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

Henderson, who “roomed” with the prisoner, and whose evidence amounted to nothing, appeared for the defence; Poe himself, indeed, declined to plead, and evidently had, deliberately, determined to leave the service. Upon the 7th of January the Court-Martial met to try various offenders; and upon the very next day, and every day up to the date of the adjourned sitting, he purposely absented himself from all duties’ The fact most certainly was that, apart from his dislike to the military profession, he saw that his prospects of a wealthy inheritance were shattered, and he determined at once to seek a livelihood in a profession more in accordance with his natural tastes. * Duyckinck’s Cyclopedia of American Literature, vol. ii., Article “Poe, E. A.” * Harper’s New Monthly Magazine, November 1867, pp. 754-756. * Arnold was Governor of West point at the time when his treachery to the Americans was discovered through the apprehension of Major Andrè. — J. H. I. * Didier, Life of E. A. Poe, p. 44. John H. Ingram, “Chapter 09,” Edgar Allan Poe: Life, Letters, and Opinions (1880), pp. 92-135 CHAPTER IX. LITERATURE. FOR some time after leaving West Point, Poe appears to have lived in New York. A few months after be left the Military Academy, it was announced that a volume of his poems would be published by subscription at the price of two and a half dollars per copy. “Permission was granted,” says Mr. Gibson, “by Colonel Thayer to the corps to subscribe for the book, and as no cadet was ever known to neglect any opportunity of spending his pay, the subscription was pretty nearly universal. The book was received with a general expression of disgust; . . . . it contained not one of the squibs and satires upon which his reputation at the Academy had been built up. Few of the poems contained in that collection now appear in any of the editions of his works, and such as have been preserved have been very much altered for the better. For months afterwards quotations from Poe formed the standing material for jests in the corps, and his reputation for genius went down at once to zero.” As Mr. Gibson seems to have had to leave West Point at tho same time as Poe, his reminiscences of the effect produced by the little volume are, doubtless, derived from hearsay; but, unlike his inaccurate account of the book itself, they are confirmed by other evidence. General George W. Cullum states,* “As Poe was of the succeeding class to mine at West Point, I remember him very well as a cadet. . . . While at the Academy he published a small volume of poems. . . . These verses were the source of great merriment with us boys, who considered the author cracked, and the verses ridiculous doggerel.” This 1831 collection does not contain any poem not included in the existing editions, but includes many variations from, and lines extra to, the pieces as now published; the title-page reads thus: — POEMS. BY EDGAR A. POE. “Tout le monde a raison.” — ROCHEFOUCAULD. Second Edition. New York: Elam Bliss. 1831 The little book contained 124 pages, and was dedicated to the United States Corps of Cadets. Prefixed to the poems was a lengthy letter to a “Mr. B ——,” apparently a mythical personage, dated “West Point, 1831.” The poet begins — “DEAR B——, — Believing only a portion of my former volume to be worthy a second edition-that small portion I thought it as well to include in the present book as to republish by itself. Nor have I hesitated to insert from the ‘Minor Poems,’ now omitted, whole lines, and even passages, to the end that being placed in a fairer light, and the trash shaken from them in which they were embedded, they may have some chance of being seen by posterity. “It has been said, that a good critique on a poem may be written by one who is no poet himself. This, according to your idea and mine of poetry, I feel to be false-the less poetical the critic, the less just the critique, and the converse. On that account, and because there are but few B——s in the world, I would be as much ashamed of the world’s good opinion as proud of your own. Another than yourself might here observe, ‘Shakespeare is in possession of the world’s good opinion, and yet Shakespeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then that the world judge correctly; why should you be ashamed of their favourable judgment?’ The difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word ‘judgment’ or ‘opinion.’ The opinion is the world’s, truly, but it may be called theirs as a man would call a book his; they did not originate the opinion, but it is theirs. A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet — yet the fool has never read Shakespeare. But the fool’s neighbour, who is a step higher on the Andes of the mind, whose head [that is to say, his more exalted thought] is too far above the fool to be seen or understood, but whose feet [by which I mean his every day actions] are sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means of which that superiority is ascertained, which that for them would never have been discovered — this neighbour asserts that Shakespeare is a great poet — the fool believes him, and that is henceforward his opinion. This neighbour’s own opinion has, in like manner, been adopted from one above him, and so, ascendingy, to a few gifted individuals, who kneel around the summit, beholding face to face the master spirit who stands upon the pinnacle. . . . “You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer. He is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established wit of the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with law or empire — an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors, improve by travel-their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fops glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where the mystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so many letters of recommendation. “I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think the notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings is another. I remarked before that in proportion to the poetical talent would be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore a bad poet would, I grant, make a false critique, and his self-love would infallibly bias his little judgment in his favour; but a poet, who is indeed a poet, could not, I think, fail of making a just critique; whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love might be replaced on account of his intimate acquaintance with the subject; in short, we have more instances of false criticism than of just where one’s own writings are the test, simply because we have more bad poets than good. There are, of course, many objections to what I say: Milton is a great example of the contrary; but his opinion with respect to the ‘Paradise Regained’ is by no means fairly ascertained. By what trivial circumstances men are often led to assert what they do not really believe! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended to posterity. But, in fact, the ‘Paradise Regained’ is little, if at all, inferior to the ‘Paradise Lost,’ and is only supposed so to be because men do not like epics, whatever they may say to the contrary; and reading those of Milton in their natural order, are too much wearied with the first to derive any pleasure from the second “I dare say Milton preferred Comus either — if so — to justly. “As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly upon the most singular heresy in its modern history — the heresy of what is called, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might have been induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of supererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge and Southey, but being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so prosaically exemplified. “Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most philosophical of all writings* — but it required a Wordsworth to pronounce it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetry is, or should be, instruction — yet it is a truism that the end of our existence is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part of our existence — everything connected with our existence — should be still happiness. Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness; and happiness is another name for pleasure therefore the end of instruction should be pleasure; yet we see the above-mentioned opinion implies precisely the reverse. “To proceed: cœteris paribus, be who pleases is of more importance to his fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely the means of obtaining. “I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume themselves so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they refer to instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere respect for their piety would not allow me to express my contempt for their judgment; contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, since their writings are professedly to be understood by the few, and it is the many who stand in need of salvation. In such case I should no doubt be tempted to think of the devil in Melmoth, who labours indefatigably, through three octavo volumes, to accomplish the destruction of one or two souls, while any common devil would have demolished one or two thousand. “Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study — not a passion — it becomes the metaphysician to reason — but the poet to protest. Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued in contemplation from his child hood, the other a giant in intellect and learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute their authority would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom of my heart, that learning has little to do with the imagination — intellect with the passions — or age with poetry. “ ‘Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow, He who would search for pearls must dive below,’ are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths, men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top;, the truth lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought — not in the palpable palaces where she is found. The ancients were not always right in hiding the goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon has thrown upon philosophy; witness the principles of our divine faith — that moral mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdom of a man. “We see an instance of Coleridge’s liability to err, in his ‘Biographia Literaria’ — professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact, a treatise de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis. He goes wrong by reason of his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in the contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely sees, it is true, the star, but it is the star without a ray — while he who surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star is useful to us below — its brilliancy and its beauty. “As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth the feelings of a poet I believe — for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy in his writings — (and delicacy is the poet’s own kingdom — his El Dorado) — but they have the appearance of a better day recollected; and glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present poetic fire — we know that a few straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of the glacier. “He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the end of poetising in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the light which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequently is