that calm white forehead, are ye ever burn-
ing torrid

O'er the desolate sand desert of my heart and life un-
done?"

Here is, veritably, a stanza, to parallel in versifica-
tion and ideas Poe's lines, —
" On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber

door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is

dreaming."

This stanza far more likely than that containing the
first cited line of Mrs. Browning, would have suggested
the metrical method, the rhythm, and the additional
rhymes in the first and third lines. But there the sug-
gestion ends ; all beyond that is apparently Poe's own.
It is, of course, possible that other sources of the
inspiration of the Raven are discoverable although not
yet discovered, but, when all the germs have been

* First published version.

Genesis. 1 5

analyzed and all the suggested sources scrutinized
what a Avealth of imagination and a power of words
remain the unalienable property of Poe — this builder
of " pyramids for immortality."

Every poem must- have been suggested by something,
but how rarely do suggestions — whence-so-ever drawn
— from Nature or Art — culminate in works so magnifi-
cent as this — the melodious apotliepsis of Melancholy!
This splendid consecration of unforgetful, undying
sorrow !

As has already been pointed out Poe made no claim
to originality as regarded either the rhythm or the
metre of the Raven : the measures of each of the lines
composing the stanzas of his poem had been often
used before, but to cite his own words with respect to
this feature of the work, " what originality the Raven
has, is in their combination into stanza, nothing even
remotely approaching this combination has ever been
attempted. The effect of this originality of com-
bination is," as he justly claims, " aided by other un-
usual and some altogether novel effects, arising from
an extension of the application of the principles of
rhyme and alliteration."

This is, indeed, a modest method of placing
before his public the markedly original variations from
known and well-worn forms of versification. " The
possible varieties of metre and stanza are," as Poe re-
marks, " absolutely infinite, and yet, for centuries, no
man, in verse, has ever done, or ever seemed to think of
doing, an original thing. The fact is " asserts the poet
" that originality (unless in minds of very unusual force)
is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of impulse
or intuition. In general, to be found, it must be

1 6 Genesis.

elaborately sought, and although a positive merit of
the highest class, demands in its attainment less of in-
vention than of negation."

In proof of Poe himself having possessed this " merit
of the highest class," it is but necessary to refer to the
Raven. Not only is the whole conception and con-
struction of the poem evidence of his inventive ori-
ginality, not only are the artistic alliteration, the pro-
fusion of open vowel sounds and the melodious metre,
testimony to his sense of beauty, but, by the introduc-
tion of the third rhyme into the fourth line of the
stanza, and by the new, the novel, insertion of a fifth
line between that fourth line and the refrain, he did
really do, what, as he pointed out, no man had done
for centuries, an original thing in verse !

ifa!*'-^ /<.,>./,U ~".H Wj ; '-^<<

THE RAVEN.

NCE upon a midnight dreary, while I '

pondered, weak and weary* p.
Over many a quaint and curitus volume of

. forgotten lore,/'

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came

a tapping, (1
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber

door.

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my
chamber door — b

Only this, and nothing more."

n.

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak 7

December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost

upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought

to borrow
' ^ (from my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the

lost Lenore^-

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels
name Lenore —

Nameless here for evermore.
c

1 8 T lie Raven.

in.
13 And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple

curtain
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt

before ;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood

repeating
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber

door —

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is and nothing more."

IV.

I9 Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no
longer,

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I
implore ;

But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came
rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my cham-
ber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you " — here I opened
wide the door ; —

Darkness^ there, an^ nothi'"g[ ™orp

v.
25 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there

wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to

dream before ;
, But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave

no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered

word, " Lenore !"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the
word, " Lenore !" —

Merely this, and nothing more.

The Raven. 19

VI.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me 31
burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than
before.

"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my
window lattice ;

Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery ex-
plore—

Let myheart be still a mom ent and this mystery explore; —
'Tis the wind and nothing more ! "

VII.

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt 37

and flutter,
In there stepped a statelyj^axeiurf the saintly days of yore- < -.

Not the least obeisance made he ; not . a jinnuteb* \^

\ m flJU^1" Mr
stopped or stayed he ; ^w- v \

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my

chamber door —
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber

door —

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

VIII.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 43

By the grave and stem decorum of the countenance it
wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said
" art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the
Nightly shore —

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plu-
tonian shore ! "

Quoth the Raven, "Nevej
c 2

2O The Raven.

IX.

49 Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse

so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber

door —

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his
chamber door,

With such name as " Nevermore."

x.

55 But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke

only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did

outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered — not a feather then he

fluttered —
Till I scarcely more than muttered " Other friends

have flown before —
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have

flown before."

Then the bird said " Nevermore."

XI.

6 1 Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
" Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock

and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful

Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one

burden bore —

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ' Never — nevermore.' "

The Raven. 21

XII.

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, 67
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird,

and bust and door ;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of

yore —
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous

bird of yore

Meant in croaking " Nevermore."

XIII.

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 73
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my

bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining^ with my head at ease

reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight

gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight

gloating o'er,

She shall press, ah, nevermore.

XIV.

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from 79

an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the

tufted floor.
" Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee— by these

angels he hath sent thee
Respite — respite and nepenthe' from thy memories of

Lenore !
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost

Lenore !"

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore."

22 The Raven.

xv.

85 "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if
bird or devil ! —

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee
here ashore,

Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land en-
chanted—

On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I
implore —

Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell me,
I implore ! "

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore."

XVI.

91 "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil — prophet still, if

bird or devil !
By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God

we both adore —
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant

Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name

Lenore —
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels

name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore."

XVII.

97 "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!"
I shrieked, upstarting —

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's

Plutonian shore !
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul

hath spoken !
Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above

my door !

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form
from off my door ! "

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore."

The Raven. 23

XVIII.

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is

sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber

door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that

is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his

shadow on the floor ;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating

on the floor

Shall be lifted — nevermore !

VARIATIONS IN 1845.

Line 9. Tried for sought.

Line 27. Darkness for stillness.

Line 31. Then for back.

Line 32. Soon I heard again, &c.

Line 39. Instant for minute.

Line 51. Sublunary for living human.

Line 55. The/or that.

Line 60. Quoth the raven, " Nevermore."

Line 61. Wondering for startled.

Lines 64-66. Followed fast and followed faster: — so, when

Hope he would adjure,
Stern Despair returned, instead of the sweet Hope he

dared adjure,

That sad answer, Nevermore.
Line 80. Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the

tufted floor.

Line 84. Let me quaff, &c.
Line 105. Demons/or demon's.

HISTORY.

N the autumn of 1844 Poe removed from
Philadelphia to New York. Doubtless, he
bore with him the rough draft of The Raven.
If the account furnished by The South for
November 1875 be correct — and there would not
appear to be any reason to doubt its accuracy — the
original poem had been offered to and rejected by
several editors ere it was accepted, through the inter-
vention of the late David W. Holley, by The American
Review. Mr. Holley, it is stated, was a near relative
of the editor of that review, and being " a gentleman
of education, literary tastes, and safe and fearless in
judgment, was a trusted attache of the " publishing
establishment. One day, so runs the narration, Poe,
being in pecuniary difficulty, presented himself, with
his manuscript poem, to Mr. Holley, and related
his perplexities. Mr. Holley, says The South, " with
characteristic indifference to the adverse opinion of
others, after having an equal chance to form an
opinion for himself, expressed his decided admiration
of the poem. And after listening to the poet's need,
and the story of his endeavours to dispose of his
weird pet, expressing his regret and even chagrin that
he could do no better, he said to Poe, in a most
unpoetically business way, the better to conceal his

History, 25

real sensibility in the matter, ' If five dollars be of any
use to you, I will give you that for your poem and
take the chances of its publication ' ; for his own
judgment might yet be overruled." And so, according
to the account given by The South, Poe's poem of The
Raven became the property of Mr. Holley, and through
his intervention found its way into print.

The Raven was published in the second number of
The American Review, which was issued in February
1845, but its first appearance in print was in the New
York Evening Mirror for the 29th of January of that
year. It was thus editorially introduced by N. P.
Willis :—

" We are permitted to copy [in advance of publica-
tion] from the second No. of The American Review r,
the following remarkable poem by Edgar Poe. In
our opinion it is the most effective single example of
' fugitive poetry ' ever published in this country, and
unsurpassed in English poetry for subtle conception,
masterly ingenuity of versification and consistent sus-
taining of imaginative lift and ' pokerishness.' It is
one of those 'dainties bred in a book,' which we feed on.
It will stick to the memory of everybody who reads it."

It has been surmised, with much probability, that
Poe had intended to publish The Raven anonymously,
and retain the secret of its authorship until he had
had time to note its effect upon the public. It was,
doubtless, due to the persuasion of Willis that he
allowed the poem to appear in the Evening Mirror,
with the author's name affixed to it ; nevertheless it was
published in The American Review as by " QUARLES,"
and with th^ following note, evidently written or in-
spired by Poe himself, prefixed : —

26 History.

" [The following lines from a correspondent, besides
the deep quaint strain of the sentiment, and the curious
introduction of some ludicrous touches amidst the
serious and impressive, as was doubtless intended by
the author — appear to us one of the most felicitous
specimens of unique rhyming which has for some time
met our eye. The resources of English rhythm for
varieties of melody, measure, and sound, producing
corresponding diversities of effect, have been tho-
roughly studied, much more perceived, by very few
poets in the language. While the classic tongues,
especially the Greek, possess, by power of accent,
several advantages for versification over our own,
chiefly through greater abundance of spondaic feet,
we have other and very great advantages of sound by
the modern usage of rhyme. Alliteration is nearly
the only effect of that kind which the ancients had in
common with us. It will be seen that much of the
melody of ' The Raven ' arises from alliteration, and
the studious use of similar sounds in unusual places.
In regard to its measure, it may be noted that, if all
the verses were like the second, they might properly
be placed merely in short lines, producing a not un-
common form ; but the presence in all the others of
one line — mostly the second in the verse — which flows
continuously, with only an aspirate pause in the middle,
like that before the short line in the Sapphic Adonic,
while the fifth has at the middle pause no similarity of
sound with any part beside, gives the versification an
entirely different effect. We could wish the capacities
of our noble language, in prosody, were better under-
stood.]— Ed. Am. Rev"

Had Poe really thought to conceal the authorship

History. 27

of The Raven, the publication of it with his name
attached, and the immediate reproduction of the poem
in the journals of nearly every town in the United
States, rendered any attempt at concealment impos-
sible. No single " fugitive " poem ever aroused such
immediate and extensive excitement ; in the course of
a few weeks it was known all over the United States ;
it called into existence parodies and imitations innu-
merable; afforded occasion for multitudinous para-
graphs, and, in fact, created quite a literature of its
own.

The Raveris reputation rapidly spread into other
countries ; it carried its author's name and fame from
shore to shore, inducing again and again the poets of
various peoples to attempt to transmute its magical
music into their own tongues. Among his fellow
literati it made Poe the lion of the season, and drew
admiring testimony from some of the finest spirits of
the age. His society was sought by the elite of literary
circles, and the best houses of New York were ready
to open their doors to the poor, desperately poor, poet.

"Although he had been connected with some of
the leading magazines of the day," remarks Mrs. Whit-
man, " and had edited for a time with great ability
several successful periodicals, his literary reputation at
the North had been comparatively limited until his
removal to New York, when he became personally
known to a large circle of authors and literary people,
whose interest in his writings was manifestly enhanced
by the perplexing anomalies of his character, and by
the singular magnetism of his presence." But it was
not until the publication of his famous poem that he
became a society lion. When The Raven appeared,

28 History.

as this same lady records, Poe one evening electrified
the company assembled at the house of an accom-
plished poetess in Waverley Place — where a weekly
meeting of artists and men of letters was held — by
the recitation, at the request of his hostess, of the
wonderful poem.

Poe's reading of The Raven is stated by many who
heard him to have been a wonderful elocutionary
triumph : after his notorious recitation of Al Aaraaf
at the Boston Lyceum, he complied with a request to
recite his most popular poem, and repeated it, says
one who was present, with thrilling effect. " It was
something well worth treasuring in memory," is the
testimony of this authority, corroborated by the evi-
dence of many others.

A copy of the poem was sent to Mrs. Browning (then
Miss Barrett), apparently by R. H. Home, for writing
to him soon after its appearance, the poetess says :

"As to The Raven, tell me what you shall say
about it ! There is certainly a power — but it does
not appear to me the natural expression of a sane
intellect in whatever mood; and I think that this
should be specified in the title of the poem. There
is a fantasticalness about the 'Sir or Madam,' and
things of the sort which is ludicrous, unless there is a
specified insanity to justify the straws. Probably he
— the author — intended it to be read in the poem,
and he ought to have intended it. The rhythm acts
excellently upon the imagination, and the ' never-
more ' has a solemn chime with it. Don't get me
into a scrape. The ' pokerishness ' * (just gods !

* Alluding to the "editorial " of Willis.

History. 29

what Mohawk English !) might be found fatal, perad-
venture. Besides — just because I have been criti-
cised, I would not criticise.* And I am of opinion
that there is an uncommon force and effect in the
poem."

With regard to one item in Mrs. Browning's
critique, it may be pointed out that Poe, in his
Philosophy of Composition — perhaps after having read
a copy of the lady's remarks— expressly states that
" about the middle " of The Raven, with a view of
deepening, by force of contrast, the ultimate impres-
sion of intense melancholy, he had given " an air of
the fantastic, approaching as nearly to the ludicrous
as was admissible" — to his poem. Guided by the
opinions of others, or by her own more matured judg-
ment, Mrs. Browning thought fit, at a later period,
to speak in terms of stronger admiration of Poe's
poem. Writing to an American correspondent she
said : " The Raven has produced a sensation — a ' fit
horror,' here in England. Some of my friends are
taken by the fear of it, and some by the music. I
hear of persons haunted by the Nevermore, and one
acquaintance of mine, who has the misfortune of
possessing ' a bust of Pallas,' never can bear to look
at it in the twilight. Our great poet, Mr. Browning,
author of Paracelsus, &c., is enthusiastic in his
admiration of the rhythm."

As with nearly all Poe's literary workmanship, both
prose and verse, The Raven underwent several altera-
tions and revisions after publication. The more
minute of these changes do not call for notice here,

* Poe had just reviewed her poems in the Broadway Journal.

3<D History.

as they are shown in the variorum readings at the end
of the poem itself;* but the improvement made in
the latter portion of the eleventh stanza, from the
original version of —

" So, when Hope he would adjure,
Stern Despair returned, instead of the sweet Hope he
dared adjure,

That sad answer, ' Nevermore ' '
to its present masterly roll of melancholy music, is too
radical to be passed by in silence.

Although his pride could not but be deeply grati-
fied by the profound impression The Raven had made
on the public, Poe himself far preferred many of his
less generally appreciated poems, and, as all true
poets at heart must feel, with justice. Some of his
juvenile pieces appeared to him to manifest more
faithfully the true poetic intuition ; they, he could
not but feel, were the legitimate offspring of inspira-
tion, whilst TJie Raven was, to a great extent, the
product of art — although, it is true, of art controlling
and controlled by genius. Writing to a correspondent
upon this subject, Poe remarked, —

" What you say about the blundering criticism of
' the Hartford Review man ' is just. For the pur-
poses of poetry it is quite sufficient that a thing is
possible, or at least that the improbability be not
offensively glaring. It is true that in several ways, as
you say, the lamp might have thrown the bird's
shadow on the floor. My conception was that of the
bracket candelabrum affixed against the wall, high up
above the door and bust, as is often seen in the

* Vide page 23.

History. 3 1

English palaces, and even in some of the better
houses of New York.

"Your objection to the tinkling of the footfalls is
far more pointed, and in the course of composition
occurred so forcibly to myself that I hesitated to use
the term. I finally used it, because I saw that it had,
in its first conception, been suggested to my mind by
the sense of the supernatural with which it was, at the
moment, filled. No human or physical foot could
tinkle on a soft carpet, therefore the tinkling of feet
would vividly convey the supernatural impression.
This was the idea, and it is good within itself ; but if
it fails [as I fear it does] to make itself immediately
and generally felt, according to my intention, then in
so much is it badly conveyed or expressed.

" Your appreciation of The Sleeper delights me. In
the higher qualities of poetry it is better than The
Raven ; but there is not one man in a million who
could be brought to agree with me in this opinion.
The Raven, of course, is far the better as a work of
art ; but in the true basis of all art, The Sleeper is the
superior. I wrote the latter when quite a boy."

Mr. E. C. Stedman who, as a poet even more than
as a critic, has been better enabled to gauge Poe's
poetic powers than so many who have ventured to ad-
judicate upon them, appropriately remarks, —

" Poe could not have written The Raven in youth.
It exhibits a method so positive as almost to compel
us to accept, against the denial] of <his associates, his
own account of its building. The maker does keep a
firm hand on it throughout, and for once seems to set
his purpose above his passion. This appears in the
gravely quaint diction, and in the contrast between

32 History.

the reality of everyday manners and the profounder
reality of a spiritual shadow upon the human heart.
The grimness of fate is suggested by phrases which it
requires a masterly hand to subdue to the meaning of
the poem. ' " Sir," said I, or " Madam," ' ' this
ungainly fowl,' and the like, sustain the air of
grotesqueness, and become a foil to the pathos, an
approach to the tragical climax, of this unique pro-
duction. Only genius can deal so closely with the
grotesque, and make it add to the solemn beauty of
structure an effect like that of the gargoyles seen by
moonlight on the facade of Notre Dame.

" In no other lyric is Poe so self-possessed. No
other is so determinate in its repetends and allitera-
tions. Hence I am far from deeming it his most
poetical poem. Its artificial qualities are those which
catch the fancy of the general reader ; and it is of all
his ballads, if not the most imaginative, the most
peculiar. His more ethereal productions seem to me
those in which there is the appearance, at least, of
spontaneity, — in which he yields to his feelings, while
dying falls and cadences most musical, most melan-
choly, come from him unawares. Literal criticisms
of The Raven are of small account. If the shadow of
the bird could not fall upon the mourner, the shadows

of its evil presence could brood upon his soul

Poe's Raven is the very genius of the Night's Plutonian
shore, different from other ravens, entirely his own,
and none other can take its place. It is an emblem
of the Irreparable, the guardian of pitiless memories,
whose burden ever recalls to us the days that are no
more."

Baudelaire, who has made Poe a popular French

History. 33

author, in his Essay — the most famed if not the most
discriminative critique on Foe's genius — would almost
appear to have accepted the Philosophy of Composition
as a veritable exposition of the poet's method of work-
manship. "Bien des gens" he remarks, " de ceux sur-
tout qui ont lu le singulier poeme intitule LE CORBEAU,
seraient scandalises sifanalysais V article oil notre poete
a ingenument en apparence, mats avec une legkre imper-
tinence que je ne puts blamer, minutieusement expliqu'e
le mode de construction qu'il a employe, V "adaptation du
rythme, le choix d'un refrain, — le phis bref possible et
le plus susceptible d 'application variees, et en meme temps
le plus repr'esentatif de melancolie et de d'esespoir, orne
d'tine rime la plus sonore de toutes (Nevermore), — le
choix dun oiseau capable d'imiter la voix humaine, mats
d'un oiseau — le corbeau — marque dans V imagination
populaire d'un caractkre funeste et fatal, — le choix dhm
ton le plus po'etique de tous, le ton melancolique, — du
sentiment le plus poetique, V amour pour une morte. . . .
"J'at dit que cet article," continues Baudelaire, in
further reference to The Philosophy of Composition,
" me paraissait entach'e d'une legere impertinence. Les
partisans de I' inspiration quand meme ne manqueraient
pas d'y trouver un blasphbne et une profanation; maisje
crois que c'estpour eux que V article a ete specialement ecrit.
Autant certains ecrivains affectent r abandon, visant au
chef-d'oeiivre les yeux fermes, pleins de confiance dans le
disordre, et attendant que les caracteres jetes au plafond
retombent en poeme sur le parquet, autant Edgar Poe —
run des hommes les plus inspires que je connaisse — a mis
d1 affectation d cacher la spontaneite, a simuler le sang-
froid et la deliberation. ' Je croix pouvoir me vanter ' —
dit-il avec un orgiieil amusant et que je ne trouve pas de

D

34 History.

mauvais gout—1 Qu'aucun point de ma composition n'a
cte abandonne au liasard, et que Vceuvrc entire a march'e
pas a pas vers son but avec la precision et la logique
rigoureuse d'un probleme mathhnatique! II riy a,
dis-je, que les amateurs de hasard, les fatalistes de F in-
spiration et les fanatiques du vers blanc qui puissent
trouver bizarres ces minuties. // n'y a pas des mimities
en matiere d'art."

ISADORE.

HOU art lost to me forever, — I have lost

thee, Isadore, —
Thy head will never rest upon my loyal

bosom more.
Thy tender eyes will never more gaze fondly into

mine.

Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly
entwine :

Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore !

Thou art dead and gone, dear, loving wife, — thy heart

is still and cold, —
And I at one stride have become most comfortless

and old.
Of our whole world of love and song, thou wast the

only light,
A star, whose setting left behind, ah ! me, how dark a

night !

Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.

Vide pages 5-12.
D 2

36 Isadore.

The vines and flowers we planted, love, I tend with

anxious care,
And yet they droop and fade away, as tho' they

wanted air ;
They cannot live without thine eyes, to glad them

with their light,
Since thy hands ceased to train them, love, they

cannot grow aright.

Thou art lost to them forever, Isadore.

Our little ones inquire of me, where is their mother

gone,—
What answer can I make to them, except with tears

alone ;
For if I say, to Heaven —then the poor things wish to

learn,
How far is it, and where, and when their mother will

return.

Thou art lost to them forever, Isadore.

Our happy home has now become a lonely, silent

place ;
Like Heaven without its stars it is, without thy blessed

face.
Our little ones are still and sad — none love them now

but I,
Except their mother's spirit, which I feel is always

nigh.

Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.

Is adore, 37

Their merry laugh is heard no more — they neither

run nor play,
But wander round like little ghosts, the long, long

summer's day.
The spider weaves his web across the windows at his

will;
The flowers I gathered for thee last are on the mantel

still.

Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.

My footsteps through the rooms resound all sadly and

forlore ;
The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept

floor;
The mocking-bird still sits and sings a melancholy

strain,
For my heart is like a heavy cloud that overflows with

rain.

Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.

Alas ! how changed is all, dear wife, from that sweet

eve in spring,
When first thy love for me was told, and thou didst to

me cling,
Thy sweet eyes radiant through thy tears, pressing thy

lips to mine,
In that old arbour, dear, beneath the overarching

vine.

Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.

38 Isadore.

The moonlight struggled through the vines, and fell
upon thy face,

Which thou didst lovingly upturn with pure and trust-
ful gaze.

The southern breezes murmured through the dark
cloud of thy hair,

As like a sleeping infant thou didst lean upon me
there.

Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.

Thy love and faith thou plighted'st then, with smile

and mingled tear,
Was never broken, sweetest one, while thou didst

linger here.

Nor angry word nor angry look thou ever gavest me,
But loved and trusted evermore, as I did worship

thee.

Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.

Thou wast my nurse in sickness, and my comforter in
health ;

So gentle and so constant, when our love was all our
wealth ;

Thy voice of music soothed me, love, in each despond-
ing hour,

As heaven's honey-dew consoles the bruised and
broken flower.

Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.

Isadore. 39

Thou art gone from me forever, I have lost thee,

Isadore !

And desolate and lonely shall I be for evermore.
If it were not for our children's sake, I would not wish

to stay,
But would pray to God most earnestly to let me pass

away, —

And be joined to thee in Heaven, Isadore.

ALBERT PIKE.

TRANSLATIONS.

FRENCH.

O foreign writer is so popular, and has been
so thoroughly acclimatised in France, as
Edgar Poe. This popularity and power is
largely due to the translations and influence
of Charles Baudelaire who has made his transatlantic
idol a veritable French classic. Edgar Foe's in-
fluence upon literature, declares de Banville, is ceaseless
and spreading, and as powerful as that of Balzac.

The Raven> despite the almost insurmountable diffi-
culty of making anything like a faithful rendering of it
into French, is a favourite poem in France. Again and
again have well known French writers attempted to
translate Poe's chef (fceuvre into their own tongue, but
with varying success. They have as a rule to discard
the rhymes, abandon the alliteration, and lose all the
sonorous music produced by artistic use of the open
vowel sounds; in fact, attempt to reconstruct the
wonderful house of dreams without having any of the
original materials out of which it was formed. To
give a prose rendering of The Raven is, in every sense,
to despoil it of its poetry.

Translations. 41

Baudelaire, who has so deftly reproduced Poe's
prose, has failed to render justice to his poetry ; take,
for example, his attempt to render French those mag-
nificent lines of the eleventh stanza : —

' Some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one

burden bore —
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden

bore

Of " Never, never more." '

Translated thus : —

' Quelque maitre malheureux a qui 1'inexorable
Fatalite a donne une chasse acharnee, toujours plus
acharnee, jusqu'a ce que ses chants n'aient plus qu'un
unique refrain, jusqu'a ce que les chants funebres de
son Esperance aient adopte ce melancolique refrain :
" Jamais ! Jamais plus ! "

A very early rendering into French of The Raven
was made by Monsieur William Hughes, and pub-
lished by him in a volume entitled "Contes inedits
d'Edgard Poe," in 1862. As, probably, the first
translation of the poem into any language it is in-
teresting, but, for the present purpose it will only be
necessary to cite the first and the two last stanzas : —

Un soir, par un triste minuit, tandis que faible et
fatigue, j'allais revant a plus d'un vieux et bizarre
volume d'une science oubliee, tandis que sommeillant
a moitie, je laissais pencher ma tete de c.a, de la,
j'entendis quelqu'un frapper, frapper doucement a la
porte de ma chambre. " C'est un visiteur," murmurai-
je, " qui frappe a la porte de ma chambre —

Ce n'est que cela et rien de plus."

42 Translations.

XVII.

" Que ce mot, soit le signal de ton ddpart, oiseau
ou de'mon ! " criai-je en me redressant d'un bond.
" Reprends ton vol a travers 1'orage, regagne la rive
plutonienne ! Ne laisse pas ici une plume noire pour
me rappeler le mensonge que tu viens de proferer !
Abandonne-moi a ma solitude, quitte ce buste au-
dessus de ma porte; retire ton bee de mon cceur,
retire ton spectre de mon seunV'

Le corbeau re'pe'ta : " Jamais plus ! "

XVIII.

Et le corbeau, immobile, demeure perch e, toujours
perchd sur le buste blanc de Pallas, juste au-dessus de
ma porte ; son regard est celui d'un de'mon qui reve,
et la lumiere de la lampe, qui 1'inonde, dessine son
ombre sur le parquet ; de cette ombre qui tremble sur
le parquet, mon ame

Ne sortira jamais plus !

Another of the numerous translations into French of
The Raven, and one which, for many reasons, deserves
citation in full is that made by Stephane Mallarme, the
poet, the translator of several of Poe's works. The
magnificent folio form in which Monsieur Mallarme
introduced Le Corbeau to his countrymen, in 1875,
was illustrated by Manet with several characteristic
drawings. This rendering reads thus —

Translations. 43

Une fois, par un minuit lugubre, tandis que je
m'appesantissais, faible et fatigue, sur maint curieux
et bizarre volume de savoir oublie — tandis que je
dodelinais la tete, somnolant presque : soudain se fit
un heurt, comme de quelqu'un frappant doucement,
frappant a la porte de ma chambre — cela seul et rien
de plus.

ii.

Ah ! distinctement je me souviens que c'etait en le
glacial Decembre : et chaque tison, mourant isole,
ouvrageait son spectre sur le sol. Ardemment je
souhaitais le jour — vainement j'avais cherche d'em-
prunter a mes livres un sursis au chagrin — au chagrin
de la Lenore perdue — de la rare et rayonnante jeune
fille que les anges nomment Lenore : de nom pour
elle ici, non, jamais plus !

in.

Et de la soie 1'incertain et triste bruissement en
chaque rideau purpural me traversait — m'emplissait de
fantastiques terreurs pas senties encore : si bien que,
pour calmer le battement de mon cceur, je demeurais
maintenant a repeter "C'est quelque visiteur qui
sollicite 1'entree, a la porte de ma chambre — quelque
visiteur qui sollicite I'entre'e, a la porte de ma chambre ;
c'est cela et rien de plus."

44 Translations.

IV.

Mon ame devint subitement plus forte et, n'hesitant
davantage " Monsieur," dis-je, " ou Madame, j'implore
veritablement votre pardon; mais le fait est que je
somnolais et vous vintes si doucement frapper, et si
faiblement vous vintes heurter, heurter a la porte de
ma chambre, que j'etais a peine sur de vous avoir
entendu." Ici j'ouvris, grande, la porte : les tenebres
et rien de plus.

v.

Loin dans 1'ombre regardant, je me tins longtemps
a douter, m'e'tonner et craindre, & rever des reves
qu'aucun mortel n'avait ose rever encore ; mais le
silence ne se rompit point et la quietude ne donna de
signe : et le seul mot qui se dit, fut le mot chuchote
" Lenore ! " Je le chuchotai — et un echo murmura de
retour le mot "Ldnore!" — purement cela et rien de
plus.

VI.

Rentrant dans la chambre, toute mon ame en feu,
j'entendis bientot un heurt en quelque sorte plus forte
qu'auparavant. "Surement," dis-je, "surement c'est
quelque chose a la persienne de ma fenetre. Voyons
done ce qu'il y a et explorons ce mystere — que mon
cceur se calme un moment et explore ce mystere ; c'est
le vent et rien de plus."

Translations. 45

VII.

Au large je poussai le volet; quand, avec maints
enjouement et agitation d'ailes, entra un majestueux
Corbeau des saints jours de jadis. II ne fit pas la
moindre reverence, il ne s'arreta ni n'hesita un instant :
mais, avec une mine de lord ou de lady, se percha
au-dessus de la porte de ma chambre — se percha sur
un buste de Pallas juste au-dessus de la porte de ma
chambre — se percha, siegea et rien de plus.

VIII.

Alois cet oiseau d'dbene induisant ma triste imagin-
ation au sourire, par la grave et severe decorum de la
contenance qu'il eut : "Quoique ta crete soit chue et
rase, non !" dis-je, "tu n'es pas pour sur un poltron,
spectral, lugubre et ancien Corbeau, errant loin du
rivage de Nuit — dis-moi quel est ton nom seigneurial
au rivage plutonien de Nuit?" Le Corbeau dit:
" Jamais plus."

IX.

Je m'emerveillai fort d'entendre ce disgracieux
volatile s'enoncer aussi clairement, quoique sa reponse
n'eut que peu de sens et peu d'a-propos ; car on ne
pent s'empecher de convenir que nul homme vivant
n'eut encore 1'heur de voir un oiseau au-dessus de la
porte de sa chambre — un oiseau ou toute autre bete
sur la buste sculpte, au-dessus de la porte de sa
chambre, avec un nom tel que : "Jamais plus."

46 Translations.

x.

Mais le Corbeau, perchd solitairement sur ce buste
placide, parla ce seul mot comme si, son ame, en ce
seul mot, il la re'pandait. Je ne profeVai done rien de
plus : il n'agita done pas de plume — jusqu'a ce que je
fis a peine davantage que marmotter " D'autres amis
de"ja ont pris leur vol — demain il me laissera comme
mes Espe'rances deja ont pris leur vol." Alorsl'oiseau
dit : " Jamais plus."

XI.

Tressaillant au calme rompu par une re*plique si
bien parlee : " Sans doute," dis-je, " ce qu'il profere est
tout son fonds et son bagage, pris a quelque malheu-
reux maitre que Pimpitoyable Desastre suivit de pres
et de tres pres suivit jusqu'a ce que ses chansons com-
portassent un unique refrain; jusqu'a ce que les chants
funebres de son Esperance comportassement le melan-
colique refrain de "Jamais — jamais plus."

XII.

Le Corbeau induisante toute ma triste ame encore
au sourire, je roulai soudain un siege a coussins en
face de 1'oiseau et du buste et de la porte ; et m'enfon-
c,ant dans le velours, je me pris a enchainer songerie
a songerie, pensant a ce que cet augural oiseau de jadis
— a ce que ce sombre, disgracieux, sinistre, maigre et
augural oiseau de jadis signifiait en croassant : " Jamais
plus."

Translations. 47

XIII.

Cela, je m'assis occupd a le conjecturer, mais
n'adressant pas une syllabe a 1'oiseau dont les yeux de
feu brulaient, maintenant, au fond de mon sein ; cela
et plus encore, je m'assis pour le deviner, ma tete
reposant a 1'aise sur la housse de velours des coussins
que devorait la lumiere de la lampe, housse violette
de velours devore' par la lumiere de la lampe qu'
ELLE ne pressera plus, ah ! jamais plus.

XIV.

L'air, me sembla-t-il, devint alors plus dense, par-
fume selon un encensoir invisible balancd par les
Seraphins dont le pied, dans sa chute, tintait sur
1'etoffe du parquet. " Miserable," m'dcriai-je, "ton Dieu
t'a prete — il t'a envoye, par ces anges, le rdpit — le
repit et le nepenthes dans ta memoire de Lenore !
Bois ! oh ! bois ce bon ndpenthes et oublie cette
Lenore perdue ! " Le Corbeau dit : " Jamais plus ! "

xv.

"Prophete," dis-je, "etre de malheur ! prophete,
oui, oiseau ou de'nion ! Que si le Tentateur t'envoya
ou la tempete t'echoua vers ces bords, de'sole et encore
tout indompte, vers cette deserte terre enchantee —
vers ce logis par Fhorreur hante : dis-moi veritable-
ment, je t'implore ! y a-t-il du baume en Judee ? —
dis-moi, je t'implore." Le Corbeau dit: " Jamais
plus ! "

48 Translations,

XVI.

" Prophete," dis-je, " etre de malheur ! prophete,
oui, oiseau ou de'mon ! Par les Cieux sur nous epars —
et le Dieu que nous adorons tous deux — dis a cette
lime de chagrin charge'e si, dans le distant Eden, elle
doit embrasser une jeune fille sanctifiee que les anges
nomment Ldnore — embrasser une rare et rayonnante
jeune fille que les anges nomment Ldnore." Le
Corbeau dit : " Jamais plus ! "

XVII.

" Que ce mot soit le signal de notre separation,
oiseau ou malin esprit," hurlai-je, en me dressant.
"Recule en la tempete et le rivage plutonien de
Nuit !" Ne laisse pas une plume noire ici comme
un gage du mensonge qu'a profe're' ton ame. Laisse
inviole mon abandon ! quitte le buste au-dessus de ma
porte ! ote ton bee de mon cceur et jette ta forme loin
de ma porte ! " Le Corbeau dit : " Jamais plus ! "

XVIII.

Et le Corbeau, sans voleter, siege encore — siege
encore sur le buste pallide de Pallas, juste au-dessus
de la porte de ma chambre, et ses yeux ont toute la
semblance des yeux d'un demon qui reve, et la lu-
miere de la lampe, ruisselant sur lui, projette son
ombre a terre : et mon ame, de cette ombre qui git
flottante a terre, ne s'elevera — jamais plus !

SxkpHANE MALLARME.

Translations. 49

Many other translations, more or less interesting,
have been made into French of The Raven, notably
one by Monsieur Element, and another, which shall
be quoted from, by Monsieur Quesnel. The most
curious, however, in many respects, of these many
renderings is an elegant one by Monsieur Maurice
Rollinat, and as, probably, the only published attempt
to place a rhymed translation of Le Corbeau before
his countrymen should be given in full : —

Vers le sombre minuit, tandis que fatigue'
J'etais a mediter sur maint volume rare
Pour tout autre que moi dans 1'oubli relegue,
Pendant que je plongeais dans un reve bizarre,
II se fit tout a coup comme un tapotement
De quelqu'un qui viendrait frapper tout doucement
Chez moi. Je dis alors, baillant, d'une voix morte :
" C'est quelque visiteur — oui — qui frappe a ma porte ;
C'est cela seul et rien de plus ! "

Ah ! tres distinctement je m'en souviens ! C'e'tait
Par un apre decembre — au fond du foyer pale,
Chaque braise a son tour lentement s'e'miettait
En brodant le plancher du reflet de son rale.
Avide du matin, le regard inde'cis,
J'avais lu, sans que ma tristesse cut un sursis,
Ma tristesse pour 1'ange enfui dans le mystere,
Que Ton nomme la-haut Lenore, et que sur terre
On ne nommera jamais plus !
E

5O Translations.

Lors, j'ouvris la fenetre et voila qu'a grand bruit,
Un corbeau de la plus merveilleuse apparence
Entra, majestueux et noir comme la nuit.
II ne s'arreta pas, mais plein d'irreverence,
Brusque, d'un air de lord ou de lady, s'en vint
S'abattre et se percher sur le buste divin
De Pallas, sur le buste a couleur pale, en sorte
Qu'il se jucha tout juste au-dessus de ma porte,
II s'installa, puis rien de plus !

Et comme il induisait mon pauvre cceur amer
A sourire, 1'oiseau de si mauvais augure,
Par 1'apre gravite de sa poste et par 1'air
Profondement rigide empreint sur la figure,
Alors. me decidant a parler le premier:
" Tu n'es pas un poltron, bien que sans nul cimier
Sur la tete, lui dis-je, 6 rodeur des tenebres,
Comment t'appelle-t-on sur les rives funebres ? "
L'oiseau re'pondit : " Jamais plus ! "

J'admirai qu'il comprit la parole aussi bien
Malgre cette rdponse a peine intelligible
Et de peu de secours, car mon esprit convient
Que jamais aucun homme existant et tangible
Ne put voir au-dessus de sa porte un corbeau,
Non, jamais ne put voir une bete, un oiseau,
Par un sombre minuit, dans sa chambre, tout juste
Au-dessus de sa porte install^ sur un buste,
Se nommant ainsi : Jamais plus !

Translations. 5 1

Mais ce mot fut le seul qui 1'oiseau profera
Comme s'il y versait son ame tout entiere,
Puis sans rien ajouter de plus, il demeura
Inertement fige dans sa roideur altiere,
Jusqu'a ce que j'en vinsse a murmurer ceci :
— Comme tant d'autres, lui va me quitter aussi,
Comme mes vieux espoirs que Je croyais fideles
Vers le matin il va s'enfuir a. tire d'ailes !
L'oiseau dit alors : Jamais plus !

Et les rideaux pourpres sortaient de la torpeur,
Et leur soyeuse voix si triste et si menue
Me faisait tressailler, m'emplissait d'une peur
Fantastique et pour moi jusqu'alors inconnue :
Si bien que pour calmer enfin le battement
De mon coeur, je redis debout : " Evidemment
C'est quelqu'un attarde qui par ce noir decembre
Est venu frapper a la porte de ma chambre;
C'est cela meme et rien de plus."

Pourtant, je me remis bientot de mon dmoi,
Et sans temporiser: "Monsieur," dis-je, "ou Madame,
Madame ou bien Monsieur, de grace, excusez-moi
De vous laisser ainsi dehors, mais, sur mon ame,
Je sommeillais, et vous, vous avez tapote
Si doucement a ma porte, qu'en verite
A peine etait-ce un bruit humain que Ton entende !
Et cela dit, j'ouvris la porte toute grande :
Les tenebres et rien de plus !
E 2

52 Translations.

Longuement a pleins yeux, je restai la, scrutant
Les te'nebres ! revant des reves qu'aucun homme
N'osa jamais rever ! confondu, hesitant,
StupeTait et rempli d'angoisse — mais, en somme,
Pas un bruit ne troubla le silence enchante
Et rien ne frissonna dans I'immobilite ;
Un seul nom fut souffle' par une voix : " Lenore !
C'dtait ma propre voix ! — L'echo, plus bas encore
Redit ce mot et rien de plus !

Je rentrai dans ma chambre a pas lents, et, tandis
Que mon ame au milieu d'un flamboyant vertige
Se sentait defaillir et rouler, — j'entendis
Un second coup plus fort que le premier. — Tiens !

dis-je

On cogne a mon volet ! Diable ! Je vais y voir !
Qu'est-ce que mon volet pourrait done bien avoir ?
Car il a quelque chose ! allons a la fenetre
Et sachons, sans trembler, ce que cela peut etre !
C'est la rafale et rien de plus !

Sa re'ponse jete'e avac tant d'a-propos,
Me fit tressaillir, " C'est tout ce qu'il doit connaitre,
Me dis-je, sans nul doute il aura pris ces mots
Chez quelque infortune, chez quelque pauvre maitre
Que le deuil implacable a poursuivi sans frein,
Jusqu'a ce que ses chants n'eussent plus qu'un refrain
Jusqu'a ce que sa plainte a jamais desolee,
Comme un deprofundis de sa joie envolee,

Eut pris ce refrain : Jamais plus !

Translations. 5 3

Ainsi je me parlais, mais le grave corbeau,
Induisant derechef tout mon coeur a sourire,
Je roulai vite un siege en face de 1'oiseau,
Me demandant ce que tout cela voulait dire,
J'y reflechis, et, dans mon fauteuil de velours,
Je cherchai ce que cet oiseau des anciens jours,
Ce que ce triste oiseau, sombre, augural et maigre,
Voulait me faire entendre en croassant cet aigre
Et lamentable : Jamais plus !

Et j'etais la, plonge dans un reve obsedant,
Laissant la conjecture en moi filer sa trame,
Mais n'interrogeant plus 1'oiseau dont 1'oeil ardent
Me brulait maintenant jusques au fond de I'ame.
Je creusais tout cela comme un mauvais dessein,
Be'ant, la tete sur le velours du coussin,
Ce velours violet caresse par la lampe,
Et que sa tete, a ma Ldnore, que sa tempe

Ne pressera plus, jamais plus !

Alors Fair me semble lourd, parfume par un
Invisible encensior que balangaient des anges
Dont les pas effleuraient le tapis rouge et brun,
Et glissaient avec des bruissements etranges.
Malheureux ! m'ecriai-je, il t'arrive du ciel
Un peu de nepenthes pour adoucir ton fiel,
Prends-le done ce rdpit qu'un seraphin t'apporte,
Bois ce bon nepenthes, oublie enfin la morte !

Le corbeau grinc.a : Jamais plus !

54 Translations.

Prophete de malheur ! oiseau noir ou ddmon,
Cirai-je, que tu sois un messager du diable
Ou bien que la tempete, ainsi qu'un goemon
Tait simplement jetd dans ce lieu pitoyable,
Dans ce logis hante par 1'horreur et 1'effroi,
Valeureux naufragd, sincerement, dis-moi
S'il est, s'il est sur terre un baume de Judde
Qui puisse encor guerir mon ame corrodee ?

Le corbeau glapit : Jamais plus !

Prophete de malheur, oiseau noir ou demon,
Par ce grand ciel tendu sur nous, sorcier d'ebene
Par ce Dieu que benit notre meme limon,
Dis a ce malheureux damne charge" de peine,
Si dans le paradis qui ne doit pas cesser,
Oh ! dis lui s'il pourra quelque jour embrasser
La precieuse enfant que tout son cceur adore,
La sainte enfant que les anges nomment Ldnore !

Le corbeau gemit : Jamais plus !

Alors, separons-nous ! puisqu'il en est ainsi,
Hurlai-je en me dressant ! Rentre aux enfers ! replonge
Dans la tempete affreuse ! Oh ! pars ! ne laisse ici
Pas une seule plume evoquant ton mensonge ! —
Monstre ! Fuis pour toujours mon gite inviole ;
Desaccroche ton bee de mon cosur desole !
Va-t'en bete, maudite, et que ton spectre sorte
Et soit precipite' loin, bien loin de ma porte !

Le corbeau rala : Jamais plus 1

Translations. 5 S

Et sur le buste austere et pale de Pallas,
L'immuable corbeau reste installe sans treve ;
Au-dessus de ma porte il est toujours, helas !
Et ses yeux sont en tout ceux d'un demon qui reve ;
Et 1'eclair de la lampe, en ricochant sur lui,
Projette sa grande ombre au parquet chaque nuit ;
Et ma pauvre ame, hors du cercle de cette ombre
Qui git en vacillant — la — sur le plancher sombre,
Ne montera plus, jamais plus !

MAURICE ROLLINAT.

Another of the many attempts to transfer to the
French language Poe's poetic chef d'ceuvre was made
by Monsieur Leo Quesnel. This attempt, the trans-
lator did not claim any higher title for it, was pub-
lished in la Revue Politiqite et Litteraire^ and runs as
follows : —

Le poete est, pendant une sombre nuit de de-
cembre, assis dans bibliotheque, au milieu de ses
livres, auxquels il demande vainement 1'oubli de sa
douleur. Une vague somnolence appesantit ses yeux
rougis par les larmes.

Un leger bruit le reveille. C'est quelqu'un qui
frappe a la porte, sans doute ? Que lui importe ? Sa
tete retombe.

Un autre bruit se fait entendre. C'est la tapisserie
que, du dehors ; quelqu'un souleve peut-etre ? Que
lui importe ? II se rendort.

5 6 Translations.

On frappe encore : " Entrez ! " dit-il ; mais per-
sonne n'entre. II se leve enfin et va voir a la porte.
II n'y a rien que la silence.

II se rassied, anxieux et surpris. Nouvel appel du
visiteur myste'rieux et invisible ! Imposant silence a
son cceur, tout rempli de 1'image de Ignore : " II
faut," dit-il, " Que je de'couvre ce mystere ! Ah !
£'est le vent qui ge'missait, je pense ! " Et il ouvre la
porte toute grande pour lui livrer passage.

Un gros corbeau, battant des ailes, entre aussitot,
comme le maitre du lieu, et va se percher sur un buste
de Minerve. Son air grave arrache un sourire au jeune
homme melancolique : " Oiseau d'dbene," lui dit-il,
" quel est ton nom sur le rivage de Pluton ? "

Et le corbeau rdpond : " Nevermore."

Etonnd d'une rdponse si sage, le poete lui dit :
"Ami inconnu, tu me quitteras demain comme les
autres, peut-etre ? "

Mais le corbeau re'pond : " Nevermore."

" Ah ! " sans doute, oiseau, tu ignores le sens du
mot que tu prononces ? Et c'est de quelque maitre
afflige comme moi, qui avait, lui aussi, perdu a jamais
son bonheur, qui t'a appris a dire : " Nevermore ? "
Ah ! Ldnore, toi qui foulais ce tapis que je foule,
qui touchais ces coussins que je touche, qui animais
ces lieux de ta presence, n'y reviendras-tu plus ? "
Et le corbeau repond : " Nevermore."

Translations. 57

Une fumee d'encens rdpand dans la chambre,
sortie d'un encensoir qu'un seraphin balance. " C'est
ton Dieu qui 1'envoie, sans doute, pour endormir par
ce parfum, dans ma memoire, le nom douloureux de
Ignore ? "

Et le corbeau repond : " Nevermore."

" Prophete de malheur, ange ou de"mon, que la
tempete a secoue sur ces rives, dis-mois, je t'en sup-
plie, si 1'on trouve en enfer le baume de 1'oubli ? "
Et le corbeau repond : " Nevermore."

" Oh ! dis-moi si dans le ciel Tame d'un amant
desole peut-etre unie un jour a Tame d'une vierge
sainte que les anges appellant Lenore ? "

Et le corbeau repond : " Nevermore."

Et jamais le corbeau n'est descendu de ce buste de
Minerve, dont il couronne le front pensif. Ses yeux
de demon s'enfoncent sans cesse dans les yeux du
poete. Son spectre, agrandi chaque nuit par la lu-
miere des lampes, couvre les murs et les planchers, et
1'amant infortune ne lui echappera plus ! Nevermore.

LEO QUESNEL.

58 Translations.

GERMAN.

THE German language has a capability of reproduc-
ing English thought possessed by no other national
speech. Even poetry may be transferred from the
one tongue to the other without, in many cases, any
very great loss of beauty or power. The German
language is richer in rhymes than the English, and
in it finer shades of thought may be expressed ; more-
over, its capacity of combination — its wealth of com-
pound words — is greater. These advantages are, how-
ever, to some extent, counterbalanced by various
difficulties, such as the greater length of its words
and their different grammatical positions.

Of the many English poems which have been
effectively rendered into German by translators The
Raven is one of the most remarkable examples of
success. Among those who have overcome the diffi-
culty of transferring the weird ballad from the one
language to the other no one has, to our thinking,
displayed greater skill than Herr Carl Theodor Eben,
whose translation, Der Rabe, was published, with
illustrations, in Philadelphia, in 1869.

Fraulein Betty Jacobson contributed a careful and
cleverly executed translation of the RAVEN to the
Magazin fur die Liter atur des Auslandes for 28 Feb-
ruary, 1880. Herr Eben's and Fraulein Jacobson's
translations we give in full. Herr Niclas Miiller,
though a German by birth, a resident in the United

Trans la tions. 5 9

States, has, also, published a translation that has been
warmly commended in his adopted country, and from
his skilful manipulation of Poe's poem the two first
stanzas may be cited : —

" Einst in einer Mittnacht schaurig, als ich miide sass

und traurig
Ueber manchem sonderbaren Buche langst-vergessner

Lehr',
Wahrend ich halb traumend nickte, Etwas plotzlich

leise pickte,

Als ob Jemand sachte tickte, tickte an die Thiire her,
' Ein Besuch,' so sprach ich leise, ' tickend an die

Thiire her,

Das allein und sonst nichts mehr.'

" 0, genau Kann ich's noch sehen ; kalt blies des

Dezember's Wehen ;
Jeder Funke malte seinen Schein mir an dem Boden

her —
Sehnlich wunscht'ich nah den Mongen, und umsonst

sucht'ich zu borgen
End' in Biichern meiner Sorgen, um das Madchen

sorgenschwer,

Um die strahlende Lenore, so genannt in Engelsherr —
Hier wird sie genannt nicht mehr."

Carl Eben's translation of The Raven, which poem
he truthfully described as, from an artistic point of
view, the most important and perfect in the English
language, is as follows : —

60 Translations.

DER RABE.

Mitternacht umgab mich schaurig, als ich einsam,

triib und traurig,
Sinnend sasz und las von mancher langstverkung'nen

Mahr' und Lehr' —
Als ich schon mit matten Blicken im Begriff, in Schlaf

zu nicken,

Horte plotzlich ich ein Ticken an die Zimmerthiire her ;
" Ein Besuch wohl noch," so dacht' ich, " den der

Zufall fiihret her—

Ein Besuch und sonst Nichts mehr."

Wohl hab' ich's im Sinn behalten, im Dezember

war's, im kalten,
Und gespenstige Gestalten warf des Feuers Schein

umher.
Sehnlich wiinscht' ich mir den Morgen, keine Lind'rung

•war zu borgen
Aus den Biichern fur die Sorgen — fur die Sorgen tief

und schwer
Um die Sel'ge, die Lenoren nennt der Engel heilig

Heer—

Hier, ach, nennt sie Niemand mehr !

Jedes Rauschen der Gardinen, die mir wie Gespenster

schienen,
Fiillte nun mein Herz mit Schrecken — Schrecken nie

gefuhlt vorher ;

Wie es bebte, wie es sagte, bis ich endlich wieder sagte :
" Ein Besuch wohl, der es wagte, in der Nacht zu

kommen her —
Ein Besuch, der spat es wagte, in der Nacht zu

kommen her ;

Dies allein und sonst Nichts mehr."

Translations. 61

Und ermannt nach diesen Worten offnete ich stracks

die Pforten :
" Dame oder Herr," so sprach ich, " bitte um Verzei-

hung sehr !
Doch ich war mit matten Blicken im BegrifF, in

Schlaf zu nicken,
Und so leis scholl Euer Ticken an die Zimmerthiire

her,
Dasz ich kaum es recht vernommen ; doch nun seid

willkommen sehr ! " —

Dunkel da und sonst Nichts mehr.

Duster in das Dunkel schauend stand ich lange starr

und grauend,
Traume traumend, die hienieden nie ein Mensch

getraumt vorher ;
Zweifel schwarz den Sinn bethorte, Nichts die Stille

drauszen storte,
Nur das eine Wort man horte, nur " Lenore ? " klang

es her ;
Selber haucht' ich's, und " Lenore ! " trug das Echo

trauernd her —

Einzig dies und sonst Nichts mehr.

Als ich nun mit tiefem Bangen wieder in's Gemach

gegangen,

Hort' ich bald ein neues Pochen, etwas lauter als vorher.
" Sicher," sprach ich da mit Beben, " an das Fenster

pocht' es eben,
Nun wohlan, so lasz mich streben, dasz ich mir das

Ding erklar' —
Still, mein Herz, dasz ich mit Ruhe dies Geheimnisz

mir erklar'—

Wohl der Wind und sonst Nichts mehr."

62 Translations.

Risz das Fenster auf jetzunder, und herein stolzirt'—

o Wunder !
Ein gewalt'ger, hochbejahrter Rabe schwirrend /u

mir her ;
Flog mit macht'gen Fliigelstreichen, ohne Grusz und

Dankeszeichen,
Stolz und stattlich sender Gleichen, nach der Thiire

hoch und hehr —
Flog nach einer Pallasbiiste ob der Thiire hoch und

hehr —

Setzte sich und sonst Nichts mehr.

Und trotz meiner Trauer brachte der dahin mich,

datz ich lachte,
So gesetzt und gravitatisch herrscht' auf meiner

Biiste er.
"Ob auch alt und nah dem Grabe," sprach ich,

" bist kein feiger Knabe,
Grimmer, glattgeschor'ner Rabe, der Du kamst vom

Schattenheer —
Sprich, welch' stolzen Namen fiihrst Du in der Nacht

pluton'schem Heer ? "

Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr."

Ganz erstaunt war ich, zu horen dies Geschopf mich

so belehren,
Schien auch wenig Sinn zu liegen in dem Wort

bedeutungsleer ;
Denn wohl Keiner konnte sagen, dasz ihm je in seinen

Tagen
Sender Zier und sonder Zager so ein Thier erschienen

war',

Das auf seiner Marmobiiste ob der Thiir gesessen war'
Mit dem Namen " Nimmermehr."

Translations. 63

Dieses Wort nur sprach der Rabe dumpf und hohl,

wie aus dem Grabe,

Als ob seine ganze Seele in dem einen Worte war'.
Weiter nichts ward dahn gesprochen, nur mem Herz

noch hort' ich pochen,
Bis das Schweigen ich gebrochen : " Andre Freunde

floh'n seither —
Morgen wird auch er mich fliehen, wie die Hoffhung

floh seither."

Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr ! '*

Immer hoher stieg mem Staunen bei des Raben

dunklem Raunen,
Doch ich dachte : " Ohne Zweifel weisz er dies und

sonst Nichts mehr ;
Hat's von seinem armen Meister, dem des Ungliicks

sinstre Geister
Drohten dreist und drohten dreister, bis er triib und

trauerschwer —
Bis ihm schwand der Hoffhung Schimmer, und er

fortan seufzte schwer :

' O nimmer — nimmermehr ! ' '

Trotz der Trauer wieder brachte er dahin mich, dasz

ich lachte ;
Einen Armstuhl endlich rollte ich zu Thiir und Vogel

her.
In den sammt'nen Kissen liegend, in die Hand die

Wange schmiegend,
Sann ich, hin und her mich wiegend, was des Wortes

Deutung war' —
Was der grimme, sinst're Vogel aus dem nacht'gen

Schattenheer

Wollt' mit seinem " Nimmermehr."

64 Translations.

Dieses sasz ich still ermessend, doch des Vogels nicht

vergessend,

1 )essenFeueraugen jetzomirdasHerz beklemmtensehr;
Und mit schmerzlichen Gefiihlen liesz mein Haupt

ich lange wiihlen
In den veilchenfarb'nen Pfiihlen, iiberstrahlt vom

Lichte hehr —
Ach, in diesen sammtnen Pfiihlen, iiberstrahlt vom

Lichte hehr —

Ruhet sie jetzt nimmermehr !

Und ich wahnte, durch die Liifte wallten siisze

Weihrauchdiifte,
Ausgestreut durch unsichtbare Seraphshande um mich

her.
" Lethe," rief ich, " susze Spende schickt Dir Gott

durch Engelshande,
Dasz sich von Lenoren wende Deine Trauer tief und

schwer !
Nimm, o nimm die siisze Spende und vergisz der

Trauer schwer ! "

Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr ! "

" Gramprophet ! " rief ich voll Zweifel, " ob Du

Vogel oder Teufel !
Ob die Holle Dich mir sandte, ob der Sturm Dich

wehte her !
Du, der von des Orkus Strande — Du, der von dem

Schreckenlande
Sich zu mir, dem Triiben, wandte — kiinde mir mein

heisz Begehr :
Find' ich Balsam noch in Gilead ? ist noch Trost im

Gnadenmeer ? "

Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr ! "

Translations. 65

" Gramprophet ! " rief ich voll Zweifel, " ob Du

Vogel oder Teufel !
Bei dem ew'gen Himmel droben, bei dem Gott, den

ich verehr'—

Ktinde mir, ob ich Lenoren, die hienieden ich verloren,
Wieder sind' an Edens Thoren — sie, die thront im

Engelsheer —

Jene Sel'ge, die Lenoren nennt der Engel heilig Heer !"
Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr ! "

" Sei dies Wort das Trennungszeichen ! Vogel.

Damon, Du muszt weichen !
Fleuch zuriick zum Sturmesgrauen, oder zum pluton'-

schen Heer !
Keine Feder lasz zuriicke mir als Zeichen Deiner

Tiicke ;
Lasz allein mich dem Geschicke — wagie nie Dich

wieder her !
Fort und lasz mein Herz in Frieden, das gepeinigt

Du so sehr ! "

Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr ! "

Und der Rabe weichet nimmer — sitzt noch immer,

sitzt noch immer

Auf der blassen Pallasbiiste ob der Thiire hoch und her;
Sitzt mit geisterhaftem Munkeln, seine Feueraugen

funkeln
Gar damonisch aus dem dunkeln, diistern Schatten

um ihn her ;
Und mein Geist wird aus dem Schatten, den er breitet

um mich her,

Sich erheben — nimmermehr.

CARL THEODORE EBEN.
F

66 Translations.

Fraulein Betty Jacobson's popular translation runs
thus : —

DER RABE.

Einst urn Mitternacht, gar schaurig, sass ich briitend

mild und traurig
Ueber seltsam krausen Biichern, bergend haldver-

gess'ne Lehr ;
Fast schon nickt' ich schlafbefangen, plotzlich draus-

sen kam's gegangen,

Kam wie leise suchend naher, tappte an der Thii r umher :
" 's ist ein Gas wohl," murrt' ich leise, " tappend an

der Thiir umher ;

Nur ein spater Gast, — was mehr ? "

Deutlich ist mir's noch geblieben, im December war's,

dem triiben,
Geisterhaft verloschend hiipften Funken im Kamin

umher,
Heiss herbei sehnt' ich den Morgen, den aus Biichern

Trost zu borgen
Fur den Kummer um Lenore, war mem Herz zu triib

und schwer ;
Um Lenoren, die nur Engel droben nennen, licht

und hehr ! —

Ach, hier nennt sie Niemand mehr!

Und das leise Rascheln, Rauschen, wie von seidnen

Vorhangs Bauschen,
Fiillte mich mit Angst und Grauen, das ich nie

gekannt bisher.
Deutlich fiihlt' mein Herz ich schlagen, musste zu mir

selber sagen :
" Jemand kommt mich zu besuchen, tappt nun an der

Thiir umher —
Noch ein spater Gas will Einlass, suchend tappt er

hin und her ;

Nur ein spater Gast, was mehr ? "-

Translations. 67

Als besiegt des Herzens Zagen, fing ich deutlich an

zu fragen ;
" Ob ihr Herr seid oder Dame, um Verzeihung bitt'

ich sehr,
Denn ich war so schaf befangen, und so leis kamt ihr

gegangen,
Dass ich zweifle, ob ich wirklich Schritte horte hier

umher," —
Hier riss ich die Thiir auf, draussen — Alles finster,

still und leer !

Tiefes Dunkel, und nichts mehr !

Unverwandt ins Dunkel starrend, stand ich lange,

zweifelnd harrend ;
Sann und traumte, wie wohl nimmerSterbliche getraumt

bisher ;
Aber lautlos war das Schweigen, Niemand kam sich

mir zu zeigen,
Nur ein einzig Wort erklang wie fliisternd aus der

Feme her ;
Leise rief ich's : " Leonore ! " — Echo tonte triib und

schwer ! —

Dieses Wort, und sonst nights mehr ! —

Riickwarts trat ich nun ins Zimmer, zagend schlug mein

Herz noch immer,
Und schon wieder hort ich's draussen lauter trippeln

hin und her;
Diesmal schein das dumpfe Klingen von dem Fenster

her zu dringen :
" Dies Geheimnis, ich ergriind' es, schlagt mein Herz

auch noch so sehr;
Still mein Herz, ergriinden will ich's, birgt es sich auch

noch so sehr; —

's ist der Wind nur, und nichts mehr !"-
F 2

68 Translations.

Auf schob ich den Fensterriegel, da — mit leiscm Schlag

der Flugel,

Kam hereinstolzirt ein Rabe, wie aus altersgrauer Mar,
Ohne mit dem Kopf zu nicken, ohne nur sich umzu-

blicken,
Flog er auf die Pallasbiiste, die geschmiickt mit Helm

und Wehr
Ueberm Thiirgesimse glanzte, setzte drauf sich oben

her;

Sass, und riihrte sich, nicht mehr.

Und mir war's, als wollten fliehen meine triiben

Phantasieen
Vor dem Raben, der so ernst und gravitatisch blickte

her.
" 1st dein Kopf auch kahlgeschoren, nicht zu grausem

Spuk erkoren
Bist du, bist kein grimmes Schreckbild von dem

nachtlich diistern Meer,
Sprich, wie ist dein hoheitsvoller Name dort an Pluto's

Meer?"—

Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr ! "-

Als ich dieses Wort vernommen, hat mich Staunen

iiberkommen,
Schien das Wort auch ohne Absicht und als Antwort

inhaltsleer ;
Denn wer wiisste wohl zu sagen, ob es je in unsern

Tagen

Einem Sterblichen begegnet, das ein Rabe flog daher,
Der zum Sitz die Pallasboste sich erkor mit Helm und

Wehr,

Und sich nannte : " Nimmermehr ! " —

Translations. 69

Und der Rabe sass alleine auf der Biiste, sprache das

eine

Wort nor aus, als ob es seiner Seele ganzer Inhalt war',
Liess sonst keinen Laut vernehmen, leblos sass er wie

ein Schemen,
Bis ich leise murmelnd sagte : " Morgen, sicher, flieht

auch er,
Wie die Freunde mich verliessen, wie die Hoffnung

floh vorher ! "—

Doch da sprach er: "Nimmermehr!"-

Nun die Stille war gebrochen durch dies Wort so klug

gesprochen,
" Ohne Zweifel," sagt' ich, "blieb es iibrig ihm aus

alter Lehr',
Einst gehort von einem Meister, den des Unheils bose

Geister
Hart und barter stets bedrangten, bis sein Lied von

Klagen schwer,
Bis das Grablied seiner Hoffnung, nur von diistrer

Klage schwer;

Tonte : " Nimmer-nimmermehr ! " —

Doch die triiben Phantasieen vor dem Raben mussten

fliehen,

Und so schob vorThiir und Vogel einen Sessel ich daher,
Sinnend Haupt in Handen wiegend, mich ins sammtne

Polster schmiegend
Sucht ich's forschend zu ergriibeln, was der Rabe un-

gefahr

Was der grimme, geisterhafte, ernste Vogel ungefahr,
Meinte mit dem " Nimmermehr ! "

/o Translations.

Tief in Sinnen so versunken, starrt' ich in des Feuers-

Funken,
Und ich mied des Vogels Auge, das gleich einem

feur'gen Speer
Mir ins Herz drang; die Gedanken schweiften durch

des Lebens Schranken,
In die sammtnen Polster presste ich mein Haupt so

mild und schwer, —
In die Polster, drauf der Lampe Schimmer flackert

hin und her,

Lehnt ihr Haupt sich nimmermehr !

Da durchwiirzt mit einem Male wie aus einer

Raucherschale
Schien die Luft, als schritten Engel Weihrauch spen-

den vor mir her ;
" Ja, dein Gott hat euch gesendet, mir durch Seraphim

gespendet,
Leonoren zu verschmerzen, Trostes lindernde Ge-

wahr ! —
Trink, o trink den Trank aus Lethe, sei Vergessen

noch so schwer ! "

Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr ! "

" Du Prophet, o schrecklich Wesen, Vogel oder

Freund des Bosen,
Sandte dich die Holle oder warf ein Sturmwind dich

hieher ?
Hoffnungslos, doch ohne Zagen, will noch einmal ich

dich fragen
Nach verborgnem Geisterlande, — gieb, o Schreck-

licher, Gehor :
— Find ich Balsam einst in Gilead ? — Sprich, o sprich

und gieb Gehor ! "

Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr ! "

Translations. 7 I

" Du Prophet, o schrecklich Wesen, Vogel oder

Freund des Bosen,
Bei dem Himmelszelt dort oben, bei des Hochsten

Sternenheer,

Stille meines Herzens Flehen, sprich, ob einst in Edens

Hohen

Ich Lenoren wiederfinde, jene Einz'ge rein und hehr —
Engel nennen sieLenore, jene Heil'ge rein und hehr." —
Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr ! "

" Sei dies Wort das Abschiedszeichen," schrie ichr

" fort ! In Nacht entweichen
Magst du, Damon, in die Sturmnacht fort zu Pluto's

schwarzem Meer !
Keine Feder vom Gewande lass der Luge hier zum

Pfande,
Lass mich ungestort und einsam, lass die Biiste droben

leer,
Zieh den Pfeil aus meinem Herzen, lass den Platz dort

oben leer ! "

Sprach der Rabe : " Nimmermehr ! "

Und der Rabe, ohne Regen, ohn' ein Glied nur zu

bewegen,
Hockt auf Pallas' bleicher Buste, starr und schweigend

wie vorher ;
Seiner Damonaugen Funken leuchten wie in Traum

versunken,
Seinen Schatten wirft die Lampe schwarz und lang ins

Zimmer her,
Und die Seele kann dem Schatten, der am Boden

schwankt umher,

Nicht entfliehen — nimmermehr ! —
BETTY JACOBSON.

72 Translations.

Among other noteworthy translations of The Raven
into German may be mentioned one by Spielhagen,
the well-known novelist, and yet another by Adolf
Strodtmann. Strodtmann, who appears to have
accepted Poe's Philosophy of Composition as a state-
ment of facts, has translated that essay as an appen-
dix to Der Rabe. From his rendering of the poem
published in Hamburg (Lieder und Balladenbuch
Americanischer und Englischer Dichter) 1862, the
following excerpts may be made : —

i.

Einst zur Nachtzeit, triib und schaurig, als ich schmaz-

ensmiid und traurig
Sasz und briitend, sann ob mancher seltsam halbver-

gessnen Lehr', —
Als ich fast in Schlaf gefallen, horte plotzlich ich

erschallen
An der Thiir ein leises Hallen, gleich als ob's ein

Klopfen war'.
" 'S ist ein Wandrer wohl," so sprach ich, " der verirrt

von iingefa'hr, —

Ein Verinter, sonst nichts mehr."

ii.
In der rauhsten zeit des Jahres, im Decembermonat

war es,
Flackernd warf ein wunderbares Licht das Feuer rings

umher.
Heisz ersehnte ich den Morgen ; — aus den Biichern,

ach ! zu borgen
War Kein Frost fur meine Sorgen um die Maid,

geliebt so sehr,
Um die Maid, die jetzt Lenore wird genannt im

Engelsheer —

Hier, ach, nennt kein wort sie mehr !

Translations. 73

v.

Angstlich in das Dunkel starrend blieb ich stehn,

verwundert, harrend
Traume traumend, die Kein armer Erdensohn getraumt

vorher.
Doch nur von des Herzens Pochen ward die Stille

unterbrochen,
Und als ein' ges Wort gesprochen ward : " Lenore ? "

kummerschwer,
Selber sprach ich's, und : " Lenore ! " trug das Echo

zu mir her, —

Nur dies Wort, und sonst nichts mehr.

XIII.

Und der Rabe, schwartz and dunkel, sitzt mit krach-

zendem Gemunkel
Noch auf meiner Pallasbiiste ob der Thiir bedeutung-

schwer.
Seine Damonaugen gliihen unheilvoll mit wildem

Spriihen,
Seine Fliigel Schatten zieben an dem Boden breit-

umher ;
Und mein Hertz wird aus dem Schatten, der mich

einhullt weit umher,

Sich erheben — nimmermehr !

74 Translations.

HUNGARIAN.

A PUBLISHED translation of The Raven is stated ta
have appeared in Russian but we have been unable to
obtain a copy. Poe's prose works are very popular
in Italy and Spain, it is, therefore, probable that his
poetic master-piece has been rendered into one or both
of those languages although we have not succeeded in
tracing such renderings. His writings are admired in
Hungary, and in a collection of biographical sketches
by Thomas Szana, published at Budapest in 1870, and
entitled " Nagy Szellemek," (" Great Men ") was a life
of Edgar Poe. For this sketch Endrody contributed
the following translation of The Raven: —

A HOLLO.

Egyszer ne"ma, rideg ejen iiltem elmeriilve melyen
Almadozva valamely reg elfelejtett eneken . . .
Bolingattam felalomban, — im egyszerre ajtom koppan.
Felenk lepes zaja dobban, — dobban halkan, csondesen
"Latogatd — gondolam — ki ajtomhoz jott csondesen,
Az lesz, egyeb semmisem.

Translations. 75

Ah ! oly jdl emlekszem meg en : — keso volt, de-

cember vegen,

Minden iiszok hamvig egven arnya rezgett remesen.
Ugy vartam s kesett a hajnal ! konyveim — bar nagy

halommal —

Nem birtak a fajdalommal, — ertted, elhalt kedevsem !
Kit Lenoranak neveznek az angylok odafen,
Itt orokre nevtelen !

De az ajtd s ablakoknak fuggonyei mind susogtak,

S ismeretlen remiilettel foglalak el kebelem.

S hogy legyozhessem magamban — a felelmet, valtig

mondtam :

" Latogatd csak, ki ott van ajtdm elott csondesen,
Valami elkesett utas, var az ajton csondesen ; —
Az lesz, egyeb semmisen ! "

Kinyitam az ajto szarnyat — es azonnal nyilatan at
Szazados hollo csapott be, komoran, nehezkesen,
A nalkiil, hogy meghajolna, sem koszonve, se nem

szolva,

Mintha az ur 6 lett volna, csak leszallt negedesen.
Ajtdm felett egy szobor volt, arra szallt eg}7nesen,
Raszallt, raiilt nesztelen !

A setet madar mikep ill, nem nezhettem mosoly

nelkiil,

Komoly, biiszke melt6saggal lilt nagy iinnepelyesen.
— Bar iitott-kopott ruhaba,— gondolam — nem vegy te

kaba,

Ven botor, nem josz hiaba, ejlakodb61 oda-len ;
Sz61j ! nerved mi, hogyha honn vagy alvilagi helyeden ?
Szdlt a madar : " Sohasem ! "

76 Translations.

Csak bamultam e bolondot, hogy oly tiszta hangot

mondott,

Bar szavdban, bizonyara, keve's volt az e"rtelem.
De pdldatlan ily madar, mely szobadba mit ne"gy fal

zar el,

Ajtddnak fole'be szall fel, — s ott ill jo magas helyen,
S nev£t mondja, hogyha ke"rded, biztos helyen iilve fen ;
Es a neve : " Sohasem."

£s a hollo iilve helybe, csak az egy szot ismetelte,
Mintha abban volna lelke kifejezve teljesen.
Azutan egyet se szola, — meg se rezzent szarnya tolla,
S en siigam (inkabb gondolva) : " Minden elhagy,

istenem !

Marad-e csak egy baratom ? Lehet-e remenylenem ? "
A madir szolt : "Sohasem."

Megrendiiltem, hogy talal az en sohajomra a valasz,
Amde — ezt suga a ke"tely — nem tud ez mast, ugy

hiszem.

Erre tanita gazdaja, kit kitarto sors viszalya
Addig iilde, addig hanya, mig ezt dalla sziintelen —
Tort remenye omladekin ezt sohajta sziintelen :
" Soha — soha — sohasem ! "

Ram a hollo meron nezve, engem is mosolyra keszte.
S oda iiltem ellenebe, 6 meg szembe allt velem.
En magam pamlagra vetve, kepzeletrol kepzeletre
Szalla elmem onfeledve, es azon torem fejem :
Hogy e remes, vijjogd, vad, kopott hol!6 sziintelen
Me'rt kialtja : " Sohasem ? "

Translations. 77

Ezt talalgatam magamban, a hol!6 elott azonban
R61a egy hangot se mondtam, — s 6 csak nezett

mereven.

S kedvesem nevet sohajtvan, fejem a vankosra hajtam,
Melynek puha barsony habjan rezg a mecsfeny kdtesen ;
Melynek puha barsony habjat — e'rinteni kedvesem
Ah ! nem fogja sohasem !

S mintha most a szagos legbe'— lathatatlantomjen egne
S angyaloknak zengne lepte — sze'tsz6rt virag-

kelyheken . . .
'Ah — rebegtem — tan az isten kiild angyalt, hogy

megenyhitsen,

S melyre foldon balzsam nincsen, — a bu feledve legyen!
Idd ki a felejtes kelyhet, biid enyhet lei csoppiben ! '
Sz61t a hol!6 : " Sohasem ! "

' J6s — kialtek — bar ki legy te, angyal, ordog, — madar

kepbe,

Vagy vihart61 uzetel be pihenni ez enyhelyen !
Bar elhagyva, nem leverve, — kifaradva a keservbe,
Most felelj meg ndkem erre, konyorgok s kovetelem :
Van-e balzsam Gileadban — s en valaha follelem?'
Szdlt a hollo : " Sohasem ! "

' Jos ! kialtek — bar ki legy te, angyal, ordog — madar-

kepbe,

Hogyha van hited az egbe, — es egy istent felsz velem :
Sz61j e szivhez keserveben, — lesz-e am'a boldog eden,
A hoi egyesitve legyen, kedvesevel, — vegtelen,
Kit Lenoranak neveznek az angyalok odafen ? '

Sz61taholl6: "Sohasem!"

78 Translations.

' Menj tehat, pusztulj azonnal ! ' — kialtek ra fajda-

lommal —

' Veszsz orokre semmise'gbe, a pokoli djjelen !
Ne maradjon itt egyetlen — toll, emldkeztetni engem,
Hogy fblverted ndma csendem, — szallj tovabb, szallj

hirtelen,

Vond ki kormodet szivembol, bar szakadjon vdresen ! '
Sz61taholl6: "Sohasem!"

S barna szarnya meg se lendiil, mind csak ott til, mind

csak fent til,

Akarmerre fordulok, csak szemben til mindig velem,
Szemei meredt vilaga, mint kisdrtet remes arnya,
S korulotte a biis lampa fenye reszket ketesen,
S lelkem — ah ! e nema arnyt61, mely korulleng

remesen —

Nem menekszik — sohasem !

ENDRODY.

79

LATIN.

A TRANSLATION of The Raven into Latin was pub-
lished in 1866, at Oxford and London, in a volume
of translations from English poetry, entitled Fasciculus
ediderunt Ludovicus Gidley et Robinson Thornton.
Mr. Gidley was the author of this particular render-
ing, which appears to have been once or twice repub-
lished already, and is as follows : —

Alta nox erat ; sedebam taedio fessus gravi,
Nescio quid exoletse perlegens scientise,
Cum velut pulsantis ortus est sonus meas fores —
Languido pulsantis ictu cubiculi clausas fores :
" En, amicus visitum me serius," dixi, " venit —
Inde fit sonus ; — quid amplius 1 "

_
Ah ! recorder quod Decembris esset hora nubili,

In pariete quod favillae fingerent imagines.
Crastinum diem petebam ; nil erat solaminis,
Nil levaminis legendo consequi cura? mese : —
De Leonina delebam, coalites quam nominant —
Nos non nominamus amplius.

Moestus aulsei susurros purpurati, et serici,

Horrui vana nee ante cognita formidine ;

Propter hoc, cor palpitans ut sisterem, jam dictitans

Constiti, " Meus sodalis astat ad fores meas,

Me meus sero sodalis hie adest efflagitans ;

Inde fit sonus ; — quid amplius ? "

So Translations.

Mente mox corroborata, desineus vanum metum,
" Quisquis es, tu parce," dixi, " negligentiae mese ;
Me levis somnus tenebat, et guatis tam lenibus
Ictibus fores meas, ut irritum sonum excites,
Quern mea vix consequebar aure " — tune pandi
fores : —

Illic nox erat ; — nil amplius.

Ales iste luculenter eloquens me perculit,
Tpsa quamvis indicaret psene nil responsio;
Namque nobis confitendum est nemini mortalium
Copiam datam videndi quadrupedem unquam aut

alitem,

Qui super fores sederet sculptilem premeus Deam,
Dictus nomine hoc, " Non amplius."

At sedens super decorum solus ales id caput,
Verba tanquam mente tota dixit haec tantummodo.
Deinde pressis mansit alis, postea nil proferens,
Donee segre murrmirarim, " Cseteri me negligunt —
Deseret me eras volucris, spes ut ante destitit."

Corvus tune refert, " Non amplius."

Has tenebras intuebar turn stupens metu diu,
Haesitans, et meute fingens quodlibet miraculum ;
At tacebat omne limen ferreo silentio,
Et, " Leonina ! " inde nomen editum solum fuit ;
Ipse dixeram hoc, et echo reddidit loquax idem ; —
Ha;c vox edita est ; — nil amplius.

Translations. 8 1

In cubiclum mox regressus, concitio prsecordiis,
Admodum paulo acriorem rursus ictum exaudio.
•" Quicquid est, certe fenestras concutit," dixi,

meas ;

41 Eja, prodest experiri quid sit hoc mysterium —
Cor, parumper conquiesce, donee hoc percepero ; —
Flatus hie strepit ; — nil amplius."

Tune repagulis remotis, hue et hue, en cursitans,
Et micans alis, verenda forma, corvus insilit.
Blandiens haud commoratus, quam cellerrime viam ;
Fecit, et gravis, superbus, constitit super fores —
In caput divse Minervae collorans se sculptile

Sedit, motus haud dein amplius.

Nonnihil deliniebat cor meum iste ales niger,
Fronte, ecu Catoniana, tetrica me contuens :
" Tu, licet sis capite laevi, tamen es acer, impiger.
Tarn verendus," inquam, " et ater, noctis e plaga

vagans —
Die, amabo, qui vocaris nocte sub Plutonia ? "

Corvus rettulit, " Non amplius."

Me statim commovit apta, quam dedit, responsio :
" Ista," dixit, " sola vox est hinc spes, peculium,
Quam miser praecepit actus casibus crebis herus
Ingruentibus maligne, donee ingemisceret,
Hanc querelam, destitutus spes, redintegrans diu,

Vocem lugubrem, ' Non amplius.' "

G

82 Translations.

Mox, nam adhuc deliniebat cor meum iste ales

niger,

Culcitis stratum sedile colloco adversus fores ;
Hac Cubans in sede molli mente cogito mea,
Multa fingens continenter, quid voluerit alitis
Tarn sinistri, tarn nigrantis, tarn macri, tarn tetrici,
Ista rauca vox, " Non amplius."

Augmans hoc considebam, froferens vocis nihil
Ad volucrem, jam intruentem pupulis me flammeis ;
Augurans hoc plus sedebam, segniter fulto meo
Capite culcita decora, luce lampadis lita,
Quam premet puella mollem, luce lampadis litam,
Ilia, lux mea, ah ! non amplius.

Visus aer thureis tune fumigari odoribus,

Quos ferebant Di prementis pede tapeta tinnulo.

" En miser," dixi, " minstrant — Di tibi nunc exhibent

Otium multum dolenti de Leonina tua !

Eja, nepenthes potitor, combibens oblivia !"

Corvus rettulit, " Non amplius."

" Tu, sacer propheta," dix, " sis licet daemon atrox! —
Tartarus seu te profundus, seu procella hue egerit,
Tu, peregrinans, et audax, hanc malam visens

domum,

Quam colet ferox Erinnys — die mihi, die, obsecro,
Num levamen sit doloris, quern gero — die, obsecro !"
Corvus rettulit, " Non amplius."

Translations. 8 3

" Tu, sacer propheta," dixi, " sis licet daemon atrox !
Obsecro deos per illos queris uterque cedimus —
Die dolenti, num remotis in locis olim Elysi
Sim potiturus puella numini carissima,
Num Leoninam videbo, ccelites quam Dominant"
Corvus rettulit, " Non amplius."

" Ista tempus emigrandi vox notet," dixi fremens —
" Repete nimbum, repete noctis, tu, plagam Plu-

toniam !

Nulla sit relicta testans pluma commentum nigra !
Mitte miserum persequi me ! linque Palladis caput !
E meo tu corde rostrum, postibus formam eripe !"
Corvus rettulit, " Non amplius."

Et sedens, pennis quietis usque, corvus, indies,
Sculptilis premit Minervae desuper pallens caput ;
Similis oculos molienti luctuosa dsemoni :
Sub lychno nigrat tapetes fluctuans umbra alitis ;
Et mihi mentem levandi subrutam hac umbra meam
Facta copia est — non amplius !

G 2

FABRICATIONS.

NE outcome of the immense popularity in its
native country of The Raven is the wonder-
ful and continuous series of fabrications
to which it has given rise. An American
journalist in want of a subject to eke out the scanty
interest of his columns appears to revert to Poe and his
works as natural prey : he has only to devise a para-
graph— the more absurd and palpably false the better
for his purpose — about how The Raven was written, or
by whom it was written other than Poe, to draw at-
tention to his paper and to get his fabrication copied
into the journals of every town in the United States.
From time to time these tales are concocted and scat-
tered broadcast over the country : one of them, and
one of the most self-evidently absurd, after running
the usual rounds of the American press, found its way
to England, and was published in the London Star in
the summer of 1864. It was to the effect that Mr.
Lang, the well-known Oriental traveller, had discovered
that Poe's poem of The Raven was a literary imposture.
" Poe's sole accomplishment," so ran the announce-
ment, "was a minute and accurate acquaintance with
Oriental languages, and that he turned to account by
translating, almost literally, the poem of The Raven,
from the Persian ! "

Fabrications. 85

This startling information invoked a quantity of
correspondence, but without eliciting any explanation,
as to when and where Mr. Lang had proclaimed his
discovery; where the Persian original was to be found,
or by whom it had been written ? In connection with
this Oriental hoax, however, the London paper was
made the medium of introducing to the British public
one yet more audacious and, for the general reader,
more plausible. On the ist September of the same
year the Morning Star published the following letter : —

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

SIR — I have noticed with interest and astonishment
the remarks made in different issues of your paper re-
specting Edgar A. Poe's " Raven," and I think the
following fantastic poem (a copy of which I enclose),
written by the poet whilst experimenting towards the
production of that wonderful and beautiful piece of
mechanism, may possibly interest your numerous
readers. "The Fire-Fiend" (the title of the poem I
enclose) Mr. Poe considered incomplete and threw it
aside in disgust. Some months afterwards, finding it
amongst his papers, he sent it in a letter to a friend,
labelled facetiously, " To be read by firelight at mid-
night after thirty drops of laudanum." I was intimately
acquainted with the mother-in-law of Poe, and have
frequently conversed with her respecting "The Raven,"
and she assured me that he had the idea in his mind
for some years, and used frequently to repeat verses of it
to her and ask her opinion of them, frequently making
alterations and improvements, according to the mood
he chanced to be in at the time. Mrs. Clemm, knowing
the great study I had given to " The Raven," and the
reputation I had gained by its recital through America

86 Fabrications.

took great interest in giving me all the information in
her power, and the life and writings of Edgar A. Poe
have been the topic of our conversation for hours.

Respectfully,
London, August 31. M. M. 'CREADY."

This impudent and utterly baseless circumstantial
account, which, need it be remarked was pure fiction
from alpha to omega, was followed by the following
tawdry parody : —

The Fire Fiend:
A Nightmare.

i.
IN the deepest dearth of Midnight, while the sad

and solemn swell
Still was floating, faintly echoed from the Forest Chapel

Bell-
Faintly, falteringly floating o'er the sable waves of air,
That were through the Midnight rolling, chafed and

billowy -with the tolling —
In my chamber I lay dreaming by the fire-light's fitful

gleaming,

And my dreams were dreams foreshadowed on a heart
foredomed to care !

ii.

As the last long lingering echo of the Midnight's mystic

chime —
Lifting through the sable billows to the Thither Shore

of Time-
Leaving on the starless silence not a token nor a trace —
In a quivering sigh departed; from my couch in fear I

started :
Started to my feet in terror, for my Dream's phantasmal

Error
Painted in the fitful fire a frightful, fiendish, flaming,

face !

Fabrications. 87

in.
On the red hearth's reddest centre, from a blazing knot

of oak,
Seemed to gibe and grin this Phantom when in terror

I awoke,
And my slumberous eyelids straining as I staggered to

the floor,
Still in that dread Vision seeming, turned my gaze

toward the gleaming
Hearth, and — there ! oh, God ! I saw It ! and from

out Its flaming jaw It
Spat a ceaseless, seething, hissing, bubbling, gurgling

stream of gore !

IV.

Speechless ; struck with stony silence ; frozen to the

floor I stood,
Till methought my brain was hissing with that hissing,

bubbling blood : —
Till I felt my life-stream oozing, oozing from those

lambent lips : —
Till the Demon seemed to name me; — then a wondrous

calm o'ercame me,
And my brow grew cold and dewy, with a death-damp

stiff and gluey,
And I fell back on my pillow in apparent soul-eclipse !

v.
Then, as in Death's seeming shadow, in the icy Pall of

Fear
I lay stricken, came a hoarse and hideous murmur to

my ear : —
Came a murmur like the murmur of assassins in their

sleep : —
Muttering, " Higher ! higher ! higher ! I am Demon

of the Fire !
I am Arch-Fiend of the Fire ! and each blazing roofs

my pyre,
And my sweetest incense is the blood and tears my

victims weep ! "

88 Fabrications,

VI.

" How I revel on the Prairie ! How I roar among

the Pines !
How I laugh when from the village o'er the snow the

red flame shines,
And I hear the shrieks of terror, with a Life in every

breath !
How I scream with lambent laughter as I hurl each

crackling rafter

Down the fell abyss of Fire, until higher ! higher ! higher !
Leap the High Priests of my Altar in their merry Dance

of Death ! "

VII.

"I am monarch of the Fire ! I am Vassal-King of Death !
World-encircling, with the shadow of its Doom upon

my breath !

With the symbol of Hereafter flaming from my fatal face !
I command the Eternal Fire ! Higher ! higher ! higher I

higher !
Leap my ministering Demons, like Phantasmagoric

lemans
Hugging Universal Nature in their hideous embrace!"

VIII.

When a sombre silence shut me in a solemn, shrouded

sleep,
And I slumbered, like an infant in the " Cradle of the

Deep,"
Till the Belfry in the Forest quivered with the matin

stroke,
And the martins, from the edges of its lichen-lidden

ledges,
Shimmered through the russet arches where the Light

in torn file marches,
Like a routed army struggling through the serried

ranks of oak.

Fabrications. 89

IX.

Through my ivy fretted casement filtered in a tremu-
lous note

From the tall and stately linden where a Robin swelled
his throat : —

Querulous, quaker breasted Robin, calling quaintly for
his mate !

Then I started up, unbidden, from my slumber Night-
mare ridden,

With the memory of that Dire Demon in my central
Fire

On my eye's interior mirror like the shadow of a
Fate!

x.

Ah ! the fiendish Fire had smouldered to a white and

formless heap,
And no knot of oak was flaming as it flamed upon my

sleep ;
But around its very centre, where the Demon Face

had shone,
Forked Shadows seemed to linger, pointing as with

spectral finger
To a Bible, massive, golden, on a table carved and

olden —

And I bowed, and said, " All Power is of God, of
God alone ! "

The above poor imitation of Foe's poetic chef
(foeuvre circulated through the United States for some
time as the prototype of The Raven, and although
the whole affair was treated as a fabrication by all
persons capable of judging, it was received by a
number of persons, according to the allegation of
its avowed concocter, as the genuine production of

90 Fabrications.

Poe. In 1866, a volume entitled "The Fire-Fiend
and other Poems," was published in New York, pre-
faced by a " Pre-note " to the following effect :

A few — and but a few — words of explanation seem
appropriate here, with reference to the poem which
gives title to this volume.

The ' Fire-Fiend ' was written some six years ago,
in consequence of a literary discussion wherein it was
asserted, that the marked originality of style, both as
to conception and expression, in the poems of the
late Edgar Allen (sic) Poe, rendered a successful
imitation difficult even to impossibility. The author
was challenged to produce a poem, in the manner of
The Raven, which should be accepted by the general
critic as a genuine composition of Mr. Poe's (sic), and
the ' Fire-Fiend ' was the result.

This poem was printed as ' from an unpublished
MS. of the late Edgar A. Poe,' and the hoax proved
sufficiently successful to deceive a number of critics
in this country, and also in England, where it was
afterwards republished (by Mr. Macready, the trage-
dian),* in the London Star, as an undoubted produc-
tion of its soi-disant author.

The comments upon it, by the various critics, pro-
fessional and other (sic), who accepted it as Mr. Poe's,
were too flattering to be quoted here, the more espe-
cially, since, had the poem appeared simply as the
composition of its real author, these gentlemen would
probably have been slow to discover in it the same
merits. The true history of the poem and its actual
authorship being thus succinctly given, there seems

* This assertion, need it be said, is incorrect. — ED.

Fabrications. 91

nothing further to be said, than to remain, very
respectfully, the Reader's humble servant,

THE AUTHOR.

The author of this imposition was, according to the
titlepage of the volume it appeared in, " Charles D.
Gardette."

As another example of the ludicrously inane ab-
surdities about Poe's Raven to which the American
journals give publicity, may be cited the following
communication, issued in the New Orleans Times, for
July, 1870, and purporting to have been sent to the
editor, from the Rev. J. Shaver, of Burlington, New
Jersey, as an extract from a letter, dated Richmond,
Sept. 29, 1849, written by Edgar Allan Poe to Mr.
Daniels of Philadelphia. Some portions of the letter,
it was alleged, could not be deciphered on account of
its age and neglected condition : —

"Shortly before the death of our good friend,
Samuel Fenwick, he sent to me from New York for
publication a most beautiful and thrilling poem, which
he called The Raven, wishing me, before printing it,
to ' see if it had merit,' and to make any alterations
that might appear necessary. So perfect was it in all
its parts that the slightest improvement seemed to me
impossible. But you know a person very often de-
preciates his own talents, and he even went so far as
to suggest that in this instance, or in any future pieces
he might contribute, I should revise and print them
in my own name to insure their circulation.

" This proposal I rejected, of course, and one way
or other delayed printing The Raven, until, as you
know, it came out in The Review, and * * *. It was
published when I was, unfortunately, intoxicated, and

92 Fabrications.

not knowing what I did. I signed ray name to it
and thus it went to the printer, and was published.

"The sensation it produced made me dishonest
enough to conceal the name of the real author, who
had died, as you know, some time before it came out,
and by that means I now enjoy all the credit and
applause myself. I simply make this statement to
you for the * * *. I shall probably go to New York
to-morrow, but will be back by Oct. i2th, I think."

The utter falsity and absurdity of this story need
not detain us so long in its refutation as it did several
of Poe's countrymen. It need not be asked whether
such persons as the " Rev. J. Shaver," or " Mr. Daniels
of Philadelphia," ever existed, or why Poe should
make so damaging a confession of dishonesty and
in slip-shod English, so different from his usual
terse and expressive style, it is only, at the most,
necessary to point out that far from publishing The
Raven in The Review with his name appended to it, Poe
issued it in The American Review as by " QUARLES."

A myth as ridiculous as any is that fathered by
some of the United States journals on a " Colonel Du
Solle." According to the testimony of this military-
titled gentleman, shortly before the publication of The
Raven Poe was wont to meet him and other literary
contemporaries at mid-day "for a budget of gossip
and a glass of ale at Sandy Welsh's cellar in Anne
Street." According to the further deposition of the
Colonel the poem of The Raven was produced by
Poe, at Sandy Welsh's cellar, " stanza by stanza at
small intervals, and submitted piecemeal to the criti-
cism and emendations of his intimates, who suggested
various alterations and substitutions. Poe adopted

Fabrications.

many of them. Du Solle quotes particular instances
of phrases that were incorporated at his suggestion,
and thus The Raven was a kind of joint-stock affair in
which many minds held small shares of intellectual
capital. At length, when the last stone had been
placed in position, the structure was voted complete ! "
Another class of forgeries connected with the would-
be imitators of Edgar Poe's style is known as the
"Spiritual Poems." These so-called "poems" are
wild rhapsodical productions supposed to be dictated
by the spirits of departed genius to earthly survivors :
they have always to be given through the medium of
a mortal, and although generally endowed with rhyme
are almost always devoid of reason. Edgar Poe is a
favoured subject with these " mediums," and by
means of Miss Lizzie Doten, one of their most re-
nowned improvisatrice, has produced an imitation of
his Raven, which she styled the " Streets of Balti-
more," and in which the departed poet is made to
describe his struggle with death and his triumphant
entry into eternity. One stanza of this curious pro-
duction will, doubtless, suffice : —

u In that grand, eternal city, where the angel hearts take
pity

On that sin which men forgive not, or inactively
deplore,

Earth hath lost the power to harm me, Death can
nevermore alarm me,

And I drink fresh inspiration from the source which I
adore —

Through my grand apotheosis, that new birth in Balti-
more ! "

Such is the mental pabulum provided for the
poet's countrymen !

PARODIES.

NOTHER peculiar sign of the wide in-
fluence exercised by The Raven is the
number of parodies and imitations it has
given rise to : whilst many of these are
beneath contempt some of them, for various reasons,
are worthy of notice and even of preservation. The
first of these, probably, in point of time if not of merit,
is The Gazelle, by Philip P. Cooke, a young Virginian
poet, who died just as he was giving promise of future
fame. His beautiful lyric of Florence Vane had
attracted the notice of Poe, who cited it and
praised it highly, in his lectures on " The Poets and
Poetry of America." The Gazelle might almost be re-
garded as a response to the elder poet's generous
notice. Poe himself observes, that this parody
" although professedly an imitation, has a very great
deal of original power," and he published it in the
New York Evening Mirror (April zpth, 1845), w^h
the remark that " the following, from our new-found
boy poet of fifteen years of age, shows a most happy
faculty of imitation "-

Parodies. 95

THE GAZELLE.

Far from friends and kindred wandering, in my sick

and sad soul pondering,
Of the changing chimes that float, from Old Time's

ever swinging bell,
While I lingered on the mountain, while I knelt me

by the fountain,
By the clear and crystal fountain, trickling through the

quiet dell ;
Suddenly I heard a whisper, but from whence I could

not tell,

Merely whispering, " Fare thee well."

From my grassy seat uprising, dimlyinmysoul surmising,
Whence that voice so gently murmuring, like a faintly

sounded knell.
Nought I saw while gazing round me, while that voice

so spell-like bound me,
While that voice so spell-like bound me — searching in

that tranquil dell,
Like hushed hymn of holy hermit, heard from his

dimly-lighted cell,

Merely whispering, " Fare thee well !"

Then I stooped once more, and drinking, heard once

more the silvery tinkling,
Of that dim mysterious utterance, like some fairy,

harp of shell —
Struck by hand of woodland fairy, from her shadowy

home and airy,
In the purple clouds and airy, floating o'er that mystic

dell,

And from my sick soul its music seemed all evil to expel,
Merely whispering, "Fare thee well!"

96 l^ arc dies.

Then my book at once down flinging, from my reverie

up springing,
Searched I through the forest, striving my vain terror

to dispel,
All things to my search subjecting, not a bush or tree

neglecting,
When 'behind a rock projecting, saw I there a white

gazelle,
And that soft and silvery murmur, in my ear so slowly

fell,

Merely whispering, "Fare thee well !"

From its eye so mildly beaming, down its cheek a

tear was streaming,
As though in its gentle bosom dwelt some grief it

could not quell,
Still these words articulating, still that sentence ever

prating,

And my bosom agitating as upon my ear it fell,
That most strange, unearthly murmur, acting as a

potent spell,

Merely uttering, "Fare thee well !"

Then I turned, about departing, when she from her

covert starting,
Stood before me while her bosom seemed with agony

to swell,
And her eye so mildly beaming, to my aching spirit

seeming,

To my wildered spirit seeming, like the eye of Isabel.
But, oh ! that which followed after — listen while the

tale I tell—

Of that snow-white sweet gazelle.

Parodies. 97

With her dark eye backward turning, as if some

mysterious yearning
In her soul to me was moving, which she could not

thence expel,
Through the tangled thicket flying, while I followed

panting, sighing,

All my soul within me dying, faintly on my hearing fell,
Echoing mid the rocks and mountains rising round

that fairy dell,

Fare thee, fare thee, fare thee well !

Now at length she paused and laid her, underneath an

ancient cedar,
When the shadowy shades of silence, from the day

departing fell,
And I saw that she was lying, trembling, fainting,

weeping, dying,
And I could not keep from sighing, nor from my sick

soul expel
The memory that those dark eyes raised — of my long

lost Isabel.

Why, I could not, could not tell.

Then I heard that silvery singing, still upon my ear

'tis ringing,
And where once beneath that cedar, knelt my soft-eyed

sweet gazelle,
Saw I there a seraph glowing, with her golden tresses

flowing,
On the perfumed zephyrs blowing, from Eolus' mystic

cell

Saw I in that seraph's beauty, semblance of my Isabel,
Gently whispering, ' Fare thee well ! ' "
H

98 Parodies.

"Glorious one," I cried, upspringing, "art thou joyful

tidings bringing,

From the land of shadowy visions, spirit of my Isabel?
Shall thy coming leave no token ? Shall there no

sweet word be spoken ?

Shall thy silence be unbroken, in this ever blessed dell ?
Whilst thou nothing, nothing utter, but that fatal,

'Fare thee well!'"

Still it answered, ' Fare thee well !' "

" Speak ! oh, speak to me bright being ! I am blest

thy form in seeing,
But shall no sweet whisper tell me, — tell me that thou

lovest still?
Shall I pass from earth to heaven, without sign or

token given,
With no whispered token given — that thou still dost

love me well ?
Give it, give it now, I pray thee — here within his

blessed dell,

Still that hated ' Fare thee well.' "

Not another word expressing, but her lip in silence

pressing,
With the vermeil-tinted finger seeming silence to

compel,
And while yet in anguish gazing, and my weeping eyes

upraising,
To the shadowy, silent seraph, semblance of my

Isabel,
Slow she faded, till there stood there, once again the

white gazelle,

Faintly whispering, " Fare thee well !"

Parodies, 99

Another of the earliest parodies on The Raven de-
serves allusion as having, like the preceding, received
recognition at the hands of Poe himself. In the
number of the Broadway Journal (then partly edited
by Poe) of the 26th of April, 1845, tne following
editorial note appeared, above the stanzas hereafter
cited : —

A GENTLE PUFF.

" If we copied into our Journal all the complimentary
notices that are bestowed upon us, it would con-
tain hardly anything besides ; the following done
into poetry is probably the only one of the kind
that we shall receive, and we extract it from our
neighbour, the New World, for the sake of its
uniqueness."

THEN with step sedate and stately, as if thrones had

borne him lately,
Came a bold and daring warrior up the distant echoing

floor;
As he passed the COURIER'S Colonel, then I saw THE

BROADWAY JOURNAL,

In a character supernal, on his gallant front he bore,
And with stately step and solemn marched he proudly

through the door,

As if he pondered, evermore.
H 2

ioo Parodies.

With his keen sardonic smiling, every other care be-
guiling,

Right and left he bravely wielded a double-edged and
broad claymore,

And with gallant presence dashing, 'mid his confreres
stoutly clashing,

He unpityingly went slashing, as he keenly scanned
them o'er,

And with eye and mien undaunted, such a gallant
presence bore,

As might awe them, evermore.

Neither rank nor station heeding, with his foes around

him bleeding,
Sternly, singly and alone, his course he kept upon that

floor;
While the countless foes attacking, neither strength

nor valor lacking,
On his goodly armour hacking, wrought no change his

visage o'er,
As with high and honest aim, he still his falchion

proudly bore,

Resisting error, evermore.

This opinion of a contemporary journalist on
Poe's non-respect, in his critical capacity, of persons,
was speedily followed by several other parodies of
more or less interest. The Evening Mirror for May
3oth, 1845, contained one entitled The Whippoorwill,
the citation of one stanza of which will, doubtless,
suffice for "most readers:

' Parodies. 101

" In the wilderness benighted, lo ! at last my guide

alighted

On a lowly little cedar that overspread a running rill;
Still his cry of grief he uttered, and around me wildly

fluttered,
Whilst unconsciously I muttered, filled with boundless

wonder still ;
Wherefore dost thou so implore me, piteously implore

me still ?

Tell me, tell me, Whippoorwill !

These lines on an American bird, like those cited
from the Broadway, must have passed under Poe's own
eyes, even if he did not give them publication, as at
the time they appeared he was assistant-editor to the
Evening Mirror.

There is yet another parody on The Raven which
Poe is known to have spoken of, and to have most
truthfully described, in a letter of i6th June, 1849,
as "miserably stupid." The lines, only deserving
mention from the fact that they invoked Poe's notice,
appeared in an American brochure, now of the utmost
rarity, styled The Moral of Attthors : a New Satire, by
J. E. Tuel, and were dated from the —
"PLUTONIAN SHORE,

Raven Creek, In the Year of Poetry

Before the Dismal Ages, A.D. 18 — "
A quotation from the lines themselves is needless.

It has been seen how rapidly The Raven winged its
way across the Atlantic. The ominous bird had not
long settled on the English shores ere its wonderful
music had penetrated into every literary home. As a
natural consequence of its weird power and artificial

IO2 Parodies.

composition it was speedily imitated : one of the first
English parodies was contributed by Robert Brough,
to CruikshanKs Comic Almanack for 1853, and was
republished in the Piccadilly Annual in 1870. The
Vulture, as it is styled, is scarcely worthy of its
parentage, but the two first stanzas may be cited as
typical of the whole piece, which is descriptive of the
depredations committed by a certain class of
" sponges " on those people who are willing to put up
with their ways : —

ONCE upon a midnight chilling, as I held my feet

unwilling

O'er a tub of scalding water, at a heat of ninety-four ;
Nervously a toe in dipping, dripping, slipping, then

out-skipping,
Suddenly there came a ripping, whipping, at my

chambers door.
" Tis the second floor," I mutter'd, " flipping at my

chambers door —

Wants a light — and nothing more ! "

Ah ! distinctly I remember, it was in the chill

November,
And each cuticle and member was with influenza

sore;
Falt'ringly I stirr'd the gruel, steaming, creaming o'er

the fuel,
And anon removed the jewel that each frosted nostril

bore,
Wiped away the trembling jewel that each redden'd

nostril bore —

Nameless here for evermore !

Parodies. 103

A much better parody on The Raven was con-
tributed by Mr. Edmund Yates to Mirth and Metre,
a brochure which appeared in 1855. From The
Tankard the following stanzas may be given : —

Sitting in my lonely chamber, in this dreary, dark

December,

Gazing on the whitening ashes of my fastly-fading fire,
Pond'ring o'er my misspent chances with that grief

which times enhances —
Misdirected application, wanting aims and objects

higher, —

Aims to which I should aspire.

As I sat thus wond'ring, thinking, fancy unto fancy

linking,
In the half-expiring embers many a scene and form I

traced —
Many a by-gone scene of gladness, yielding now but

care and sadness, —
Many a form once fondly cherished, now by misery's

hand effaced, —

Forms which Venus' self had graced.

Suddenly, my system shocking, at my door there came

a knocking,
Loud and furious, — such a rat-tat never had I heard

before ;
Through the keyhole I stood peeping, heart into my

mouth upleaping,
Till at length, my teeth unclenching, faintly said I

"What a bore!"
Gently, calmly, teeth unclenching, faintly said I,

"What a bore!"

Said the echo, " Pay your score ! "

IO4 Parodies.

Grasping then the light, upstanding, looked I round

the dreary landing,
Looked at every wall, the ceiling, looked upon the

very floor ;
Nought I saw there but a Tankard, from the which

that night I'd drank hard, —
Drank as drank our good forefathers in the merry days

of yore.
In the corner stood the Tankard, where it oft had

stood before,

Stood and muttered, " Pay your score ! "

Much I marvelled at this pewter, surely ne'er in past

or future
Has been, will be, such a wonder, such a Tankard

learned in lore !
Gazing at it more intensely, stared I more and more

immensely
When it added, "Come old boy, you've many a

promise made before,
False they were as John O'Connell's who would ' die

upon the floor.'

Now for once — come, pay your score ! "

Fro n my placid temper starting, and upon the Tankard
darting

With one furious hurl I flung it down before the
porter's door;

But as I my oak was locking, heard I then the self-
same knocking,

And on looking out I saw the Tankard sitting as
before, —

Sitting, squatting in the self-same corner as it sat
before, —

Sitting, crying, " Pay your score ! "
* * * * *

Parodies. 105

Our Miscellany, another brochure, published in 1856,
contained The Parrot, apparently by the same hand
and of about the same calibre. The opening stanzas
read thus : — \

" Once, as through the streets I wandered, and o'er

many a fancy pondered,
Many a fancy quaint and curious, which had filled my

mind of yore, —
Suddenly my footsteps stumbled, and against a man I

tumbled,
Who, beneath a sailor's jacket, something large and

heavy bore.
" Beg your pardon, sir ! " I muttered, as I rose up,

hurt and sore ;

But the sailor only swore.

Vexed at this, my soul grew stronger : hesitating then

no longer,
" Sir," said I, " now really, truly, your forgiveness I

implore !
But, in fact, my sense was napping " then the

sailor answered, rapping
Out his dreadful oaths and awful imprecations by the

score, —

Answered he, "Come, hold your jaw!"

106 Parodies.

" May my timbers now be shivered — " oh, at this my

poor heart quivered, —

" If you don't beat any parson that I ever met before !
You've not hurt me ; stow your prosing " — then his

huge peacoat unclosing,
Straight he showed the heavy parcel, which beneath

his arm he bore, —
Showed a cage which held a parrot, such as Crusoe

had of yore,

Which at once drew corks and swore.

Much I marvelled at this parrot, green as grass and

red as carrot,
Which, with. fluency and ease, was uttering sentences

a score,
And it pleased me so immensely, and I liked it so

intensely,
That I bid for it at once ; and when I showed of gold

my store,
Instantly the sailor sold it ; mine it was, and his no

more;

Mine it was for evermore.

Prouder was I of this bargain, e'en than patriotic Dargan,
When his Sovereign, Queen Victoria, crossed the

threshold of his door ; —
Surely I had gone demented — surely I had sore

repented,
Had I known the dreadful misery which for me Fate

had in store, —
Known the fearful, awful misery which for me Fate

had in store,

Then, and now, and evermore !

Parodies. 107

Scarcely to my friends I'd shown it, when (my mother's

dreadful groan ! — it
Haunts me even now !) the parrot from his perch

began to pour
Forth the most tremendous speeches, such as Mr. Ains-

worth teaches —
Us were uttered by highway men and rapparees of

yore ! —

By the wicked, furious, tearing, riding rapparees of yore;
But which now are heard no more.

And my father, straight uprising, spake his mind — It
was surprising,

That this favourite son, who'd never, never so trans-
gressed before,

Should have brought a horrid, screaming — nay, e'en
worse than that — blaspheming

Bird within that pure home circle — bird well learned
in wicked lore !

AVhile he spake, the parrot, doubtless thinking it a
horrid bore,

Cried out " Cuckoo !" barked, and swore.

And since then what it has cost me, — all the wealth

and friends it's lost me,
All the trouble, care, and sorrow, cankering my

bosom's core,
Can't be mentioned in these verses; till, at length,

my heartfelt curses
Gave I to this cruel parrot, who quite coolly scanned

me o'er,
Wicked, wretched, cruel parrot, quite coolly scanned

me o'er,

Laughed, drew several corks, and swore.

io8 Parodies.

" Parrot ! " said I, " bird of evil ! parrot still, or bird

or devil !

By the piper who the Israelitish leader played before,
I will stand this chaff no longer ! We will see now

which is stronger.
Come, now, — off ! Thy cage is open — free thou art,

and there's the door !
Off at once, and I'll forgive thee ; — take the hint, and

leave my door."

But the parrot only swore.

# * * *

The last stanza reads, —

Aud the parrot never flitting, still is sitting, still is
sitting

On the very self-same perch where first he sat in days
of yore ;

And his only occupations seem acquiring impre-
cations

Of the last and freshest fashion, which he picks up by
the score ;

Picks them up, and, with the greatest gusto, bawls
them by the score,

And will swear for evermore.

A parody of no little force, styled The Craven, was
published in The Tomahawk, a satirical periodical, on
the iQth of June, 1867. From The Craven, who,
need it be pointed out, was Napoleon the Third, these
stanzas are extracted.

Parodies. 109

THE CRAVEN.

Once upon a midnight lately, might be seen a figure

stately,

In the Tuileries sedately poring over Roman lore ;
Annotating, scheming, mapping, Caesar's old positions

sapping,
When there came a something rapping, spirit-rapping

at the door.
41 'Tis some minister," he muttered, " come, as usual,

me to bore."

So to Caesar turned once more.

Back to Caesar's life returning, with a soul for ever

yearning,
Towards the steps his promise-spurning prototype had

trod before.
But the silence was soon broken; through the stillness

came a token
Life had moved again, or spoken on the other side the

door.
" Surely I've no trusty servant," said he, " to deny my

door

Now De Morny is no more."

Rising, of some trespass certain, slow he draws the

purple curtain,
On whose folds the bees uncertain look like wasps,

and nothing more :
Open flings the chamber portal, with a chill which

stamps him mortal.
Can his senses be the sport all of his eyes ! For there

before
He sees an eagle perching on a bust of Janus at the

door :

A bleeding bird, and nothing more.

1 10 Parodies.

Deep into the darkness peering, not in fear, but only

fearing
Adrien's vulgar indiscretions, Marx* of eaves-dropping

in store :
"Though thy wings are torn and bleeding," said he,

with a voice of pleading :
"Thou'rt a bird of royal breeding : thou hast flown

from foreign shore."

Quoth the Eagle, " Matamore."

Started with the stillness broken, by reply so aptly spoken,
" Silence," said he, " never utter memories of that

field of gore,
Where your poor Imperial master, whom imperious

disaster
Followed fast, was tortured faster, till his heart one

burden bore :
Till the dirges of his hope, this melancholy burden

bore —

Never see Carlotta more."

Then upon the velvet sinking, he betook himself to

thinking
How he'd forced the murdered Prince to leave his

quiet home of yore ;
How he'd made him wield a sceptre, which no erudite

preceptor
Might have told would soon be wept or lost on that

forbidding shore,
Where earth cries for retribution, where for justice

stones implore.

Quoth the Eagle, " Matamore."

* Adrian Marx, purveyor of Court news to The Figaro.

Parodies. 1 1 1

" Wretch !" he cried, " some fiend hath sent thee, by

that mocking voice he lent thee
Conscience-driven accusations rising up at every

pore —
Must my master-mind so vaunted, ever hence be

spectre haunted —
Must I see that form undaunted, dying still at Mata-

more ?"

Quoth the Eagle, "Evermore."

" Prophet !" shrieked he, "thing of evil ! Here we fear

nor God nor Devil !
Wing thee to the House of Hapsburg! Up to Austria's

heaven soar,
Leave no bloody plume as token, of the lies my soul

has spoken,
Leave my iron will unbroken ! Wipe the blood before

my door !
Dost thou think to gnaw my entrails with thy beak for

evermore ? "

Quoth the Eagle, " Jusqu'a Mort."

In the Carols of Cockayne, a volume of elegant
verse by the late Henry S. Leigh, published in 1872,
was a parody on The Raven, styled Chateaux
(TEspagne, " A Reminiscence of David Garrick and
The Castle of Andalusia" The following stanzas
show the spirit of the piece : —

112 Parodies.

Once upon an evening weary, shortly after Lord
Dundreary

With his quaint and curious humour set the town in
such a roar,

With my shilling I stood rapping — only very gently
tapping—

For the man in charge was napping — at the money-
taker's door.

It was Mr. Buckstone's playhouse, where I linger'd at
the door ;

Paid half-price and nothing more.

I was doubtful and uncertain, at the rising of the

curtain,
If the piece would prove a novelty, or one I'd seen

before ;
For a band of robbers drinking in a gloomy cave and

clinking
With their glasses on the table, I had witnessed o'er

and o'er ;

Since the half-forgotten period of my innocence was o'er;
Twenty years ago or more.

Presently my doubt grew stronger. I could stand the

thing no longer,
"Miss," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I

implore.
Pardon my apparent rudeness. Would you kindly

have the goodness
To inform me if this drama is from Gaul's enlighten'd

shore ?
For I know that plays are often brought us from the

Gallic shore :

Adaptations — nothing more !

Parodies. 113

So I put the question lowly : and my neighbour

answer'd slowly.
" It's a British drama, wholly, written quite in days of

yore.

'Tis an Andalusian story of a castle old and hoary,
And the music is delicious, though the dialogue be

poor !"
(And I could not help agreeing that the dialogue was

poor ;

Very flat and nothing more.)

But at last a lady entered, and my interest grew

center'd
In her figure and her features, and the costume that

she wore.
And the slightest sound she utter'd was like music ;

so I mutter'd
To my neighbour, " Glance a minute at your play-bill

I implore.
Who's that rare and radiant maiden ? Tell, oh, tell me !

I implore.

Quoth my neighbour, " Nelly Moore ! "

Then I asked in quite a tremble — it was useless to

dissemble —
" Miss, or Madam, do not trifle with my feelings any

more ;
Tell me who, then, was the maiden, that appear'd so

sorrow laden
In the room of David Garrick, with a bust above the

door?"

(With a bust of Julius Csesar up above the study door.)
Quoth my neighbour, " Nelly Moore."

1 14 Parodies.

The Dove has had a considerable circulation in the
United States. It is by the Rev. J. W. Scott, D.D.,
and is stated to have been written upon his wife's
death. It appeared first in 1874, and is in many
lines, more a repetition than a parody of The Raven :
the first three, the fourteenth and the last stanzas
will suffice to show the style of the piece : —

ONCE upon a storm -night dreary, sat I pond'ring,

restless, weary,
Over many a text of Scripture, helped by ancient sages'

lore,
Anxious, nervous, far from napping ; suddenly there

came a tapping !
As of some one gently rapping — rapping at my

chamber-door.
Night like this 'tis scarce a visitor, tapping at my

chamber-door ?

This, I thought, and nothing more.

Ah ! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak De-
cember,

And each separate dying ember, glimmer'd ghostly on
the floor :

Earnestly I wished the morrow ; vainly had I sought
to borrow

From my Bible ease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost
Annore —

For a saintly, radiant matron, whom the angels name
Annore

Lately wife, now wife no more.

Parodies. 115

She had passed the gloomy portals, which forever
hide from mortals

Spirit myst'ries, which the living are most eager to
explore.

Poring o'er the sacred pages, guides to all the good
for ages,

Sat I, helped by lore of sages, when the rapping at my
door,

Startled me as if a spirit had come to my chamber-
door,

Tapping thus, and meaning more.
*****

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from

an unseen censer,
Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the

tufted floor.
" Oh, my soul, thy God hath heard thee, by these

angels and this bird He
Hath to sweetest hopes now stirr'd thee — hopes of

finding thy Annore

In the far-off land of spirits — of reunion with Annore !"
Quoth the dove, " For evermore ! "

*****

And the white dove, never flitting, still is sitting, still
is sitting

On the polish'd bust of Paulus, just above my
chamber-door ;

And his eyes with kindness beaming — holy spirit's

kindness seeming, —
And a soft light from him streaming, sheds its radiance

on the floor ;
And my glad soul in that radiance, that lies floating on

the floor,

Shall be basking — EVERMORE !

I 2

n6 Parodies.

Some lines on " The Death of Edgar Poe," written
by Sarah J. Bolton for the Poe Memorial Committee,
are composed in imitation of The Raven, and are as
follows :

They have laid thee down to slumber where the

sorrows that encumber
Such a wild and wayward heart as thine can never

reach thee more ;
For the radiant light of gladness never alternates with

sadness,
Stinging gifted souls to madness, on that bright and

blessed shore ;
Safely moored from sorrow's tempest, on that distant

Aidenn shore,

Rest thee, lost one, evermore.

Thou were like a meteor glancing through a starry

sky, entrancing,
Thrilling, awing, wrapt beholders with the wondrous

light it wore ;
But the meteor has descended, and the "nightly

shadows blended,"
For the fever-dream is ended, and the fearful crisis

o'er —
Yes, the wild unresting fever-dream of human life is

o'er —

Thou art sleeping evermore.

Parodies. 117

Ocean, earth, and air could utter words that made thy
spirit flutter —

Words that stirred the hidden fountain swelling in the

bosom's core ;
Stirred it till its wavelets, sighing, wakened to a wild

replying,
And in numbers never dying sung the heart's unwritten

lore —
Sung in wild, bewitching numbers, thy sad heart's

unwritten lore,

Now unwritten nevermore.

Thou did'st see the sunlight quiver over many a fabled
river,

Thou did'st wander with the shadows of the mighty
dead of yore,

And thy songs to us came ringing, like the wild, un-
earthly singing

Of the viewless spirits winging over the night's
Plutonian shore —

Of the weary spirits wandering by the gloomy Stygian
shore —

Sighing dirges evermore.

Thou did'st seem like one benighted — one whose

hopes were crushed and blighted —
Mourning for the lost and lovely that the world could

not restore ;
But an endless rest is given to thy heart, so wrecked

and riven —
Thou hast met again in heaven with the lost and

loved Lenore —
With the " rare and radiant maiden whom the angels

name Lenore ; "

She will leave thee nevermore.

1 1 8 Parodies.

From the earth a star has faded, and the shrine of

song has shaded,
And the Muses veil their faces, weeping sorrowful and

sore;
But the harp, all rent and broken, left us many a

thrilling token,
We shall hear its numbers spoken, and repeated o'er

and o'er,
Till our hearts shall cease to tremble — we shall hear

them sounding o'er,

Sounding ever, evermore.

We shall hear them, like a fountain tinkling down a

rugged mountain ;
Like the wailing of the tempest mingling 'mid the

ocean's roar ;
Like the winds of autumn sighing when the summer

flowers are dying ;
Like a spirit-voice replying from a dim and distant

shore ;
Like a wild, mysterious echo from a distant, shadowy

shore,

We shall hear them evermore.

Nevermore wilt thou, undaunted, wander through the

palace haunted.
Or the cypress vales Titanic, which thy spirit did

explore ;
Never hear the ghoul king, dwelling in the ancient

steeple tolling,
With a slow and solemn knelling, losses human hearts

deplore ;
Telling in a sort of Runic rhyme the losses we

deplore ;

Tolling, tolling, evermore.

Parodies. 119

If a living human being ever had the gift of seeing

The grim and ghastly countenance its evil genius
wore,

It was thou, unhappy master, whom unmerciful dis-
aster

Followed fast and followed faster till thy song one
burden bore —

Till the dirges of thy hope the melancholy burden

bore —

Of never, nevermore.

Numberless other parodies, more or less smart or
inane, as the case may be, have appeared, and con-
tinue to appear, in American, British, and Colonial
publications. Many of the best of these imitations
have appeared in the London Punch, but others of
scarcely less vigour have been published in the minor
comic papers. Those of our readers who feel inter-
ested in this branch of our theme will find a large and
varied collection of these imitations, they might fitly
be termed desecrations of The Raven, in Mr. Walter
Hamilton's collection of Parodies, now publishing*
monthly : from it some of our specimens have been
drawn. This section of our book may properly con-
clude with the following quotation from Funny
Folks Annual for 1884, entitled The End of the
Raven : —

* Reeves & Turner, 196, Strand, W.C.

1 20 Parodies.

You'll remember that a Raven in my study found a
haven

On a plaster bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-
door ;

And that with no sign of flitting, he persisted there in
sitting

Till, I'm not above admitting, that I found that bird
a bore.

Found him, as he sat and watched me, an indubitable
bore,

With his dreary " Nevermore."

But it was, in fact, my liver caused me so to shake

and shiver,
And to think a common Raven supernatural influence

bore;
I in truth had, after dining, been engaged some hours

in "wining" —
To a grand old port inclining — which its date was

'44!

And it was this crusted vintage, of the season '44,
Which had muddled me so sore.

But next morn my " Eno " taking, for my head was
sadly aching,

I descended to my study, and a wicker cage I bore.

There the Raven sat undaunted, but I now was dis-
enchanted,

And the sable fowl I taunted as I " H-s-s-h-d !" him
from my door,

As I took up books and shied them till he flew from
off ray door,

Hoarsely croaking, " Nevermore ! "

Parodies. 121

" Now, you stupid bird !" I muttered, as about the
floor it fluttered.

" Now you're sorry p'raps you came here from where'er
you lived before ? "

Scarcely had I time to ask it, when, upsetting first a
casket,

My large-size waste-paper basket he attempted to ex-
plore,

Tore the papers with his beak, and tried its mysteries
to explore,

Whilst I ope'd the cage's door.

Ever in my actions quicker, I brought up the cage of
wicker,

Placed it on the paper basket, and gave one loud
" H-s-s-h ! " once more.

When, with quite a storm of croaking, as though Dis
himself invoking,

And apparently half choking, in it rushed old " Never-
more !" —

Right into the cage of wicker quickly popped old
" Nevermore ! "

And I smartly shut the door.

Then without the least compunction, booking to St.

John's Wood Junction,
To the " Zoo " my cage of wicker and its sable bird I

bore.
Saw the excellent Curator, showed him the persistent

prater —
Now in manner much sedater — and said, "Take him,

I implore !
He's a nuisance in my study, take him, Bartlett, I

implore !"

And he answered, " Hand him o'er."

122 Parodies.

'• Be those words our sign of parting !" cried I, sud-
denly upstarting,

" Get you in amongst your kindred, where you doubt-
less were before.

You last night, I own, alarmed me (perhaps the
cucumber had harmed me !),

And you for the moment charmed me with your cease-
less, ' Nevermore !' —

Gave me quite a turn by croaking out your hollow
'Nevermore !'

But ' Good-bye !' all that is o'er !"

Last Bank Holiday, whilst walking at the Zoo, and

idly talking,
Suddenly I heard low accents that recalled the days

of yore ;
And up to the cages nearing, and upon the perches

peering —
There, with steak his beak besmearing, draggle-tailed,

sat " Nevermore !"

Mutual was our recognition, and, in his debased con-
dition, he too thought of heretofore ;
For anon he hoarsely muttered, shook his draggled

tail and fluttered, drew a cork at me and swore —
Yes, distinctly drew three corks, and most indubitably

swore !

Only that, and nothing more !

BIBLIOGRAPHY.

1845- January 29. "The Raven" published in the

Evening Mirror, New York.
„ February In The American Review, as by

" Quarles."
„ „ 8. Republished in The Broadway

Journal y New York.

„ Winter, " The Raven and Other Poems,"
one of Wiley and Putnam's Li-
brary of American Books, New
York. i6mo.

1846. . . . " The Raven and Other Poems,"
London. The first English re-
print. i6mo.

1850. . . . In volume two of the Works: the
first posthumous publication.

1869. . . . " Der Rabe." Uebersetzt von Carl
Theodore Eben. Illustrationen
von David Scattergood, Phila-
delphia. 8vo.

1869. . . . " The Raven," complete, Glasgow,

1875. . . . " LeCorbeau." Traduit par Stephen
Mallanne. Illustre par Eduard
Manet. Paris. Folio.

1883. . . . "The Raven." Illustrated by W.
L. Taylor. London and New
York. 4to.

1883. . . . " The Raven." Illustrated by Gus-
tave Dore. With a Comment
upon the Poem by Edmund
Clarence Stedman. London and
New York. Folio.

INDEX.

American Review 25

Athenaum quoted 4

Banville de, quoted 40

Baudelaire, quoted 32,41

Element 49

Bolton, S.J Il6

Broadway Journal 99

Brough, Robert 102

Browning, E. B., quoted ...12,28
,, " Geraldine's

Courtship" 12

Browning, Robert 12

" Carols of Cockayne " in

Cooke, Philip C 94

Dickens's "Barnaby Rudge" 10

Doten, Lizzie 93

Du Solle, Colonel 92

Eben, Carl T 60

Endrody 74

Evening Mirror 25

"Fasciculus" 79

"The Fire Fiend" 86

Gardette, C.D 91

Gem, The 4

Gidley, Lodovicus 79

Cresset's " Ver- Vert " 10

Hartford Review 30

Hamilton, Walter 119

Holley, D. \V 24

Home, R. H 28

Hughes, W 41

"Isadore" 35

Jacobson, Betty 66

L. E. L. quoted I

Leigh, Henry S in

Mallarme, Stephane 42

Manet, Edward 123

Minto, William 3

I'AGE

" Moral for Authors" 101

Miiller, Niclas 58

New Mirror 5

New Orleans Times 91

Pike, Albert 5

" Philosophy of Compo-
sition " 2, i!cc.

" Quarles" 25

Quesnel, Leo

Raven," " The, Genesis of ...
History of ...
Translations
Parodies of .

55
i

24
40

94

Bibliography 123
Fabrications

of. 84

„ „ Variants 23

Read, T. Buchanan 12

Revue Politique et Litter air e 55

Rollinat, Maurice 49

Scott, Rev. J. W 114

Shaver, Rev. J 91

Shelley, quoted I

South, The, quoted 24

Spielhagen, F 72

" Spiritual Poems " 93

Star, The Morning 85

Stedman, E. C 31

Strodtman, Adolf 72

Szana, Thomas 74

Tennyson's " No More " ... 4

„ Anacreontic... 4

Tomahawk, The 108

Tuel's, J. E., " Moral for

Authors" 101

Whitman, Mrs., quoted ... 27

Willis. N. P.. quoted 25

Yates. Edmund 103

LIST OF

MR. REDWAY'S
Publications,

LONDON :
15, YORK STREET.

A SELECTION FROM

MR. REDWAY'S PUBLICATIONS.

Cosmo de' Medici : An Historical Tragedy. And other
Poems. By RICHARD HENGIST HORNK, Author of "Orion."
Fourth Edition. With Engraved Frontispiece. In crown 8vo, $s.
"This tragedy is the work of a poet and not of a playwright.
Many of the scenes abound in vigour and tragic intensity. If the
structure of the drama challenges comparison with the masterpieces
of the Elizabethan stage, it is at least not unworthy of the models
which have inspired it." — Times.

Dickensiana : A Bibliography of the Literature relating
to CHARLES DICKENS and his Writings. Compiled by FRED. G.
KITTON, Author of " Phiz," "John Leech." With Portrait,
Crown 8vo. [In preparation.

The Anatomy of Tobacco : or Smoking Methodised,
Divided, and Considered after a New Fashion. By LEOLINUS
SILURIENSIS. Crown 8vo, parchment, 3*. 6J.

" A very clever and amusing parody of the metaphysical treatises
once in fashion. Every smoker will be pleased with this volume."
— Notes ami Queries.

" We have here a most excellent piece of fooling, evidently from
a University pen .... contains some very clever burlesques of
classical modes of writing, and a delicious parody of scholastic
logic." — Literary World.

" A delightful mock essay on the exoteric philosophy of the pipe
nnd the pipe bowl .... reminding one alternately of ' Melan-
choly ' Burton and Herr Teufelsdroch, and implying vast reading
and out-of-the-way culture on the part of the author. ' — Bookseller.

Tobacco Talk and Smokers' Gossip : An amusing

miscellany of fact and anecdote relating to the "Great plant " in
all its forms and uses, including a selection from nicotian literature.
Demy iSmo, vanilla paper, is.

"One of the best books of gossip we have met for some time.
... It is literally crammed full from beginning to end of its 148
pages with well-selected anecdotes, poems, and excerpts from to-
bacco literature and history." — Graphic.

Mr. Redways Publications.

Tamerlane and other Poems : By EDGAR ALLAN POE,

first published at Boston in 1827, and now first republished from a
unique copy of the original edition, with a preface by RICHARD
HERNE SHEPHERD. Fcap. 8vo, parchment, 15*.

Mr. Swinburne has generously praised " so beautiful and valuable
a little volume, full of interest for the admirers of FOE'S singular
and exquisite genius."

Studies of Sensation and Event : Poems by EBENEZER
JONES, edited, prefaced, and annotated by RICHARD MERNK
SHEPHERD, with memorial notices of the author by SUMNER
JONES and WILLIAM JAMES LINTON. A new edition. With
photographic portrait of the poet. Post 8vo, cloth, 5^.

" This remarkable poet affords nearly the most striking instance
of neglected genius in our modern school of poetry. His poems
are full of vivid disorderly power." — DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

The Bibliography of Swinburne : A Bibliographical
list arranged in chronological order of the published writings in
verse and prose of ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE (1857-1884).
Crown 8vo, wrapper, 6.r. ; large paper, ioj. 6d.

"Among other entries will be found a remarkable novel, pub-
lished in instalments and never issued in a separate form, and
several productions in verse not generally known to be from Mr.
Swinburne's pen."

John Leech, Artist and Humourist : A Biographical
sketch by FRED. G. KITTON. New edition, revised. Demy
l8mo, vanilla paper, is.

" In the absence of a fuller biography we cordially welcome Mr.
Kitton's interesting little sketch. " — Notes and Queries.

An Essay on the Genius of George Cruikshank :
By WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY, reprinted verbatim from
the " Westminster Review." Edited with a prefatory note on
Thackeray as an Artist and Art-Critic, by W. E. CHURCH, with
upwards of forty illustrations, including all the original woodcuts,
and a new portrait of Cruikshank, etched by F. W. PAILTHORPE.
Demy 8vo, wrapper, 3J1. 6</. ; large paper, "js. 6d.

"It was a pleasant and not untimely act to re-print this well-
known delightful essay .... the artist could have found no
other commentator so sympathetic and discriminating .... The
new portrait of Cruikshank by F. W. Pailthorpe is a clear, firm
etching." — The Artist.

The Scope and Charm of Antiquarian Study : By
JOHN BATTY, F.R.H.S. Demy 8vo, vanilla paper, is.

" A useful and entertaining guide to a beginner in historical
researches." — Notes and Queries.

Mr. Redway's Publications.

Phiz (Hablot Knight Browne) : A Memoir, including
a selection from his correspondence, and notes on his principal
works. By FRKD. G. KITTON. With a portrait and numerous
illustrations. Demy 8vo, wrapper, y. (xf.

"Mr. Kitton is already known as an artist, many of his
drawings having appeared in this journal for some years past,
together with occasional articles. The monograph is extremely
interesting . . . . Mr. Kitton has done his task in a sincere and-
simple fashion .... Some of the letters were written to Charles
Dickens, and are now published for the first time." — Graphic.

Confessions of an English Hachish Eater. Demy

i8mo, vanilla paper, u.

" There is a sort of bizarre attraction in this fantastic little book,
with its weird, unhealthy imaginations." — Whitehall Revinv.

" A weird little book .... The author seems to have been
delighted with his dreams, and .... carefully explains how
hachish may be made from the resin of the common hemp plant. "
— Daily Chronicle.

"The stories told by our author have a decidedly Oriental
flavour, and we would not be surprised if some foolish individuals
did endeavour to procure some of the drug, with a view to ex-
perience the sensation described by the writer of this clever
brochure" — Edinburgh Courant.

The Valley of Sorek : By GERTRUDE M. GEORGE.
With a critical introduction by RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD.
Crown 8vo, 2 vols. , cloth, £i is.

" There is in the book a high and pure moral and a distinct
conception of character .... The dramatis persona .... are
in reality strongly individual, and surprise one with their incon-
sistencies just as real human beings do . ... There is something
powerful in the way in which the reader is made to feel both the
reality and the untrustworthiness of his [the hero's] religious fervour,
and the character of the atheist, Graham, is not less strongly and
definitely conceived .... It is a work that shows imagination
and moral insight, and we shall look with much anticipation for
another from the same hand." — Contemporary Review.

Hints to Collectors of Original Editions of the
Works of W. M. Thackeray : By CHARLES
PLUMPTRE JOHNSON. Crown 8vo, parchment, 6s.

*#* Mr. Red^vays complete Catalogue of Publications,
including Books on Archeology and Occultism,
will be sent post free on application.

LONDON : GEORGE REDWAY, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN.

BINBING SECT. APR 2 9 1964

Poe, Edgar Allan
2609 The raven
Al
1885

PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE
CARDS OR SLIPS FROM THIS POCKET

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY