[In the following excerpted essay, Kennedy examines Cummings's writing during a particularly difficult period in the 1920s.]

In the midst of his efforts to publish between 1922 and 1925 Cummings faced personal problems of such gravity that they brought about a change in his personality. It all began in 1918 when he fell in love with Elaine Thayer, the wife of his best friend. The Thayer marriage of 1916 had been in trouble for some time, a situation made clear by the fact that the couple now lived in separate apartments on different sides of Washington Square in Greenwich Village. Moreover, Scofield needed to be in Chicago for long periods of time before the Dial headquarters moved to New York, and when he traveled he left his wife behind. Out of genuine affection for her, Cummings, Brown, Dos Passos, and other friends frequently spent time with her when her husband was away. Soon a love affair developed between Cummings and the lonely Elaine. Even so he and Scofield remained good friends after Scofield returned to New York permanently. Further complications arose when Elaine became pregnant with Cummings' child and, unwilling to have an abortion, she gave birth to a baby girl in December 1919 while still married to Thayer, who then took on the role of father. Cummings' love affair with Elaine continued intermittently in New York and Paris during the years 1920 to 1924, until the Thayers agreed to divorce in 1921. Cummings finally married Elaine in March 1924 and legally adopted little Nancy who was by then four years old.

But as a self-centered poet and painter Cummings was a very poor husband and father. As a consequence Elaine, neglected once again by Cummings' bachelor-like routine, left him for a wealthy Irish businessman. She officially divorced Cummings in December 1924 and later moved to Ireland, taking Nancy with her and preventing Cummings from having any contact with the child.¹ The loss of both Elaine and Nancy was a psychological blow that depressed Cummings deeply for the next couple of years and left scars for the rest of his life. However unsettling all these troubles were to him, he continued to write and paint in a little studio on the third floor of 4 Patchin Place in the Village. After several months had passed he developed a new love affair with Anne Barton, whom he eventually married in May 1929.

Anne was a former fashion model who had divorced Ralph Barton, a widely published cartoonist known principally for his illustrations in Anita Loos' Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Anne was a good-time woman, lively, witty, and well-suited to the role of the New York flapper of the 1920s. She enjoyed parties with a lot of laughter, drinking, jazz on the phonograph, and dancing. In her vivacity she was very good for Cummings' bruised psyche, but since she was not always faithful to him, she created new problems for him too.

In spite of the disruptions in his personal life during these years, Cummings managed to publish five books and to continue painting and exhibiting at the annual Independent Artists shows. There was a good deal of variety in the books: Is 5, a collection of poems (1926); Him, an Expressionist play (1927); [No title], a sequence of absurdist narratives (1930); CIOPW, a collection of his artwork in charcoal, ink, oil, pencil, and watercolor (1931); and W (ViVa) (1931), another book of poems.

Is 5 reveals some of the strains on Cummings' creativity, for it shows both an advance beyond the Tulips and Chimneys poems and a falling off, in that it includes a number of trifles that Cummings should have left in his files. It also includes several poems that had already appeared in the private publication &, perhaps an indication that Cummings felt a need to pad—or, more accurately, strengthen—his new volume. There are some new stylistic features however. A few poems are presented in a phonetic rendering of the New York lower-class dialect. For instance, this epigram about a whore and a priest:

now dis “daughter” uv eve(who aint precisely slim)sim
ply don't know duh meanin uv duh woid sin in
not disagreeable contras tuh dat not exacly fat
“father”(adjustin his robe)who now puts on his flat hat

(CP [The Complete Poems], 238)

Note that the last phrase, describing the priest, is in normal English.

Besides the presence of several linguistic pranks there is occasional evidence that the Dada movement had made an impact on Cummings while he was in Paris in 1921-22. The Dada spirit revels in irrationality of the sort Cummings exhibits in one item that begins in this way:

Will i ever forget that precarious moment?
          As i was standing on the third rail waiting for the next train to grind me
into lifeless atoms various absurd thoughts slyly crept into my highly sexed
mind.
          It seemed to me that i had first of all really made quite a mistake in being
at all born,seeing that i was wifeless and only half awake,cursed with pimples,
correctly dressed,cleanshaven above the nombril,and much to my astonishment much
impressed by having once noticed(as an infantile phenomenon)George Washington al-
most incompletely surrounded by well-drawn icecakes beheld being too strong,in
brief:an American,is you understand that i mean what i say i believe my most
intimate friends would never have gathered.
A collarbutton which had always not nothurt me not much and in the same place.
Why according to tomorrow's paper the proletariat will not rise yesterday.

(CP, 260)

Of course one principal idea of Dada, which we have encountered before in Cummings' work, is the necessity to destroy the accepted and the traditional in order to discover something new and surprising in artistic effect, or in order to seek some hidden truth that lies beyond the rational. Hence the title of Cummings' book, which asserts his endeavor to rise out of the realm where twice two is four.

One distinctive feature of Is 5 is the presence of a series of antiwar poems, two of which employ a new satirical device of Cummings', namely the use of allusive quotations or fragments of quotations, a technique that he learned from T. S. Eliot and Ezra Pound. But unlike Eliot or Pound he does not employ this technique for general cultural criticism, rather, he aims to produce real laughter by ridiculing his subjects. In one of these poems, carefully worked out in sonnet form, he pillories a Fourth-of-July speechmaker by choosing patriotic and religious clichés common to platform oratory and compressing fragments of them together in order to demonstrate by this jumble the meaningless emptiness that these appeals have:

“next to of course god america i
love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh
say can you see by the dawn's early my
country 'tis of centuries come and go
and are no more what of it we should worry
in every language even deafanddumb
thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum
why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-
iful than these heroic happy dead
who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter
they did not stop to think they died instead
then shall the voice of liberty be mute?”
He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water

(CP, 267)

He goes even further in another of the antiwar poems and uses repeatedly the Latin phrase “etcetera” to suggest valueless verbiage, until finally he capitalizes “Etcetera” in order to give it new meaning:

my sweet old etcetera
aunt lucy during the recent
war could and what
is more did tell you just
what everybody was fighting
for,
my sister
isabel created hundreds
(and
hundreds)of socks not to
mention shirts fleaproof earwarmers
etcetera wristers etcetera,my
mother hoped that
i would die etcetera
bravely of course my father used
to become hoarse talking about how it was
a privilege and if only he
could meanwhile my
self etcetera lay quietly
in the deep mud et
cetera
(dreaming,
et
          cetera,of
Your smile
eyes knees and of your Etcetera)

(CP, 275)

In another of the satirical poems he takes fragments of advertising slogans or parodies of brand names of commonly marketed products and mixes them with lines from patriotic songs, this time in an attack on the average American poet. The title is “POEM, OR BEAUTY HURTS MR. VINAL” (Harold Vinal was the editor of Voices, a poetry quarterly, and secretary of the Poetry Society of America). It begins with an explosion of phrases:

take it from me kiddo
believe me
my country,'tis of
you,land of the Cluett
Shirt Boston Garter and Spearmint
Girl With The Wrigley Eyes(of you
land of the Arrow Ide
and Earl &
Wilson
Collars)of you i
sing:land of Abraham Lincoln and Lydia E. Pinkham,
land above all of Just Add Hot Water And Serve—
from every B.V.D.
let freedom ring …

(CP, 228)

He goes on to a series of scatological jokes while developing his theme that ordinary American poetry is on the same level as advertising copy (or worse, since Cummings calls the poets “throstles,” songbirds whose scientific name is “turdus musicus”). The poem ends with a picture of the poets as constipated children straining to produce their poetic results. In the concluding lines the advertised products that he alludes to are Carter's Little Liver Pills, Nujol (a laxative), Kellogg's Bran Flakes (“There's A Reason”), Odorono (an underarm deodorant), and Colgate's Toothpaste.

littleliverpill-
hearted-Nujolneeding-There's-A-Reason
americans(who tensetendoned and with
upward vacant eyes,painfully
perpetually crouched,quivering,upon the
sternly allotted sandpile
—how silently
emit a tiny violetflavoured nuisance:Odor?
ono.
comes out like a ribbon lies flat on the brush

(CP, 229)

These three pieces are among the most frequently anthologized of Cummings' poems, even though they are found in this not-very-memorable volume. Another work that is often included in anthologies is the first poem in which Cummings expresses the basic tenet of his Romanticism, the primacy of emotion over reason. It is addressed to a ladylove, and it denigrates anyone who follows rules and systems (“the syntax of things”).

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers.          Don't cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says
we are for each other:then
laugh,leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis

(CP, 291)

But the assertion about immortality expressed in grammatical terms in the final lines has a subtle qualifier in the phrase “i think.” He does not say “i feel.”

For all his repeated rejections of thinking and systematic regimentation Cummings took great pains to arrange his collections of poems in orderly patterns. The key number in this book is five. It opens with five sonnets characterizing five prostitutes (“FIVE AMERICANS”) and closes with five sonnets addressed to a beloved one. Further, he divides the book into five sections: Part I, linguistic jokes, experiments, and bagatelles; Part II, antiwar poems; Part III, poems set in Europe; Part IV, love poems; Part V, love sonnets. The next volume W (ViVa) takes its title from a graffito commonly found on southern European walls, meaning “Long live,” as in “Viva Napoli!” or “Viva Presidente Wilson!” Employing a pattern of seven, Cummings arranges seventy poems; every seventh poem is a sonnet, and the last seven poems are all sonnets. The thematic order in ViVa is a pattern that he follows in most of his books, starting with Is 5; he later described it in a letter to Francis Steegmuller: “to begin dirty (world, sordid, satires) & end clean (earth, lyrical, love poems).”²

In spite of the cheeriness of the title the first half of ViVa is difficult going. It contains a relentless series of linguistic puzzles with an occasional powerfully expressed satire, such as the first sonnet, which ironically echoes the book's title in its phrase, “LONG LIVE that Upwardlooking / Serene Illustrious and Beatific / Lord of Creation, MAN.” This poem is a bitter attack on humankind's presumptuousness in an age of new scientific theory, when Space is “curved,” life is just a reflex, and “Everything is Relative,” with “god being Dead (not to / mention inTerred)” (CP, 317). This is the first of Cummings' attacks on Science, an abstraction that he associates with all that is wrong with the modern world and that he regards as the epitome of unfeeling reason. It is a bugaboo he will chase for the rest of his career.

The thirtieth poem in the collection has become very famous. An antiwar poem that is thematically connected with his hostility toward government and authority, “i sing of Olaf glad and big” is the story of the torture, imprisonment, and death of a conscientious objector during the Great War. Part of its icy irony is brought about by Cummings' having used an irregularly rhymed tetrameter doggerel for such a terrible story. To heighten the irony he chose a formal diction such as one might find in a Victorian moralistic tale about a naughty boy who mistreats the kitten; Cummings occasionally even throws in an archaic word:

but—though all kinds of officers
(a yearning nation's blueeyed pride)
their passive prey did kick and curse
until for wear their clarion
voices and boots were much the worse,
and egged the firstclassprivates on
his rectum wickedly to tease
by means of skilfully applied
bayonets roasted hot with heat—
Olaf (upon what once were knees)
does almost ceaselessly repeat
“there is some shit I will not eat.”

(CP, 340)

The pose of a medieval balladeer, a François Villon, or a Geoffrey Chaucer, is maintained right up to the end with the summarizing prayer, “Christ (of his mercy infinite / i pray to see; and Olaf, too …” (CP, 340). It is a remarkable production and quite a characteristic subject for “our nonhero, little Estlin.”

In the middle of ViVa begins a sequence of nature poems, pulled about in the Hephaestian style on such topics as a sunset; an electrical storm; a flower opening its petals; a star at twilight; a moonrise; nature as a transcendent entity; his mother's heaven pictured as a flower garden; a bat at twilight; the dying of life in winter; and a rainfall. The works are in all shapes and jumbles of expression. One of the most fascinating poems is about an electrical storm accompanied by rain, followed by the sun coming out, birds singing, and the refreshment of the earth. The ups and downs of capital and lowercase letters, the pull and push of space, punctuation, and word division make it a dynamic performance.

n(o)w
                    the
how
          dis(appeared cleverly)world
iS Slapped:with;liGhtninG
!
at
which(shal)lpounceupcrackw(ill)jumps
of
          THuNdeRB
                                                            loSSo!M iN
-visiblya mongban(gedfrag-
ment ssky?wha tm)eani ngl(essNessUn
rolli)ngl yS troll s(who leO v erd)oma insCol
Lide.!high
                                        n, o ; w :
                                                            theraIncomIng
o all the roofs roar
                                                                      drownInsound(
&
(we(are like)dead
                                                                      )Whoshout(Ghost)atOne(voiceless)O
ther or im)
                    pos
                    sib(ly as
                    leep)
                                        But l!ook—
                                                                                s
                    U
                    n:starT birDs(lEAp)Openi ng
t hing; s(
—sing
                    )all are aLl(cry alL See)o(ver All)Th(e grEEn
?eartH)N,ew

(CP, 348)

Among the love poems one has become especially well known because it was used by Woody Allen in his film Hannah and Her Sisters. But long before that it was read aloud by many a young man, perhaps stretched in front of the fireplace on an April night, to his much-adored girlfriend. It attempts to express the transcendent feeling of response to the power of a beloved one in the metaphor of the opening and closing of flower petals. These are the first two of its blank-verse stanzas:

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

(CP, 367)

By 1931 Cummings had become a leading American poet in two areas—as a satirist and as an experimenter with language in creating constructs that went beyond what any poetic wordsmith had ever achieved; in another area he had done commendable work—as a lyric poet, especially in his love poems. But his reputation was limited by two aspects of his career: one, the fault of critics; the other, the fault of himself.

Many critics and reviewers were loathe to acknowledge that the kind of expression Cummings attempted had a high literary value. They regarded him as a trickster and as an iconoclast ready to tear the fabric of literature or undermine the moral basis of society. Yet Cummings himself had helped them to hold their prejudices against his work for he had published a great many poems unworthy of print by a serious poet—much apprentice work appeared in Tulips and Chimneys and XLI Poems and too many jokes or gimmicky trifles in Is 5 and ViVa. These problems were not going to vanish as time went on. But the very fact that he always had the essential grain in spite of his seeming inability to get rid of chaff meant that a winnowing was possible for anthologists and poetry lovers who could make their own choices. As for the critics and reviewers, they became more used to the Cummings idiom as his books continued to emerge, and what is more, younger judges who were used to reading modern literature were continually arriving on the scene. In time the recognition would come.

II

Cummings always lived frugally and managed to scrape along by means of occasional prizes, gifts from his father, a small legacy from his grandmother, and what little money his writing brought in. To supplement his income he sometimes wrote comic vignettes under a pseudonym for Vanity Fair magazine and illustrated them with line drawings. He had a taste for Dadaesque nonsense, and the editor of Vanity Fair, Frank Crowninshield, seemed to tolerate it. Eventually Cummings made a small book of these nonsensical narratives in prose, with each of its nine chapters illustrated by a pen-and-ink sketch. After this series appeared in New American Caravan (1929), an annual edited by Alfred Kreymborg and Paul Rosenfeld that was intended to show the work of younger writers, it was published in book form without a title by Covici-Friede in 1930. It was not a significant work. Each chapter weaves a meandering thread of jokes, puns, clichés, burlesques of literary quotations, and narrative nonsequiturs that lead nowhere. It becomes very tiresome reading in a few pages, though some of Cummings' friends seem to have found it entertaining.

III

A major undertaking in the years following Cummings' problems with marriage, fatherhood, and divorce was his attempt to write a play. Throughout 1926 he had striven to create a dramatic work, going through reams of paper for his notes and drafts, hoping to produce something that was really significant and at the same time “different.” At length, after a determined struggle, he completed Him, a play that followed the tendencies of Expressionism, a movement in European painting and theater that had its success largely in Scandinavia and Germany.

The Expressionist playwrights professed to show the inner life of the psyche in exterior action, especially in stylized action and stereotypical characters. The first American plays to reflect this mode were Eugene O'Neill's The Emperor Jones (1920) and The Hairy Ape (1922). But the overearnest Germanic intensity that O'Neill absorbed was not accepted by other American playwrights. Elmer Rice in The Adding Machine (1923), John Howard Lawson in Processional (1925), and John Dos Passos in The Garbage Man (1926)—all had Americanized Expressionism by giving it comic overtones and letting serious ideas emerge through comic distancing.³

This American tradition appealed to Cummings, who had discussed literary ideas with both Lawson and Dos Passos. In Him he developed a play concerned with the theme of bringing to birth: Me, the heroine, is pregnant; Him, a playwright, is struggling with writer's block while trying to finish his play; and both Him and Me are moving toward a merger as true lovers, not just as an artist and his mistress. In the play Him has many speeches about the creative process and the problems of the artist. Me speaks for another side of Cummings' psyche, and since she frequently states that she has no mind and cannot understand things she represents Cummings' Romantic valuing of feeling over reason. As a character she offers a good counterpoise to the posturing, wisecracking behavior of Him and causes him to mellow into a human being by act 3. These themes, plus other motifs about the unconscious, the problems of identity, and the mysteries of gender are presented in a muddled way by means of the Cummings idiom in dialogue between Him and Me, but also through a series of vaudeville skits, circus sideshows, and carnival barker spiels, which are the liveliest parts of the play.

When the curtain rises we see a hospital scene, with Me being anesthetized on an operating table. (Cummings is here consciously alluding to the opening lines of T. S. Eliot's “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”) Besides the doctor, onstage are the three Weird Sisters, the Fates, who in Greek mythology preside over childbearing and the destinies of human beings. They sit in rocking chairs, knitting the threads of destiny, and chatting in a mixture of twisted proverbs, advertising slogans, and trite phrases of neighborly gossip. This scene recurs five times in the play, although the number nine, which stands for the period of gestation, is the key figure in the pattern of the play.⁴

The next scene is the “Room” where Him and Me conduct their dialogue. Me is complaining about Him's neglect of her and hints to the audience of her pregnancy. Him, preoccupied with his play, responds absently or spouts joking nonsense, although at one point he talks about the creative achievement of the artist in a frequently quoted metaphor involving the circus acrobat:

imagine a human being who balances three chairs, one on top of another, on a wire, eighty feet in air with no net underneath, and then climbs into the top chair, sits down, and begins to swing … it is such a perfect acrobat! The three chairs are three facts—it will quickly kick them out from under itself and will stand on air … it rocks carefully and smilingly on three facts, on: I am an Artist, I am a Man, I am a Failure—it rocks and it swings and it smiles and it does not collapse tumble or die because it pays no attention to anything except itself.

(12-13)

When Me asks to see parts of the play he is writing Him agrees, and we are offered nine vaudeville skits,⁵ most of which have comic reference to psychological problems or processes. For example, in one scene a man carrying a trunk marked “fragile” is stopped by a policeman. The man says that the trunk is his unconscious, although he does not know what is in it. When the policeman finally opens it and peers in he collapses in a dead faint. Some of the scenes were at that time recognizable parodies of elements in recent Broadway plays or musical comedies. One, in which two men named Bill and Will wear masks and engage in a “Who's-on-first?”-kind of dialogue, pokes fun at O'Neill's The Great God Brown. Another, in which two men meet six times, exchange cryptic greetings, and then pop balloons with their cigars, is a parody of a Broadway musical number, “How's tricks?” Another scene, set in ancient Rome and presenting four fluttering homosexuals in togas, is Cummings' burlesque of the comic sketches frequently found in burlesque theaters—thus, a burlesque of burlesque.

The most elaborate of the scenes has a Negro ensemble singing a bawdy version of “Frankie and Johnie.”⁶ (When Him was published in 1927 Cummings had a battle with Liveright, his publisher, over his right to include the line about Johnie “finger-fucking Nellie Bly”—a battle that he lost.) Toward the end of the song a censorious figure, John Rutter, the president of the Society for the Contraception of Vice (a jibe at John S. Sumner, head of the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice), arises from the audience and objects to the song just as the singers are about to utter a vernacular word for penis. But he is frightened away when Frankie advances down nine stairs and presents him with an amputated penis in a bloody napkin, “the best part of the man who done me wrong” (56).

After more meandering dialogue between Him and Me and another burlesque sketch, this time set in Paris (Him's dream, in which he appears carrying a head of cabbage and declaring “I was born the day before yesterday”), the play reaches its climax as Me hears a drumbeat suggesting the heartbeat of her child, and the scene merges into a circus sideshow, presumably the bizarre contents of Me's unconscious, in which a barker presents eight circus performers: the nine-foot giant, the tattooed man, the six hundred pounds of passionate pulchritude, and so on. The ninth attraction is the dancer, Princess Anankay (Greek for Necessity), announced as “the undiluted original milkshake of the ages … the world's first and foremost exponent of the yaki-hula-hiki-dula otherwise known as the Royal Umbilical Bengal Cakewalk” (I have translated the barker's dialect). But when the curtains open Me stands holding a newborn baby. Him utters “a cry of terror” and the three Weird Sisters exclaim, “It's all done with mirrors!” (144).

The play ends with a brief scene in which Him and Me are back in the Room once more, as if the previous scene had never taken place. Me, facing the footlights, points out to Him that the audience represents the real world; the actors and the play are only what the audience pretends is real.

Although Cummings' notes and drafts show that he was working with a fascinating complex of ideas,⁷ he was not actually able to bring them alive in dramatic form in this play. An uncut version of Him runs almost four hours,⁸ a wearisome evening given the obscurities of Cummings' dialogue and the lack of clarity between parts. The most disappointing feature, however, is the conclusion. In the last scene there is no reference to the baby, to the relationship between Him and Me, or to Him's play. The turn to the audience is merely a mechanical device in the guise of a statement on imagination and reality.

Since its publication Him has been produced from time to time by little theater groups. Its initial production, in a cut version, at the Provincetown Playhouse in Greenwich Village in 1928 was its most successful, for it had a full professional cast and production staff.⁹ The play ran for twenty-seven performances to full houses of 200 people in the small theater at 133 MacDougal Street. It appealed to the Playhouse clientele—intellectuals, bohemians, and academics—who could appreciate the allusions to literature and psychoanalysis and delighted in the combination of learned wit and carnival-show atmosphere in the vaudeville skits. No one was quite sure what the play was about, and a controversy about its value arose that was carried on between the Broadway reviewers and Cummings' friends and supporters, who published a pamphlet edited by Gilbert Seldes entitled him and the critics.¹⁰ What seems clear is that the play became a kind of Rorschach blot enacted on stage; thus the members of the audience were really responding to the preperformance “Warning” that Cummings printed in the program: “Relax and give the play a chance to strut its stuff—relax, stop wondering what it's all ‘about,’—like many strange things, Life included, this Play isn't ‘about,’ it simply is. … Don't try to enjoy it, let it try to enjoy you. DON'T TRY TO UNDERSTAND IT, LET IT TRY TO UNDERSTAND YOU.”¹¹

As time went on Cummings tried his hand at drama now and again, but except for a short Christmas play, Santa Claus, which we will take note of later, he never succeeded in getting any farther than notes and schemes.

Notes

1. For the full details of Cummings' loss of Elaine and his struggle for parental rights to spend time with Nancy, see chapters 16 and 17 of DITM.

2. March 5, 1959, SL, 261.

3. Even The Hairy Ape had the subtitle A Comedy of Ancient and Modern Life in Eight Scenes.

4. All quotations are from the first edition of Him (New York, 1927).

5. The ninth is enacted as a dream by Him.

6. Edmund Wilson supplied Cummings with the words for this version of the song.

7. An extensive accumulation of pages, bMS Am1823.4 (15) and bMS Am1892.7 (198), remains.

8. This was the length of the performance of the complete version of Him as performed by the Circle Repertory Theater (New York Times, April 20, 1974).

9. For an account of the rehearsals and production, see Helen Deutsch and Stella Hanau, The Provincetown: A Story of the Theater (New York, 1959), 170.

10. No date. Introduction by Gilbert Seldes and statements by Conrad Aiken, William Rose Benét, S. Foster Damon, Waldo Frank, Paul Rosenfeld, John Sloan, Edmund Wilson, Stark Young, and others. A copy is in bMS Am1823.8 (39).

11. Ibid.