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8/5/24
I have been thinking, lately, of how Mathew Franklin Whittier's secret signature, a single asterisk or "star" (*), is the key which ties together so many of my seemingly ridiculous authorship "claims." Of course, no-one will hang in there with me long enough for me to explain it. But if they ever should, this pseudonym, itself, is the "smoking gun" which brings it, at the very least, well within the realm of logical plausibility.
The question is, how deep do I want to go into it, this morning? Who is listening? Who reads more than the first two paragraphs? I tried to pitch my videos to people with short attention spans, by offering in-your-face, one-minute proofs. People still watched only a percentage of the one-minute proof.
The stubbornness of humanity is truly appalling.
So, I think I'll provide a run-down with a few highlights. Just to give anyone who may be reading, an idea. Whenever I do this, remember, "this ain't all I got."
Mathew's young friend and future wife, Abby Poyen, was a mystic who knew astrology, and loved the stars. She was, even as young as 14, when she was Mathew's tutor, in love with him. She believed they were twin stars. I had extrapolated this early on in my research, but I was able to prove it a couple years ago, when I found Mathew referring to it, in hindsight in 1866, in his style of literary code. Want to see it?
Here's the text:
There was one funny old chap, some connection I think he said, of Herschel, by way of marriage with Belas' komet--wich was a little onstiddy on his pegs. He got inter the pond an could'nt get out till I helped him. He thanked me, said he was a star of the first magnitood, an belonged to a celestial temperance sersiety. "But you know," says he winkin (you know stars do wink) "this appy okashun ony occurs onct in 33 years" says he, an he did'nt say nothing more for he sored away into the circumambigations of the pervadin either.--
Of course there's a long back-story. Thirty-three years earlier, Mathew sat up with Abby in that same place, in Boston Common, watching the same meteor shower. It was such a painful memory, he got thoroughly smashed. But the "funny old chap" is himself. He is, indeed, if the truth be known, a star of the first magnitude. Astronomer William Heschel's research focused on the search for a pair of stars that were very close together visually. This is Mathew's code, telling us that he and Abby were "twin stars." No, I'm not reaching (I get so tired of cynics). I just have a whole lot of evidence behind what I have time to share with you, here.
Mathew also told posterity that the "star" was his signature, in an anonymous piece he signed with a comet. He tied together the "star" signature and his "Ethan Spike" series, by way of distinguishing his work from that of Rev. Henry Ward Beecher, who had published his own "star"-signed essays in 1855 as "The Star Papers." You will note that he deliberately uses the word "appropriated." Beecher started writing in the New York "Independent" with a "star," about two weeks after Margaret Fuller's tragic death at sea, when she was returning from Europe. She had been publishing "dispatches" under that signature for some years, in the "Tribune." Mathew also kept right on using it, in other newspapers. Mathew has not touched on the subject of Fuller's use of the "star," only Beecher's subsequent "appropriation" of it. He had dealt with Fuller, separately, in 1852. Here, the "star that shines over the Berkshire Hills" is a reference to Beecher. In case you're wondering, Mathew is pretending to be a farmer. He often took on characters for his various series.
I traced Mathew's "star" from the 1829 Boston "Courier," where he was probably working as a printer's assistant at age 17, up to 1873, when he published a euology for a young woman in the Portland "Transcript." In-between, he used it in quite a few different periodicals, but most especially in the New York "American" from 1830-33 (almost 400 reviews), the New York "Tribune" (roughly 240 reviews, all of which were falsely claimed by Margaret Fuller), and the Portland "Transcript" from 1838 to 1873. But now let's look at some instances in which the "star" ties Mathew to these cases of famous plagiarized works. In all these instances, Mathew was telling posterity, in literary code, that he had been the real author of certain popular works, having been plagiarized by the famous false claimants.
Above is the text in which Mathew Franklin Whittier tells posterity, in code, that he was the real author of "The Raven." It's a star-signed review of "The Raven and Other Poems" in the November 26, 1845 edition of the New York "Tribune." This was not written by Margaret Fuller. I have analyzed it in detail in my paper on this subject. Suffice it to say, here, that the reference to "Chanticleer" as a "dunghill fowl" points directly to a poem Mathew translated, of La Fontaine's fables, as a homework assignment when Abby was teaching him French many years earlier. That poem is only two stanzas:
Here is your "signed document," that all skeptics insist on. Mathew wrote it, signed it and published it, in a review of "The Raven and Other Poems." He says Poe stole "The Raven" from him. It's a done deal. Only, it's been buried for almost 180 years. It is not my imagination, it is not guesswork. It is not a matter of wishful thinking, or of trying to jam square pegs into round holes. Anyone who won't admit that this evidence is as good as a signed document, is going into psychological denial. I'll bet my master's in Counseling and Human Systems from FSU on it.
But he didn't stop, there. He kept right on publishing coded protests for several years. The last one I found appeared in the August 27, 1853 edition of the Boston "Waverley Magazine." Normally, Mathew would never publish in that conservative newspaper. But there was an anonymous argument going on, with various people weighing in on the subject of whether Edgar Allan Poe had been influenced by the poetry of his friend, Thomas Chivers, in writing "The Raven." Mathew couldn't resist chiming in, but he did so in literary code. Nobody could figure out what the heck he was saying, so they just ignored his letter and went on with their argument until the editor put a stop to it.
Thanks to the intrepid scholars who have built the meticulously-researched Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore website, I found this letter. They include its "star" signature, but they call it simply "anonymous." They don't realize that the star, itself, was the signature. Mathew says, in code, that Poe was a poor imitator, inferring he could not possibly have written "The Raven." Then he brags on how extremely original he, himself, is. That's tantamount to broadly hinting that he, the "star," had been the original author. All that remains is to identify the writer, which I have done.
And why does Mathew call himself "a genuine Partington"? There's another instance in which the "star" reveals Mathew as a close collaborator of a famous humorist, Benjamin Penhallow Shillaber. You may or may not recognize the name, as the creator of the character "Mrs. Partington." Here, in the February 14, 1852 edition of the "Carpet-Bag" (which comic newspaper Shillaber edited), is a story featuring one of Shillaber's characters, the juvenile delinquent Ike Partington. Except, it is signed with a "star," which means, Shillaber let his friend Mathew Franklin Whittier write his own character. Proof positive.
FYI, unlike "Waverley Magazine," whose door Mathew seems to have darkened only on that one occasion, Mathew was a secret financial investor in the "Carpet-Bag," contributing anonymously as many as eight different pieces per weekly edition during the height of his involvement. It's not the only "star"-signed piece he wrote for it. That, plus style, confirms his authorship of this particular piece.
What about Elizabeth Barrett Browning? I've reported evidence that she plagiarized five of Mathew's poems, and one of Abby's, in her 1844 collection, "Poems." In 1857, in the Portland "Transcript," Mathew was reviewing a hastily-written book of poems by Julia Ward Howe, entitled, appropriately enough, "Words for the Hour." She was, as I gather, trying to quickly raise money to fund John Brown's upcoming raid. Mathew, I suspect, was trying to cut her sales as much as possible. So he sarcastically panned it as insincere rubbish (which it was) in a "star"-signed review. Someone signing with a printer's dagger defended her, and there was a back-and-forth argument--again, until the editor put a stop to it. In the course of his review, Mathew made a disparaging remark about Elizabeth Barrett Browning's poetry, as well:
Every young lady, ere she gets a beau, has a sentimental fever, a sort of mania-a-scriptu in which she indites tedious epistles to devoted confidants, scribbles rhyme in fearful abundance and affect the romantic generally. The realities of flirting and marriage gradually dissipate the symptoms, and the would-be poet becomes only a woman. But not all escape thus easily! In some the fever affects the brain, and the unhappy victim ever after continues in the pitiable delusion that she is a gifted child of song, and that the wretched verses which she grinds out with so much pain, others will read with as much pleasure, and so she pours out her milk-and-water effusions to her own intense satisfaction and the utter disgust of every body else. This seems to be the case with the Author of Words for the Hour--a book of Poems just published by Ticknor & Fields, containing 165 pages and a great many words. Why they are particularly suitable for the Hour more than an equal number taken at random from the Dictionary, we cannot tell, unless because many of them are new and strange. Of Mrs. Howe, we know nothing, except by her book, and judging by that, we should say she is a woman who has mistaken her calling! If she had kept these poems to herself, she might have enjoyed them unmolested, but when she thrusts them on the public and attempts to graft them on our public literature, it becomes the public's business to examine and pass judgment upon them. The whole land is flooded with a tide of silly hurtful fictions and namby pamby poetry, from the feminine mysticism of Mrs. Browning to the verbose folly of Mrs. Howe.
Now, ye Feminists, withhold your wrath for a minute! Mathew's beloved first wife, Abby, was a true mystic and a literary genius, who had also been Mathew's tutor in lieu of attending a university. He had deep respect for real female mystics, and real female poets. So much so, that it galled him to see these rank imitators being lauded by the public and the critics. This essay does not, as it might appear to you, proceed from a disrespect of female mystics and poets, but rather a deep respect for them. But he has a couple of axes to grind. Elizabeth Barrett Browning ripped him off, and was a mere pretender--a pseudo-intellectual and a literary imposter. Julia Ward Howe was in the same club, and moreover she and her husband were trying to raise funding to start a civil war.
So Mathew has quite a bit more to say about Elizabeth Barrett Browning, specifically. He decides to review her poem, "Aurora Leigh," but he can't very well sign it with the same pseudonym. Instead, he signs "S.," which presumably stands for "Star." In that review, he states:
Mrs. Browning is well known as the writer of a few very beautiful and many very ugly poems.
That's code, and to unwrap the code, you have to pay attention to the literally true phrase, "is well known as." Mathew doesn't say she is, he says she is well known as. Mistakenly known as, in other words. Now, logically, how can a poet produce "a few very beautiful" poems, and then write "many very ugly" ones? She can't, it's impossible. Brilliant poets can write a few very beautiful poems, and then many which are competent but not quite so brilliant. But she cannot write a few "very beautiful" poems and a great number of "very ugly" ones.
So what does he mean? He means plagiarism--that she was a very poor poet, but that she stole a few very beautiful poems from him and his wife, Abby.
But Mathew had already sealed it with the "star" in the January 4, 1845 New York "Tribune," when he had reviewed "A Drama of Exile and Other Poems." This was the same two-volume set Barrett had published in England the previous year, which contained five of Mathew's poems and one of Abby's. In his capacity as a reviewer, with Margaret Fuller as his editor (the literary editor), Mathew had to review his own plagiarist's book. He did so, and not very favorably, of course, because he honestly felt that she was an awful, pretentious poet in addition to being a plagiarist. But Margaret Fuller re-wrote his opening paragraphs entirely, praising Elizabeth Barrett as being "above any female writer the world has yet known"!
Mathew got his revenge, and put posterity on notice, anyway. First of all, his criticism of Barrett's work remains in the rest of the review (if anybody read down that far). So whoever wrote the opening paragraphs with that lavish praise, logically cannot have written the ending. For example, we see:
We have already said that, as a poet, Miss Barrett is deficient in plastic energy, and that she is diffuse. We must add many blemishes of over-strained and constrained thought and expression. The ways in which words are coined or forced from their habitual meanings does not carry its excuse with it. We find no gain that compensates the loss of elegance and simplicity. One practice which has already had its censors of using the adjective for the noun, as in the case of "The Cry of the Human," "Leaning from the Golden," we, also, find offensive, not only to the habitual tastes, but to the sympathies of the very mood awakened by the writer.
If that's the best female writer the world has ever seen, what does it say about the rest of them? Margaret Fuller didn't write this, that's for sure.
Now check this out, which immediately follows, toward the end of the review:
We hear that she has been long an invalid, and, while the knowledge of this increases admiration for her achievements and delight at the extent of the influence,--so much light flowing from the darkness of the sick room,--we seem to trace injurious results, too. There is often a want of pliant and glowing life. The sun does not always warm the marble. We have spoken of the great book culture of this mind. We must now say that this culture is too great in proportion to that it has received from actual life. The ore is not always assimilated to the new form; the illustrations sometimes impede the attention rather than help its course; and we are too much and too often reminded of other minds and other lives.
Great variety of metres are used, and with force and facility. But they have not that deep music which belongs to metres which are the native growth of the poet's mind. In that case, others may have used them, but we feel that, if they had not, he must have invented them; that they are original with him. Miss Barrett is more favored by the grand and thoughtful, than by the lyric muse.
Let's unpack the code. Remember, Mathew has to get this past his literary editor, Margaret Fuller, who perchance has been too lazy to do more than glance at the text this far down. During this period she was busy writing long letters to her friend and wished-for lover, James Nathan. She didn't have time for this stuff.
So first, Mathew tries to cut Elizabeth some slack, due to her health problems. He's making excuses for her, and suggesting (as he had previously opined about Longfellow) that most of her experience comes second-hand from books, rather than from living in the world. But then he very tactfully hints at plagiarism. She is shallow, and she uses a "great variety of metres." Who uses a great variety of metres? Either an experimenter, or a plagiarist. That they "have not that deep music which belongs to metres which are the native growth of the poet's mind," is charging plagiarism in the tactful negative. Because if the poems aren't the "native growth" of her own mind, then from whose mind have they grown? They are not "original" with her. Finally, with consummate tact, he suggests that she is better at philosophical epic poetry (however pretentious), than writing by "the lyric muse," which is to say, writing real, heartfelt, inspired poetry.
Decoded, he is saying that she steals authentic poetry written by real poets in various metres, but that she herself is more at home with long, pretentious, pseudo-intellectual epics.
That's not all. You know that you can say something in words, or you can say it with example. In this review, the only poems which Mathew reproduces at length, are the ones that he and Abby wrote--the stolen poems. They are, in order of appearance, "The Romance of the Swan's Nest" (Abby's poem, heavily modified by Barrett, which he opens with in deference to Abby); "Lady Geraldine's Courtship" (Mathew's tribute to his and Abby's early courtship); and "The Cry of the Children" (in which Barrett unwittingly revised the quote from the "Star Spangled Banner," "In the land of the free," to "In the country of the free"). In other words, if he was forced to review Barrett's volumes, he would reproduce at length, for the entire readership of the New York "Tribune," only those poems that Barrett had stolen from himself and Abby. And in tribute, he would put Abby's poem first.
Last but not least--and here, no doubt I am "wasting my sweetness on the desert air," because no-one will have read down this far--we come to Mathew's "star"-signed review of Charles Dickens' public reading in New York City, in 1867.
For those of you who have been taught, and refuse to reconsider, that Margaret Fuller wrote as the "star," this is January 4, 1868. Fuller died in 1850. This cannot possibly be her--and yet, it's the same literary voice. It was the same literary voice in the 1830 New York "American" (before Fuller had ever published), the same literary voice in the 1850's, in the Portland "Transcript," and it's the same voice, now. This was never Margaret Fuller in the first place.
This review is, however, replete with Mathew Franklin Whittier's code--just as his review of "The Raven and Other Poems" was deeply encoded. I have analyzed this, also, in detail in my paper on this subject. Suffice it to say, Mathew tells posterity that Dickens was like Scrooge, personally; that Dickens neither understood, nor believed, the opening premise of the story (i.e., that life after death is real); that the scene concerning Bob Cratchit crying out "my little, little child" was pure autobiography, when Mathew wrote it (having lost his 11-month-old son, Joseph, shortly before he and Abby began working on the "Carol"); and that Abby was his co-author in writing that novella. All that is packed into what seems, superficially, to be a positive review.
There is more--Mathew wrote over this signature, a "star," hundreds of times, from 1829 until 1873. It all sounds like him. The series he wrote for the New York "American" has been mistakenly assigned to Charles Fenno Hoffman; the series he wrote for the "Tribune" was falsely claimed by Margaret Fuller. The rest of it nobody has ever bothered to identify. The Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore dutifully reproduced the "star"-signed letter in "Waverley Magazine," pronounced it "anonymous," mistakenly opined that the reference to "Partington" concerned the original (before B.P. Shillaber created his character), and promptly forgot about it. The real author of "The Raven" had showed up, in code, and set them all straight, but they ignored him. Just like he was ignored at the time, in 1853.
But they were thorough enough to include it; and I noticed the signature. Hats off to e-mail-less independent scholar Jeff Savoye, whom I think is responsible for most of the work on that website. His scholarship saved him, even when his prejudices failed him.
Best regards,
Stephen Sakellarios, M.S.
