The Source of Poe's Raven by Harry T Baker 1910
The most Important source of Poe's "Raven," Dickens's "Barnaby Rudge," has hitherto been dismissed by biographers and critics, Including Ingram, Lauvriere, Woodberry, and H. E. Legler, with scant notice. Such an unconscious conspiracy of silence is not justifiable, however, in view of the noteworthy parallels between the two productions. As Mr. Woodberry declares, the proper starting point is Poe's review of "Barnaby Rudge," published In Graham's Magazine, February, 1842, In which he made the following suggestion:
The raven, Intensely amusing as it is, might have been made, more than we now see it, a portion of the conception of the fantastic Barnaby. Its croaklngs might have been prophetically [the italics are Poe's) heard in the course of the drama.
Significant words these, when we remember that Poe publlshed "The Raven" In January, 1845, and may have written it considerably earlier. He adopts, for example, his own suggestion in the very climax of the poem:
"Prophet!" said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!"
Poe's essay, “The Philosophy of Composition" (1846), purports to explain fully the genesis and composition of “The Raven"; but in reality, most critics now agree, it does nothing of the sort. It seems to have been in part a deliberate hoax, written in the spirit of Defoe and Swift. In this famous essay he does not mention “Barnaby Rudge," his only words on the subject of the bird being these:
Very naturally, a parrot, in the first instance, suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a raven, as equally capable of speech, and more in keeping with the intended tone [the italics are again Poe's].
This, by reason of the fact that the raven is "the bird of ill-omen." Such failure to acknowledge a debt to Dickens is not proof positive of the absence of the debt. Poe, unfortunately, was sometimes disingenuous in statement, especially when his vanity was concerned. Mr. Woodberry has emphasized this point with quite sufficient severity. I am aware, indeed, that there seems to be another objection to belief in any close likeness between the two ravens: in the passage from the review of the novel, quoted above, Poe refers to the "intensely amusing" character of the raven in "Barnaby Rudge." But any one who will take the trouble to examine those portions of the book in which Grip appears will perceive that Poe's phrase is not applicable to all of them; there are several important scenes in which the bird moves in a sombre atmosphere.
Moreover, the raven is inevitably connected—and Poe, as is proved by his review, wished him to be still more closely connected—with his master, Barnaby, who, on account of his infirmity of mind, lives in a half-supernatural world which Dickens has very powerfully described. Poe himself, in the review mentioned, quotes a passage in point. Now, if there is anything for which this American is famous, both in his stories and his poems, it is atmosphere. It is not to be expected, therefore, that so striking an atmosphere as that which surrounds the mad boy and his pet would pass out of the poet's memory in less than three years. It is questionable whether so salient a detail as the refrain, “Nevermore," was not suggested by the following, from a gloomy scene in the prison between Barnaby and his mother:
"You hope! Ay, but your hoping will not undo these chains. I hope, but they don't mind that. Grip hopes, but who cares for Grip?"
The raven gave a short, dull, melancholy crook. It said “'Nobody," as plainly as a croak could speak.
"Who cares for Grip, excepting you and me?" said Barnaby, smoothing the bird's rumpled feathers with his hand. “He never speaks in this place; he never says a word in jail; he sits and mopes all day in this dark corner, dozing sometimes, and sometimes looking at the light that creeps in through the bars, and shines in his bright eye as if a spark from those great fires had fallen into the room and was burning yet. But who cares for Grip?"
The raven croaked again—"Nobody."
"He never speaks in this place"—speaks no word but "Nobody"; and Poe's raven speaks no word but "Nevermore." Moreover, the "fiery eyes" which "burned into the bosom's core" of the lonely watcher in the chamber are seemingly reminiscent of the peculiar brightness of 'Grip’s eyes. Is there not some significance, also, as regards the expectant atmosphere of the poem, in the admonition of Barnaby's mother?— "You must not go out to-night. There are ghosts and dreams abroad" (p, 352). Truly, the ghost, as the villagers think it, of the murderer, Barnaby's father, continually, makes itself felt in the novel. Ghosts and dreams! Such is "The Raven"; such stuff as dreams are made of. And the ghost of the lost Lenore hovers constantly in the background.
None of the foregoing parallels. I hasten to say, shows anything that may be called plagiarism—although Poe himself, that literary detective, might have called it such in Longfellow or other poets. Dickens made no charges against his American admirer; and even "Outis," who bitterly attacked Poe for his charges of plagiarism against Longfellow, did not mention "Barnaby Rudge." Certainly "The Raven" possesses sufficient original features, such as the somewhat melodramatic perch of the bird upon a bust of Pallas, the skilful if artificial progress of the poem to a strangely effective climax, and especially the reverie of a lover over the death of a beautiful woman—a topic which Poe, in "The Philosophy of Composition,” declares to be "unquestionably the most poetical in the world." But, finally, is it purely accidental that the opening words of "The Philosophy of Composition" should have been these?—
Charles Dickens, in a note now lying before me, alluding to an examination I once made of the mechanism of "Barnaby Rudge," says, etc.
In no better way could Poe have unconsciously acknowledged a debt which extends to much greater detail than has commonly been supposed.
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