Edgar Allan Poe: His Life, Letters, and Opinions — John H. Ingram, 1880, volume II — reading text

It was his frequent misfortune to attempt to fight men of the world with their own weapons, and with the invariable consequences that happen to those who touch pitch. A single paragraph from the last-named tale will show why it is that Poe’s writings are so unpopular with some of his countrymen; the Americans being, as a general rule, too susceptible to relish a joke at their own expense. The hero, Count Allamistakeo [all-a-mistake-o], the resuscitated Egyptian mummy, is informed of the benefits of the democratic institutions enjoyed by the Yankees; their advantages of having universal suffrage, and no king. “He listened with marked interest, and, in fact, seemed not a little amused. When we had done,” continues the narrator, “he said that a great while ago there had occurred something of a very similar sort. Thirteen Egyptian provinces determined all at once to be free, and so set a magnificent example to the rest of mankind. They assembled their wise men, and concocted the most ingenious constitution it is possible to conceive. For a while they managed remarkably well, only their habit of bragging was prodigious. The thing ended, however, in the consolidation of the thirteen states, with some fifteen or twenty others, in the most odious and insupportable despotism that ever was heard of upon the face of the earth. I asked what was the name of the usurping tyrant. As well as the Count could recollect, it was Mob.” The April number of the Southern Literary Messenger contained an announcement to the effect that its old conductor and contributor was about to resume writing for its pages. “It needs an Argus to guard and watch the press,” says the editor, “and, to enable the Messenger to discharge its part, we have engaged the services of Mr. E. A. Poe, who will contribute a monthly critique raisonnée of the most important forthcoming works in this country, and Europe.” The poet’s multifarious labours, however, prevented him carrying out this projected scheme, although he subsequently recommenced writing for the Messenger, and continued a contributor during the rest of his life. During April and May Poe published several minor articles and book notices in the Broadway Journal, and as many of these are uncollected, and their paternity unknown, the more interesting will be alluded to, and quoted from, in these pages. It may, indeed, be remarked here, that the poet’s own revised copy of the Journal being in our possession, and his articles therein which were published anonymously, or over noms de plume, having his initials appended in pencil, we are enabled to rescue much interesting matter from oblivion. “Human Magnetism” was a subject Poe was now deeply interested in, although he was not to be deceived by many of the impostures prevalent. Noticing a work on this subject, and pointing out certain views in which he differed from its author, he took occasion to say — “Most especially do we disagree with him in his (implied) disparagement of the work of Chauncey Hare Townshend, which we regard as one of the most truly profound and philosophical works of the day — a work to be valued properly only in a day to come.” “Anastatic Printing” was also a subject that attracted his attention, and upon which he wrote a short article, replete with idiosyncratic remarks. The invention was one that greatly excited his imagination, and caused him to foresee a palmy future for authors; to anticipate the time when writers would be enabled to publish their works “without the expensive interference of the type-setter, and the often ruinous intervention of the publisher.” This literary millennium was to produce, among other unfulfilled blessings, “some attention to legibility of manuscript” by men of letters; and i’ the cultivation of accuracy in manuscript,” opined the poet, would “tend, with an inevitable impetus, to every species of improvement in style; more especially in the points of concision and distinctness; and this again, in a degree even more noticeable, to precision of thought and luminous arrangement of matter;” and his conclusion was, that “at present the literary world is a species of anomalous congress, in which the majority of the members are constrained to listen in silence, while all the eloquence proceeds from a privileged few. In the new régime the humblest will speak as often and as freely as the most exalted, and will be sure of receiving just that amount of attention which the intrinsic merit of their speeches may deserve.” A revival of Sophocles’ “Antigone” having been attempted in New York, in imitation of similar revivals in Europe, Poe, in commenting very, severely upon the performance, said — “Apart from all this, there is about the ‘Antigone,’ as well as about all the ancient plays, an insufferable baldness, or platitude, the inevitable result of inexperience in art — but a baldness, never “’ theless, which pedantry would force us to believe the result of a studied and supremely artistic simplicity alone. Simplicity is, indeed, a very lofty and very effective feature in all true art — but not the simplicity which we see in the Greek drama. The simplicity of the Greek sculpture is everything that can be desired, because here the art in itself is the simplicity in itself, and in its elements. The Greek sculptor chiselled his forms from what he saw before him every day, in a beauty far nearer to perfection than any work of any Cleomenes in the world. But in the drama, the direct — the straightforward, unGerman Greek had no Nature so directly presented, from which to copy his conceptions. . . . To the Greeks, beyond doubt, their drama seemed perfection — and this fact is absurdly urged as proof of their drama’s perfection in itself. It need only be said, in reply, that their art and their sense of art must have been necessarily on a level.” Adverting to the absurdity of attempting to reproduce a Greek play before a modern audience, especially with such a want of all the requisite appliances as this little New York theatre displayed, Poe paused to bestow his praise upon the successful manner in which Mendelssohn has wedded his music to the Hellenic drama he must, he says, “have been inspired when he conceived the plan. . . . He had,” remarked Poe, “many difficulties to contend with; his own natural style must be abandoned, and the cramped and unmelodious system of the Greek unisonous singing adopted. To preserve that distinctive character, and still render the music acceptable to modern ears, must have taxed the utmost ingenuity of the composer. But he has succeeded to a marvel.” Some of Poe’s strictures on the performance and the performers of “Antigone” aroused the anger of the manager, or director, or whatever he was, of the theatre, and he indited an amusingly pompous epistle to the poet, addressed to “Edgar Poe, Esq., &c., &c., &c., Author of THE RAVEN,” in which, after stating that he deemed his critique “characterised much more by ill-nature and an illiberal spirit, than by fair and candid, or even just criticism,” and that, therefore, he, the great Somebody, “in justice to myself, have withdrawn your (Poe’s) name from the free list.” On this display of “Achilles’ wrath” Poe wrote an amusing paper in the Broadway Journal, from which this paragraph may be cited: — “We are not wrong (are we?) in conceiving that Mr. — is in a passion. We are not accustomed to compositions of precisely this character — (that is to say, notes written in large capitals, with admiration notes for commas, — the whole varied occasionally with lowercase) — but still we think ourselves justified in imagining that Mr. was in a passion when he sent us this note from his suite of boudoirs at the Astor House. In fact, we fancy that we can trace the gradations of his wrath in the number and impressiveness of his underscoring. The SIRS!! for example, are exceedingly bitter; and in THE RAVEN, which has five black lines beneath it, each one blacker than the preceding, we can only consider ourselves as devoted to the infernal gods.” Among more serious subjects which followed in the Journal from Poe’s pen, may be mentioned, as amongst his uncollected writings, an article on the science of Street Paving; a review of Leigh Hunt, in which the conclusion was arrived at that taste was his forte, but that of critical analysis he was utterly deficient; a sympathetic notice of “Eothen,” then recently issued, drew forth the remark that its author “brings the East to us more vividly than any other Eastern traveller has done.” A critique on Old English Poetry, replete with Poesque passages, and noticeable for its glowing enthusiasm for “The Ancient Mariner,” followed, and from among old poems singled out for especial commendation, was Marvell’s exquisitely tender lines on the “Maiden’s Lamentation for her Fawn.” A scarification of “Poems” by a Mr. Lord, and ‘a friendly notice of “Philothea” — in which were some significant allusions to “Zanoni” — concluded the week’s number. In May the tale of “Three Sundays in a Week” appeared in the Journal, in the insatiable panes of which periodical were republished, all more or less revised, and frequently over noms de plume, nearly the whole of Poe’s stories, and a large portion of his poems. As an extract from The New World, some stanzas in parody of “The Raven” appeared in this month’s issue, under the title of “A Gentle Puff;” and were republished with the editorial remark that this one only, out of the many complimentary notices they received, would be reprinted, and it because of its uniqueness. As the opinion of a contemporary journalist on Poe’s non-respect of persons in his critical capacity, one stanza may be worth citation: — “Neither rank nor station heeding, with his foes around him bleeding, Sternly, singly, and alone, his course he kept upon that floor; While the countless foes attacking, neither strength. nor valour lacking, On his goodly armour hacking, wrought no change his visage o’er, As with high and honest aim he still his falchion proudly bore, Resisting error evermore.” Amid critical notices by the poet, other than those adverted to already, are many interesting opinions upon literature and kindred topics; and his indignation is particularly aroused by some deprecatory comments of certain reviewers of “the august works of Tennyson and Miss Barrett.” “It is worse than sacrilege,” exclaims Poe, “to intrust to such hands poems which, if we are entitled to estimate the merit of anything by its effect on the greatest intellects and the noblest hearts, are divine, if there be any divinity within the soul of man.” “The Power of Words,” one of the best of Poe’s prose poems, appeared in the Democratic Review for June. The tale, if such it may be termed, for it is utterly devoid of incident, is merely the conversation of two disembodied spirits as they soar through the infinite vistas of space. Their discourse on such syllogisms as that only the acquiring, and not the possessing, knowled;e, produces happiness, passes by natural transitions into a discussion — every line of which is pregnant with poetic suggestion — on the physical power of words, and concludes with a dénouement as startling as that of any of its author’s works. In the Broadway Journal for this month Poe published a sketch of a very different description, on Magazine-writing, entitled “Peter Snooks.” It was called forth as a commentary on a paper by Mr. Duyckinck on Magazine Literature; is replete with excellent remarks and, it might almost be said, with prophecies that have already been fulfilled. Alluding to the relative value of European and American magazine articles, and to some of the disadvantages under which contributors of the latter then laboured, Poe said: — “We are so circumstanced as to be unable to pay for elaborate compositions — and, after all, the true invention is elaborate. There is no greater mistake than the supposition that a true originality is a mere