Memoir of the Author — Rufus Wilmot Griswold’s 1850 account of Poe — reading text

thing lo be lamented. Indeed there would be no answering for the consequences. We might even have a second series of the ‘Confessions.’ “— Southern Literary Messenger, i. 459. This review was attacked, particularly in the Richmond “Compiler,” and Mr. Poe felt himself called upon to vindicate it to the proprietor of the magazine, to whom he wrote: “There is no necessity of giving the ‘Compiler’ a reply. The book is silly enough of itself, without the aid of any controversy concerning it. I have read it, from beginning to end, and was very much amused at it. My opinion of it is pretty nearly the opinion of the press at large. I have heard no person offer one serious word in its defence.” — Letter to T. W. White. Afterwards Mr. Poe became personally acquainted with the author and be then wrote, in his account of “The Literati of New-York City,” as follows: “The Confessions of it Poet made much noise in the literary world, and no little curiosity was excited in regard to its author, who was generally supposed to be John Neal. .... The “Confessions,” however, far surpassed any production of Mr. Neal’s. .... He has done nothing which, us a whole, is even respectable, and “The Confessions” are quite remarkable for their artistic unity and perfection. But on higher regards they are to be commended. I do not think, indeed, that a better book of its kind has been written in America. Its scenes of passion are intensely wrought, its incidents are striking and original, its sentiments audacious and suggestive at least, if not at all times tenable. 1n a word, it is that rare thing, a fiction of power without rudeness.” I will adduce another example of the same kind. In a notice of the “Democratic Review,” for September, 1846, Mr. Poe remarks of Mr. William A. Jones’s paper on American Humor: “There is only one really bad article in the number, and that is insufferable: nor do we think it the less a nuisance because it inflicts upon ourselves individually a passage of maudlin compliment about our being a most ‘ingenious critic’ and ‘prose poet,’ with some other things of a similar kind. We thank for his good word no man who gives palpable evidence, in other cases than our own, of his incapacity to distinguish the false from the true — the right from the wrong, if we are an ingenious critic, or a prose poet, it is not because Mr. William Jones says so. The truth is that this essay on’ American Humor’ is contemptible both in a moral and literary sense — is the composition of an imitator and a quack — and disgraces the magazine in which it makes its appearance.” — Broadway Journal, Vol. ii. No. 11. In the following week he reconsidered this matter, opening his paper for a defence of Mr. Jones; but at the close of it said — “if we have done Mr. Jones injustice, we beg his pardon: but we do not think we have.” Yet in a subsequent article in “Graham’s Magazine,” on “Critics aud Criticism,” he says of Mr. Jones — referring only to writings of his that had been for years before the public when he printed the above paragraphs: “Our most analytic, if not altogether our best critic, (Mr. Whipple, perhaps, excepted.) is Mr. William A. Jones, author of ‘The Analyst.’ How he would write elaborate criticisms I cannot say; but his summary judgments of authors are, in general, discriminative and profound. In fact, his papers on Emerson and on Macauley, published in ‘Arcturus,’ are better than merely ‘profound,’ if we take the word in its now desecrated sense; for they are at once pointed, lucid, and just: — as summaries, leaving nothing to be desired.” I will not continue the display of these inconsistencies. As I have already intimated, a volume might be filled with passages to show that his criticisms were guided by no sense of duty, and that his opinions were so variable and so liable to be influenced by unworthy considerations as to be really of no value whatever. It was among his remarkable habits that he preserved with scrupulous care everything that was published respecting himself or his works, and everything that was written to him in letters that could be used in any way for the establishment or extension of his reputation. In Philadelphia, in 1843, he prepared with his own hands a sketch of his life for a paper called “The Museum.” Many parts of it are untrue, but I refer to it for the purpose of quoting a characteristic instance of perversion in the reproduction of compliments: “Of ‘William Wilson,’ Mr. Washington Irving says: ‘It is managed in a highly picturesque style, and its singular and mysterious interest is ably sustained throughout. In point of mere style, it is, perhaps, even superior to’ The House of Usher.’ It is simpler. In the latter composition, he seems to have been distrustful of his effects, or, rather, too solicitous of bringing them forth fully to the eye, and thus, perhaps, has laid on too. much coloring. He has erred, however, on the safe side, that of exuberance, and the evil might easily be remedied, by relieving the style of some of its epithets:’ [since done.] ‘There would be no fear of injuring the graphic effect, which is powerful.’ The italics are Mr. Irving’s own.” Now Mr. Irving had said in a private letter that he thought the “House of Usher” was clever, and that “a volume of similar stories would be well received by the public.” Poe sent him a magazine containing “William Wilson,” asking his opinion of it, and Mr. Irving, expressly declining to publish a word upon the subject, remarked in the same manner, that “the singular and mysterious interest is well sustained,” and that in point of style the tale was “much better” than the “House of Usher,” which, he says, “might be improved by relieving the style from some of the epithets: there is no danger of destroying the graphic effect, which is powerful.” There is not a word in italics in Mr. Irving’s letter, the meaning of which ia quite changed by Mr. Poe’s alterations. And this letter was not only published in the face of an implied prohibition, but made to seem like a deliberately expressed judgment in a public reviewal. In the same way Mr. Poe published the following sentence as an extract from a letter by Miss Barrett: “Our great poet, Mr. Browning, author of Paracelsus, etc. is enthusiastic in his admiration of the rhythm.” But on turning to Miss Barrett’s letter I find that she wrote: “Our great poet, Mr. Browning, the author of’ Paracelsus,’ and ‘Bells and Pomegranates,’ was struck much by the rhythm of that poem.” The piece alluded to is “The Raven.” It is not true, as has been frequently alleged since Mr. Poe’s death, that his writings were above the popular taste, and therefore without a suitable market in this conntry. His poems were worth as much to magazines as those of Bryant or Longfellow, (though none of the publishers paid him half as large a price for them,) and his tales were as popular as those of Willis, who has been commonly regarded as the best magazinist of his time. He ceased to write for “The Lady’s Book” in consequence of a quarrel induced by Mr. Godey’s justifiable refusal to print in that miscellany his “Reply to Dr. English,’’ and though in the poor fustian published under the signature of “ George R. Graham,” in answer to some remarks upon Poe’s character in “The Tribune,” that individual is made to assume a passionate friendship for the deceased author that would have become a Pythias, it is known that the personal ill-will on both sides was such that for some four or five years not a line by Poe was purchased for “Graham’s Magazine.” To quote again the “Defence of Mr. Poe” in the “Southern Literary Messenger:” “His changeable humors, his irregularities, his caprices, his total disregard of everything and body, save the fancy in his head, prevented him from doing well in the world. The evils and sufferings that poverty brought upon him, soured his nature, and deprived him of faith in human beings. This was evident to the eye — he believed in nobody, and cared for nobody. Such a mental condition of course drove sway all those who would otherwise have stood by him in his hours of trial. He became, and was, an Ishmaelite.’’ After having, in no ungenerous spirit, presented the chief facts in Mr. Poe’a history, not designedly exaggerating his genius, which none held in higher admiration, not bringing into bolder relief than was just and necessary his infirmities, I am glad to offer a portraiture of some of liis social qualities, equally beautiful, and — so changeable and inconsistent was the man — as for as it goes, truthful . Speaking of him one day soon after his death, with the late Mrs. Osgood, the beauty of whose character had made upon Poe’s mind that impression which it never failed to produce upon minds capable of the apprehension of the finest traits in human nature, she said she did not doubt that my view of Mr Poe, which she knew indeed to be the common view, was perfectly just, as it regarded him in his relations with men; but to women he was different, and she would write for me some recollections of him to be placed beside my harsher judgments in any notice of his life that the acceptance of the appointment to be his literary executor might render it necessary for me to give to the world. She was an invalid — dying of that consumption by which in a few weeks she was removed to heaven, and calling for pillows to support her while she wrote, she drew this sketch: “You ask me, my friend, to write for you my reminiscences of Edgar Poe. For you, who knew and understood my affectionate interest in him. and my frank acknowledgment of that interest to all who had a claim upon my confidence. for you, I will willingly do so. I think no one could know him — no one has known him personally — certainly no woman — without feeling the same interest. I can sincerely say, that although I have frequently heard of aberrations on his part from ‘the straight and narrow path,’ I have never seen him otherwise than gentle, generous, well-bred, and fastidiously refined. To a sensitive and delicately-nurtured woman, there was a peculiar and irresistible charm in the chivalric, graceful, and almost tender reverence with which he invariably approached all women who won his respect. It was this which first commanded and always retained my regard for him. “I have been told that when his sorrows and pecuniary embarrassments had driven him to the use of stimulants, which a less delicate organization might have borne without injury, he was in the habit of speaking disrespectfully of the ladies of his acquaintance. It is difficult for me to believe this; for to me, to whom he came during the year of our acquaintance for counsel and kindness in all his many anxieties and griefs, he never spoke irreverently of any woman save one, and then only in my defence, and though I rebuked him for his momentary forgetfulness of the respect due to himself and to me, I could not but forgive the offence for the sake of the generous impulse which prompted it, Yet even were these sad rumors true of him, the wise and well informed knew how to regard, us they would the impetuous anger of a spoiled infant, bulked of its capricious will, the equally harmless and unmeaning phrenzy of that stray child of Poetry and Passion. For the few unwomanly and slander-loving gossips who have injured him and themselves only by repeating his ravings, when in such moods they have accepted his society, I have only to vouchsafe my wonder and my pity. They cannot surely harm the true and pure, who, reverencing his genius and pitying his misfortunes and his errors, endeavored, by their timely kindness and sympathy, to soothe his sad career. “It was in his own simple yet poetical home that, to me the character of Edgar Poe appeared in its most beautiful light. Playful, affectionate, witty, alternately docile and wayward as a petted child — for his young, gentle and idolized wife, and for all who came, he had even in the