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84 THIS DIFFICULT INDIVIDUAL article by Mr. Smith and then printing a leetle note at the end of the number saying 'The article by Mr. Smith is really written by the distinguished Sheik-tamer and Tiger-baiter etc. who for reasons of modesty has concealed himself 'neath the ridiculous name of Smith-Yapper.'" Amy Lowell got out two more volumes in her series of Some Imagist Poets, before she gave up. She offered Margaret Anderson one hundred and fifty dollars a month toward the expenses of The Little Review on the condition that she be allowed to take over the poetry department. Although Miss Anderson was, as usual, in need of funds, she refused the offer. She knew only too well that Miss Lowell's offer was but the first step toward a seizure of power. Miss Lowell now contented herself with contributing two hundred dollars a month to Harriet Monroe's magazine, Poetry. She and Miss Monroe had much the same tastes, so that it was not necessary to dictate to her. On July 7, 1919, Miss Lowell wrote to Miss Monroe, "I see by the current number (of Poetry) that Ezra has left the Little Review also. I think the truth is that the world has left Ezra. . . . Poor Ezra, he had a future once, but he has played his cards so badly that I think he barely has a past now." 21 Miss Lowell was not the first to bury Ezra prematurely. His critics have been doing that for a half-century. Conrad Aiken attacked Pound in a romantic diatribe in the Boston Transcript that was reprinted in the New York Sun, May 9, 1915, of which the following lines are typical: Pound, though your henchmen now agree To hail the Prince in the Anarchist, Where in a score of years will you be, And the pale pink, dream blown mouths you kissed? A score of years later, Pound was in Rapallo, working on his Cantos, and there too he was to be found more than two score years after Aiken's prediction. And Aiken? He is right where he was in 1915. Aiken's reference to Pound's "henchmen" illustrates the theory, always popular among his critics, that he is usually surrounded by a gang of tough supporters, who protect the literary "dictator"
EZRA POUND 85 from attack. In reality, Pound has almost always been alone. His furious activities as an unsalaried editor for various publications, and his campaigns as an unpaid press agent for many talents over a period of fifty years, would lead anyone to suppose that the recipients of these favors necessarily would form a phalanx about him. But this has never been the case. The editors of the periodicals for whom he has toiled have always been glad to see him ride off into the sunset, and the writers whom he has assisted, when they were not to be found among his detractors, were usually silent when he was attacked. His only "henchman" in his career has been his wife, Dorothy Pound. Amy Lowell had wrested a prize from Pound, the leadership of the Imagist movement, but he did not consider it a loss. Indeed, the young talents of the Imagistes had begun to bore him, and he had sought more virile company. He found the Vorticists much more stimulating. His rival insisted on the spoils of her triumph. She banned his name from her anthologies, but considering the quality of her selections, this was of indirect benefit to Pound. She refused ever afterward to mention him as a poet of consequence. In her long poem A Critical Fable, an imitation of Byron's lambasting of his contemporaries, she included Pound and Eliot as an afterthought. This work, published in 1922, praised enthusiastically the poems of Sandburg, Frost, H.D., Fletcher, and Hilda Conkling. Near the end of the poem, as though performing a painful duty, she wrote, Eliot fears to abandon an old masquerade; Pound's one perfect happiness is to parade. Eliot's learning was won at a very great price; What Pound calls his learning he got in a trice. Eliot knows what he knows, though he cannot digest it; Pound knows nothing at all, but has frequently guessed it. Eliot builds up his essays by a process of massing; Pound's are mostly hot air, what the vulgar call 'gassing.' Eliot lives like a snail in his shell, pen protruding; Pound struts like a cock, self-adored, self-deluding . . . 22 The last line is an apt illustration of the effect that Pound had upon lady poetasters. This poem continues its "Night Before
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EZRA POUND 85<br />
from attack. In reality, Pound has almost always been alone. His<br />
furious activities as an unsalaried editor for various publications,<br />
and his campaigns as an unpaid press agent for many talents over<br />
a period of fifty years, would lead anyone to suppose that the<br />
recipients of these favors necessarily would form a phalanx about<br />
him. But this has never been the case. The editors of the periodicals<br />
for whom he has toiled have always been glad to see him<br />
ride off into the sunset, and the writers whom he has assisted,<br />
when they were not to be found among his detractors, were<br />
usually silent when he was attacked. His only "henchman" in his<br />
career has been his wife, Dorothy Pound.<br />
Amy Lowell had wrested a prize from Pound, the leadership<br />
of the Imagist movement, but he did not consider it a loss. Indeed,<br />
the young talents of the Imagistes had begun to bore him, and he<br />
had sought more virile company. He found the Vorticists much<br />
more stimulating.<br />
His rival insisted on the spoils of her triumph. She banned his<br />
name from her anthologies, but considering the quality of her selections,<br />
this was of indirect benefit to Pound. She refused ever afterward<br />
to mention him as a poet of consequence. In her long poem<br />
A Critical Fable, an imitation of Byron's lambasting of his contemporaries,<br />
she included Pound and Eliot as an afterthought. This<br />
work, published in 1922, praised enthusiastically the poems of<br />
Sandburg, Frost, H.D., Fletcher, and Hilda Conkling. Near the<br />
end of the poem, as though performing a painful duty, she wrote,<br />
Eliot fears to abandon an old masquerade;<br />
Pound's one perfect happiness is to parade.<br />
Eliot's learning was won at a very great price;<br />
What Pound calls his learning he got in a trice.<br />
Eliot knows what he knows, though he cannot digest it;<br />
Pound knows nothing at all, but has frequently guessed it.<br />
Eliot builds up his essays by a process of massing;<br />
Pound's are mostly hot air, what the vulgar call 'gassing.'<br />
Eliot lives like a snail in his shell, pen protruding;<br />
Pound struts like a cock, self-adored, self-deluding . . . 22<br />
The last line is an apt illustration of the effect that Pound had<br />
upon lady poetasters. This poem continues its "Night Before