Charles Townsend Copeland

Once upon a time, Professor Charles Townsend Copeland went to a particularly dull houseparty. Conversation dragged and the afternoon appeared to be a total loss. When he returned, some friends asked him whether or not he had enjoyed himself. "I should have been bored," Professor Copeland replied, "had I not been there myself."

Professor Copeland, "Copey," was witty and knew it. Harvard anecdotes about him, like Lincoln stories, are legion and legendary. But the reason for the stories, both true and apocryphal, is that they perpetuate the personality of a truly unique teacher who left no other significant relics. As an English instructor, and later as Boylston Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory, he taught two famous courses; an advanced writing course and a course titled "Johnson and his Circle." He wrote only one book, compiled two anthologies, and allowed a short moving picture to be filmed of himself reading aloud.

Biographer's Dilemma

Since he left few tangible achievements, there is little solid for biographers to fall back on. Those who knew him have called him "a Johnson who cried for a Boswell." Yet the anecdotes which do exist tend to distort the man, illuminating in thin shafts of light one side of his personality, leaving the rest in gloom.

But it is doubtful that even an individual who knew Copey well could present a fair picture of him, since the life of with and studied idiosyncrasy which he sustained had too many facets and roles to be adequately summarized. And he never "let down his guard" suficiently to any one person to permit revelations of an intimate variety. Thus the approach to Copey through his legend, however inadequate and dangerous, is the only one available until his Boswell comes along.

The Legend

The legend itself breaks up into public and private anecdotes, into classroom jokes and conference revelations. The undergraduate who came to know him well usually did so by moving through the larger layer of public acquaintance into increasingly attractive familiarity with the man; discovering Copey first merely by being at Harvard, then by going to a Copeland reading, then enrolling in one of his courses, meeting him in conference, and finally-- if he had proven himself worthy--in friendship, which was itself conducted with enough style to make legends.

Copey's Castle

In any legend worthy of the name there must be a castle. Copey's castle was a suite of rooms in Hollis Hall. From the time he was given the rooms until 1932, when doctor's orders forced him to move, Hollis 15 was the most famous address in the College. Once a week, Copey would read aloud to anyone who cared to climb the four flights of stairs, knock on the door, and wait for command "Come in. Come in." from the imperiously courteous dweller.

The room was large with wide windows "built for looking out to sea." Its walls were covered with books and a slow coal fire burned in the grate. Two oil lamps and a green-studded gas light gave all the illumination for the room. To the end, Copey refused electricity--no light bulbs, no telephone. Smoke black from the lamps discolored the ceiling and, it was claimed by those who knew, an old-fashioned tub lay under Copey's bed. His abode was a landmark even from the outside; a yellow sponge dangled from his window by a string, the butt of such fond humor as this Lampoon poem:

See the funny porous thing Hanging by a bit of string Ever there from fall to spring Decorating Hollis Hall. Copey, Copey, don't you remember Where you left it last December Or have you become a member Of the never wash at all?

Visiting hours were regulated with the finality of a drawbridge. A freshman who unwittingly bothered Copey in the afternoon was told to come back at "9:15 punct." His weekly evening readings, however, required a more delicate sense of propriety. Copey never told anyone to leave directly; there was an unspoken understanding that visitors were not welcome after eleven. "Nobody comes much after ten and nobody stays much after eleven," said Copey.

New Quarters

When Copey moved from Hollis, the press treated the event with as much sorrow as if he had died. The "light in Hollis" has been put out, they said. There had to be assurances form Professor Copeland himself that he had not wanted to move. "I had expected to stay long enough to come out feet first" said Copey, and the sanctity of Hollis 15 remained intact. Possessing the mystery which makes biography difficult, Copey made himself attractive, inspiring, and great.

In class or in public lectures, Copey's small size made him self-con-scious about reading or speaking standing up. A letter in a recent Alumni Bulletin describes his in sistence on a table and chair that would fit "a boy five feet, five and one-half inches tall" and a cloth long enough to hide his legs. Once these details were disposed of, Copey's classroom manner was awe-inspiring. George Santayana wrote, "Copeland was an artist rather than a scholar; he was a public reader by profession, an elocutionist." A green bookbag and a glass of water always attended him. Cross-drafts, coughing and similar annoyances received no tolerance. Before speaking, he would give the audience a minute or two in which to do all the coughing or sneezing they intended to do in the next hour.

By this time, every listener was prepared for Copey's voice as if it were God himself speaking. Two famous Copeland stories involve his distaste as a public speaker for lateness and the imperious wit with which he could handle it. Three students knocked on the locked door as he lectured in "Johnson and his Circle." He ignored them. They knocked again. The door was unlocked and the three walked in and sat down. Copey glared. "All gall is divided in three parts," he remarked crisply, and then went on lecturing.

'Gloria Mundi'

Another time, an unfortunate named Munn happened to stumble while walking in late.

"What is your name?" asked Copey.

"Munn, sir."

"Sic transit gloria Mundi," said Copey. "Leave the course and never return."

Professor Copeland was the third member of the trio which included Bliss Perry and George Lyman Kittredge who, in the words of John Mason Brown, "...succeeded in making a classroom seem like a theatre." His voice became such a Harvard institution that he performed annual readings for the Harvard Union at Christmas time, for the Harvard Club of New York, and for a group of alumni who had formed the Charles Townsend Copeland Association in his honor.

In 1927, Copey was asked to broadcast his annual Christmas reading. He predicted that his first radio performance would be his last. As it turned out, he continued the custom and even allowed a movie to be made for future Harvard generations who would never see the master in action. Even in these operations, his sensitivity to the audience and himself was acute. At the end of his film, Copey remarks gravely: "Such thanks as a dead man can give you are yours."

The aura of ritual reserve carried over from the classroom to Copey's personal encounters. Physically,