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

series of literary and pecuniary triumphs for the magazine and its proprietor, although for the editor — the real creator of this fortunate enterprise — little would seem to have been gained beyond daily bread; and misery and misfortune, although temporarily repulsed, still dogged his steps, ready to make him their prey once more. Poe’s literary labours for 1842 began with the publication of “Eleanora,” in the Gift for the current year. This tale, so replete with personal revelations, has already been adverted to in connection with the poet’s marriage. In Graham’s for January appeared, besides the last of the “Autography” articles, several reviews, heralded by a vigorous exordium upon the condition of contemporary criticism in America. After condemning anonymous reviewing, the prevalent generalising, and other vicious practices of the critics, Poe argued with Bulwer that the reviewer “must have courage to blame boldly, magnanimity to eschew envy, genius to appreciate, learning to compare, an eye for beauty, an ear for music, and a heart for feeling,” to all of which requirements Poe added, “a talent for analysis, and a solemn indifference to abuse.” In a notice of the “Vicar of Wakefield,” described as one of the most admirable fictions in the language,” some admirable remarks upon the subject of illustrating books are made, and various characteristic utterances — utterances as yet not reproduced-are given, upon Heber, Walpole, “Christopher North,” and other more or less known writers. The February number of the magazine contained an article on Brainard, one of the pioneers of American literature, and a fresh and eulogistic review of “Barnaby Rudge,” whilst the number for March included, amongst minor notices, analyses of new books by or about Lever, Longfellow, Howitt, and Brougham. In Graham’s for April appeared the tale of “Life in Death,” or “The Oval Portrait,” as it was subsequently renamed. The thesis of this story is somewhat similar to one of Hawthorne’s “TwiceTold Tales,” and although containing a few Poesque touches, such as the hero’s embarrassment as to the quantity of opium to be eaten, it does not call for extended comment. A far more important contribution to this number was a lengthy review of Longfellow’s “Ballads,” in the course of which Poe tools occasion to propound his fixed idea that BEAUTY, and Beauty only, should be the theme of Art. If Truth were the chief object, the highest aim of Art, then, as he truly declares, “Jan Steen was a greater artist than Angelo, and Crabbe is a nobler poet than Milton.” In uttering an earnest protest against those who deem the work should be subservient to its moral, he reproaches his brother poet for the confirmed didacticism of his tone; “that this mode of procedure will find stern defenders,” he says, “should never excite surprise, so long as the world is full to overflowing with cant and conventicles. There are men who will scramble on all fours through the muddiest sloughs of vice to pick up a single apple of virtue.” What may be termed the articles of his artistic creed are simply and severely summed up in these remarks, which will call forth a sympathetic echo in the hearts of all true worshippers of the Beautiful: — “Now, with as deep a reverence for ‘the true’ as ever inspired the bosom of mortal man, we would limit, in many respects, its modes of inculcation. We would limit to en force them. We would not render them impotent by dissipation. The demands of truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles. All that is indispensable in song is all with which she has nothing to do. To deck her in gay robes is to render her a harlot. It is but making her a flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. Even in stating this our present proposition, we verify our own words — we feel the necessity, in enforcing this truth, of descending from metaphor. Let us then be simple and distinct. To convey ‘the true’ we are required to dismiss from the attention all inessentials. We must be perspicuous, precise, terse. We need concentration rather than expansion of mind. We must be calm, unimpassioned, unexcited — in a word, we must be in that peculiar mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact converse of the poetical. He must be blind indeed who cannot perceive the radical and chasmal difference between the truthful and the poetical modes of inculcation. He must be grossly wedded to conventionalisms who, in spite of this difference, shall still attempt to reconcile the obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth. . . . “We would define in brief the Poetry of words as the Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. Beyond the limits of Beauty its province does not extend. Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral relations. It has no dependence, unless incidentally, upon either Duty or Truth. That our definition will necessarily exclude much of what, through a supine toleration, has been hitherto ranked as poetical, is a matter which affords us not even momentary concern. We address but the thoughtful, and heed only their approval — with our own. If our suggestions are truthful, then ‘after many days ’shall they be understood as truth, even though found in contradiction of all that has been hitherto so understood. If false, shall we not be the first to bid them die?” In summing up his observations upon the aims of true Art, Poe deems that, of the poets who have appeared most fully instinct with the principles he enunciates, Keats should be mentioned as the most remarkable; “he is,” he declares, “the sole British poet who has never erred in his themes. Beauty is always his aim.” Much as the present, or the forthcoming generation may be inclined to accept these dicta as the veritable gospel of Poesy, they are scarcely likely to have gained Poe much xxxxx from the half-educated critics, moral-mongers, and petty poetasters, amid whom he had to earn his daily bread; and their triumph was at band. With this April number of Graham’s, his editorial connection with the magazine ceased, although the following issue contained several book notices from his pen, as well as a characteristic tale, “The Masque of the Red Death” — well named “a Fantasy” by its author. A review of Hawthorne, commenced in this and completed in the next number, contains some noteworthy passages, especially if they be read in the knowledge that they were published when their subject was almost unknown, and yet was then designated by Poe as the highest and most meritorious prose writer of America. He says: — “The style of Mr. Hawthorne is purity itself. His tone is singularly effective-wild, plaintive, thoughtful, and in full accordance with his themes. We have only to object that there is insufficient diversity in these themes themselves, or rather in their character. His originality both of incident and of reflection is very remarkable; and this trait alone would ensure him at least our warmest regard and commendation. . . . We look upon him as one of the few men of indisputable genius to whom our country has as yet given birth.” And again, with complete self-abnegation and absence of all jealousy: — “Of Mr. Hawthorne’s Tales we would say, emphatically, that they belong to the highest region of Art — an Art subservient to genius of a very lofty order. We know of few compositions which the critic can more honestly commend than these ‘Twice-Told Tales.’ As Americans, we feel proud of the book.” Another paragraph, in praise of these productions, doubtless, excited a flutter of indignant expostulation from the thousand and one forgotten notorieties who beheld themselves so scornfully overlooked by the critic: — “We have very few American tales of real merit; we may say, indeed, none, with the exception of ‘The Tales of a Traveller’ of Washington Irving, and these ‘Twice-Told Tales’ of Mr. Hawthorne. Some of the pieces of Mr. John Neal abound in vigor and originality; but, in general, his compositions of this class are excessively diffuse, extravagant, and indicative of an imperfect sentiment of Art.” For months the poet’s story has been little more than a record of his literary labour, but once again his personal history — “unmerciful disaster” — intervenes, and henceforth his career is one of anguish and terror. With the April number, as above stated, Poe’s editorial management of Graham’s Magazine ceased. During the eighteen months that he had directed the destinies of the publication, its circulation had increased from five to fifty-two thousand, and its reputation bad spread even across the Atlantic, English and French literati both contributing to and drawing allusions from its pages. This being so, and the poet’s régime productive of such brilliant results, why was the connection severed? Mr. Graham, the magazine’s proprietor, says of Poe — and his words prove no quarrel terminated the editorship: — “He had the docility and kind-heartedness of a child. No man was more quickly touched by a kindness, none more prompt to atone for an injury. For three or four years I knew him intimately, and for eighteen months saw him almost daily; much of the time writing or conversing at the same desk; knowing all his hopes, his fears, and little annoyances of life, as well as his high-hearted struggle with adverse fate — yet he was always the same polished gentleman — the quiet, unobtrusive, thoughtful scholar — the devoted husband — frugal in his personal expenses — punctual and unwearied in his industry-and the soul of honour in all his transactions. This, of course, was in his better days, and by them we judge the man. But even after his habits had changed, there was no literary man to whom I would more readily advance money for labour to be done.” Probably the whole truth as to Poe’s resignation of this editorship will never be known; doubtless, it was due to a combination of causes. There was the constitutional restlessness — the “nervous restlessness — which,” as he acknowledges, “haunted me as a fiend,” and which at times overpowered him, and drove him from place to place in a vain search for the El Dorado of his hopes; there was the ever-lingering desire to found a magazine of his own, and, what must be confessed, the beginning of those “irregularities” which, during the remainder of his life, at certain more or less lengthy intervals, destroyed his hopes and placed his reputation in the power of implacable foes. The origin of this fearsome scourge-which was not the outcome of youthful excesses, as maliciously asserted — is to be traced to the most terrible episode in the unfortunate poet’s career. In a letter to an old and esteemed correspondent, dated January 4, 1848, Poe thus unbosoms himself of his secret — a secret as gruesome as any told of in the most terrible of his tales: — “You say, ‘Can you hint to me what was the ‘terrible evil’ which caused the ‘irregularities’ so profoundly lamented?’* Yes, I can do more than hint. This ‘evil’ was the greatest which can befall a man. Six years ago, a wife, whom I loved as no man ever loved before, ruptured a blood-vessel in singing. Her life was despaired of. I took leave of her forever, and underwent all the agonies of her death. She recovered partially, and I again hoped. At the end of a year, the vessel broke again. I went through precisely the same scene. . . . Then again — again — and even once again, at varying intervals. Each time I felt all the agonies of her death — and at each accession of the disorder I loved her more dearly and clung to her life with more desperate pertinacity. But I am constitutionally sensitive — nervous in a very unusual degree. I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity. During these fits of absolute unconsciousness, I drank — God only knows how often or how much. As a matter of course, my enemies referred the insanity to the drink, rather than the drink to the insanity. I had, indeed, nearly abandoned