Mr. Poe’s Reply to Mr. English and Others — July 10, 1846 — reading text

Mr. Poe’s Reply to Mr. English and Others — July 10, 1846 Poe’s public reply in the 1846 dispute with Thomas Dunn English. The article carries a June 27 dateline and was printed on July 10. Its allegations are preserved as the author’s statements, not independently verified findings. Locally preserved electronic transcription of the cited historical printing. This is not a newspaper-page facsimile. Typography is simplified, and the text has not been independently proofread word by word. [COMMUNICATED.] MR. POE’S REPLY TO MR. ENGLISH AND OTHERS. NEW YORK, June 27. To the Public. — A long and serious illness of such character as to render quiet and perfect seclusion in the country of vital importance, has hitherto prevented me from seeing an article headed “The War of the Literati,” signed “Thomas Dunn English,” and published in “The New York Mirror” of June 23d. This article I might, and should indeed, never have seen but for the kindness of Mr. Godey, editor of “The Lady's Book,” who enclosed it to me with a suggestion that certain portions of it might be thought on my part to demand a reply. I had some difficulty in comprehending what that was, said or written by Mr. English, that could be deemed answerable by any human being; but I had not taken into consideration that I had been, for many months, absent and dangerously ill — that I had no longer a journal in which to defend myself — that these facts were well known to Mr. English — that he is a blackguard of the lowest order — that it would be silly truism, if not unpardonable flattery, to term him either a coward or a liar — and, lastly, that the magnitude of a slander is usually in the direct ratio of the littleness of the slanderer, but, above all things, of the impunity with which he fancies it may be uttered. Of the series of papers which have called down upon me, while supposed defenceless, the animadversions of the pensive Fuller, the cultivated Clark, the “indignant Briggs,” and the animalcula with moustaches for antenna that is in the capital habit of signing itself in full, “Thomas Dunn English” — of this series of papers all have been long since written, and three have been already given to the public. The circulation of the Magazine in which they appear cannot be much less than 50,000; and, admitting but 4 readers to each copy (while 6 would more nearly approach the truth) I may congratulate myself on such an audience as has not often been known in any similar case — a monthly audience of at least 200,000, from among the most refined and intellectual classes of American society. Of course, it will be difficult on the part of “The Mirror” (I am not sure whether 500 or 600 be the precise number of copies it now circulates) — difficult, I say, to convince the 200,000 ladies and gentlemen in question that, individually and collectively, they are block-heads — that they do not rightly comprehend the unpretending words which I have addressed to them in this series — and that, as for myself, I have no other design in the world than misrepresentation, scurrility, and the indulgence of personal spleen. What has been printed is before my readers; what I have written besides, is in the hands of Mr. Godey, and shall remain unaltered. The word “Personality,” used in the heading of the series, has of course led astray the quartette of dunderheads who have talked and scribbled themselves into convulsions about this matter — but no one else, I presume, has distorted the legitimate meaning of my expression into that of private scandal or personal offence. In sketching individuals, every candid reader will admit that, while my general aim has been accuracy, I have yielded to delicacy even a little too much of verisimilitude. Indeed, on this score should I not have credit for running my pen through certain sentences referring, for example, to the brandy-nose of Mr. Briggs (since Mr. Briggs is only one third described when this nose is omitted) and to the family resemblance between the whole visage of Mr. English and that of the best-looking but most unprincipled of Mr. Barnum's baboons? It will not be supposed, from anything here said, that I myself attach any importance to this series of papers. The public, however, is the best judge of its own taste; and that the spasms of one or two enemies have given the articles a notoriety far surpassing their merit or my expectation — is, possibly, no fault of mine. In a preface their very narrow scope is defined. They are loosely and inconsiderately written — aiming at nothing beyond the gossip of criticism — unless, indeed, at the relief of those “necessities” which I have never blushed to admit and which the editor of “The Mirror” — the quondam associate of gentlemen — has, in the same manner, never blushed publicly to insult and to record. But let me return to Mr. English's attack — and, in so returning, let me not permit any profundity of disgust to induce, even for an instant, a violation of the dignity of truth. What is not false, amid the scurrility of this man's statements, it is not in my nature to brand as false, although oozing from the filthy lips of which a lie is the only natural language. The errors and frailties which I deplore, it cannot at least be asserted that I have been the coward to deny. Never, even, have I made attempt at extenuating a weakness which is (or, by the blessing of God, was) a calamity, although those who did not know me intimately had little reason to regard it otherwise than as a crime. For, indeed, had my pride, or that of my family permitted, there was much — very much — there was everything — to be offered in extenuation. Perhaps, even, there was an epoch at which it might not have been wrong in me to hint — what by the testimony of Dr. Francis and other medical men I might have demonstrated, had the public, indeed, cared for the demonstration — that the irregularities so profoundly lamented were the effect of a terrible evil rather than its cause. — And now let me thank God that in redemption from the physical ill I have forever got rid of the moral. It is not, then, my purpose to deny any part of the conversation represented to have been held privately between this person and myself. I scorn the denial of any portion of it, because every portion of it may be true, by a very desperate possibility, although uttered by an English. I pretend to no remembrance of anything which occurred — with the exception of having wearied and degraded myself, to little purpose, in bestowing upon Mr. E. the “fisticuffing” of which he speaks, and of being dragged from his prostrate and rascally carcase by Professor Thomas Wyatt, who, perhaps with good reason, had his fears for the vagabond's life. The details of the “conversation,” as asserted, I shall not busy myself in attempting to understand. The “celebrated authoress” is a mystery. With the exception, perhaps, of Mrs. Stephens, Mrs. Welby, and Miss Gould — three ladies whose acquaintance I yet hope to have the honor of making — there is no celebrated authoress in America with whom I am not on terms of perfect amity at least, if not of cordial and personal friendship. That I “offered” Mr. English “my hand” is by no means impossible. I have been too often and too justly blamed by those who have a right to impose bounds upon my intimacies, for the weakness of “offering my hand,” without thought of consequence, to any one whom I see very generally reviled, hated, and despised. Through this mad quixotism arose my first acquaintance with Mr. English, who introduced himself to me in Philadelphia — where, for one or two years, I remained under the impression that his real name was Thomas Done Brown. I shall not think it necessary to maintain that I am no “coward.” On a point such as this a man should speak only through the acts, moral and physical, of his whole private life and his whole public career. But it is a matter of common observation that your real coward never fails to make it a primary point to accuse all his enemies of cowardice. A poltroon charges his foe, by instinct, with precisely that vice or meanness which the pricking of his (the poltroon's) conscience, assures him would furnish the most stable and therefore the most terrible ground of accusation against himself. The Mexicans, for example, seldom call their antagonists anything but cowards. It is the “stop thief!” principle, exactly, — and a very admirable principle it is. Now, the origin of the nick-name, “Thomas Done Brown,” is, in Philadelphia, quite as thoroughly understood as Mr. English could desire. With even the inconceivable amount of brass in his possession, I doubt if he could in that city, pronounce aloud that simple word, “coward,” if his most saintly soul depended upon the issue. Some have been beaten till they know What wood a cudgel's of, by the blow — Some kicked until they could tell whether A shoe were Spanish or neat's leather. These lines in “Hudibras” have reference to the case of Mr. English. His primary thrashing, of any note, was bestowed upon him, I believe, by Mr. John S. DuSolle, the editor of “The Spirit of the Times,” who could not very well get over acting with this indecorum on account of Mr. E's amiable weakness — a propensity for violating the privacy of a publisher's MSS. I have not heard that there was any resentment on the part of Mr. English. It is said, on the contrary, that he shed abundant tears, and took the whole thing, in its proper light-as a sort of favor. His second chastisement I cannot call to mind in all its particulars. His third I was reduced to giving him myself, for indecorous conduct at my house. His fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth, followed in so confused a manner and in so rapid a succession, that I have been unable to keep an account of them; they have always affected me as a difficult problem in mathematics. His eleventh was tendered him by the Hon. Sandy Harris, who (also for an insult to ladies at a private house) gave him such a glimpse of a Bowie knife as saved the trouble of a kick — having even more vigorous power of propulsion. For his twelfth lesson, in this course, I have always heard him express his gratitude to Mr. Henry B. Hirst. Mr. English could not help stealing Mr. Hirst's poetry. For this reason Mr. Hirst (who gets out of temper for trifles) threw, first, a pack of cards in Mr. English's face; then knocked that poet down; then pummeled him for not more than twenty minutes; (in Mr. E's case it cannot be well done under twenty-five, on account of callosity — the result of too frequent friction on the parts pummeled); then picked him up, set him down, and wrote him a challenge, to come off on the following morning. Of course, this challenge Mr. English accepted; — the fact is he accepts everything, from a kick to a piece of gingerbread — the smallest favors thankfully received. At the hour appointed Mr. Hirst was on the ground. In regard to Mr. English's whereabouts on the occasion I never could put my hand upon a record that was at all precise. It must be said, however, in his defence, that there is not a better shot in all America than Mr. Hirst. With a pistol, at fifty yards, I once saw him hit a chicken in full flight. Mr. English may have witnessed this identical exploit — if so, as a “bird of a feather” he was excusable in staying at home. My own opinion, nevertheless, is, that he would have been at the rendezvous without fail, if his breakfast could have been got ready for him in time. I do not think that Mr. English was ever afterwards flogged, or even challenged, in Philadelphia — but I cannot hope that he would ever “take me by the hand” again, were I to omit mention of that last and most important escapade which induced him at length to desert, in disgust, the city of his immense forefathers. There are, no doubt, one or two persons who have heard of one Henry A. Wise. At all events Mr. English had heard of him, and he