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

this the transition-thought (as Mr. Lyell, or Mr. Murchison, or Mr. Featherstonhaugh would have it) was natural enough — there might be something even in my scribblings which, for the mere sake of scribbling, would have interest for others. “The main difficulty respected the mode of transferring the notes from the volumes — the context from the text — without detriment to that exceedingly frail fabric of intelligibility in which the context was imbedded. With all appliances to boot, with the printed pages at their back, the commentaries were too often like Dodona’s oracles — or those of Lycophron Tenebrosus — or the essays of the pedant’s pupils in Quintillian, which were ‘necessarily excellent, since even he (the pedant) found it impossible to comprehend them:’ what, then, would become of it — this context — if transferred — if translated? Would it not rather be traduit (traduced) which is the French synonyme, or overzezet (turned topsy-turvy) which is the Dutch one? “I concluded at length to put extensive faith in the acumen and imagination of the reader-this as a general rule. But, in some instances, where even faith would not remove mountains, there seemed no safer plan than so to remodel the note as to convey at least the ghost of a conception as to what it was all about. Where, for such conception, the text itself was absolutely necessary, I could quote it; where the title of the book commented upon was indispensable., I could name it. In short, like a novel-hero dilemma‘d, I made up my mind ‘to be guided by circumstances,’ in default of more satisfactory rules of conduct. “As for the multitudinous opinion expressed in the subjoined farrago — as for my present assent to all, or dissent from any portion of it — as to the possibility of my having in some instances altered my mind — or as to the impossibility of my not having altered it often — these are points upon which I say nothing, because upon these there can be nothing cleverly said. It may be as well to observe, however, that just as the goodness of your true pun is in the direct ratio of its intolerability, so is nonsense the essential sense of the Marginal Note.” Following this introduction are various specimens of Poe’s ideas, grave and gay, on all kinds of topics. The puns and jests are no better than such light ware is generally, but his opinions on certain books and their authors, and on some of the arts and sciences, deserve preservation. Music is a frequent theme with him, for of music he was a passionate devotee, and a capable student. Speaking in commendatory terms of the late H. F. Chorley, he says, “But the philosophy of music is beyond his depth, and of its physics he, unquestionably, has no conception. By the way,” he adds, “of all the so-called scientific musicians, bow many may we suppose cognisant of the acoustic facts and mathematical deductions? To be sure, my acquaintance with eminent composers is quite limited; but I have never met one who did not stare and say ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ ‘hum!’ ‘ha!’ ‘eh?’ when I mentioned the mechanism of the Siréne, or made allusion to the oval vibrations at right angles.” A lengthy note is devoted to a presumed omission in all the Bridgewater treatises, in their failure to notice “the great idiosyncrasy in the Divine system of adaptation — that idiosyncrasy which stamps the adaptation as Divine, in distinction from that which is the work of merely human constructiveness. I speak,” he asserts, “of the complete mutuality of adaptation,” and then proceeds to furnish examples, needless to cite here, concluding in drawing a contrast between human and divine inventions, “the plots of God are perfect. The Universe is a plot of God.” Referring to his favourite author, Dickens, he remarks that his “serious (minor) compositions have been lost in the blaze of his comic reputation. One of the most forcible things ever written,” he opines, “is a short story of his, called ‘The Black Veil;’ a strangely-pathetic and richly-imaginative production, replete with the loftiest tragic power.” That Dickens’s head must puzzle the phrenologists then occurs to him, for in it, he observes, “the organs of ideality are small; and the conclusion of the ‘Curiosity Shop’ is more truly ideal (in both phrenological senses) than any composition of equal length in the English language.” Some ideas are then hazarded as to the treatment to be awarded dunces; “where the gentler sex is concerned,” says the chivalrous poet, “there seems but one course far the critic-speak if you can commend; be silent, if not.” Frequently his opinions run counter to those of the immense majority of his republican brethren, as in the note, “The sense of high birth is a moral force whose value the democrats are never in condition to calculate: ‘Pour savoir ce qu‘est Dieu,’ says the Baron de Bielfeld, ‘il faut être Dieu même.’ ” His views and reviews of things in general, as set forth in these original and entertaining Marginalia, supply ample literary food for interest and imagination, but scarcely need lengthy notice in their author’s biography, albeit they open many unsuspected sidelights upon the darker recesses of his mental story. When, for instance, he declares “I am far more than half-serious in all that I have ever said about manuscript, as affording indication of character,” we feel that he is really confiding in us, as also in the sequence; “I by no means shrink from acknowledging that I act, hourly, upon estimates of character derived from chirography.” “How many good books suffer neglect through the inefficiency of their beginnings,” is a thought, indeed, likely to have been in the mind of him who invariably acts up to his advice here given; of “at all risks, let there be a few vivid sentences, imprimis, by way of the electric bell to the telegraph: A large portion of his misfortunes — the rôle of critic he was compelled to play being really compulsory — are suggested by the assertion that “a man of genius if not permitted to choose his own subject, will do worse, in letters, than if he had talents none at all And here how imperatively is he controlled!” “To be sure!” exclaimed Poe, “he can write to suit himself, but in the same manner his publishers print.” Whilst the accusation in the following paragraph is too surely pointed to be taken for any one else than self-reference — “It is the curse of a certain order of mind, that it can never rest satisfied with the consciousness of its ability to do a thing. Still less is it content with doing it. It must both know and show how it was done.” With 1845 was inaugurated the most brilliant epoch of Poe’s literary career, although the continually increasing weakness of his wife flung a cloud of gloom over its brightness. In The Gift for the new year appeared “The Purloined Letter,” the last of the famous detective trilogy, of which the “Rue Morgue” and “Marie Roget” mysteries form parts. The three tales should always be read in conjunction with one another, because, although published separately, and each complete in itself, the one is but a sequence of the analytic reasoning of the other, and all are but varied examples of the futility of over acuteness, or rather cunning, when opposed by extraordinary combinations, or by the calculations of genius. On January 4th was published the first number of a new periodical, entitled The Broadway Journal. It was not until No. 10 that I had anything to do with this journal as editor,” is Poe’s endorsement upon our copy, but from its commencement he wrote for it. To the first, and the following number, he contributed a review of Mrs. Browning’s “Drama of Exile and other Poems,” and, whilst not forgetful of his critical severities, he found enough in the work to call forth his most enthusiastic admiration and poetic sympathy. That she had, even then, done more in poetry than any woman, living or dead, was a decision Poe could not fail to arrive at; neither was he singular nor original in deeming that she had “surpassed all her poetical contemporaries of either sex, with a single exception,” that exception being Tennyson. What Mrs. Browning thought of her transatlantic reviewer’s strictures on her presumed want of due knowledge of the mechanism of verse may be gathered from this extract out of a letter to Mr. Horne: — “Mr. Poe seems to me in a great mist on the subject of metre. You yourself have skipped all the philosophy of the subject in your excellent treatise on ‘Chaucer Modernised,’ and you shut your ears when I tried to dun you about it one day. But Chaucer wrote on precisely the same principles (eternal principles) as the Greek poets did, I believe, unalterably; and you, who are a musician, ought to have sung it out loud in the ears of the public. There is no ‘pedantic verbiage’ in Longinus. Put Mr. Poe, who attributes the ‘Œdipus Colonœus’ to Æschylus (vide review on me), sits somewhat loosely, probably, on his classics.” Poe, certainly, was not a profound Greek scholar; but he had been to classical schools, and was a well-read man, and could not, therefore, have ascribed the Sophoclesian drama to Æschylus, save in a fit of oblivious haste, such as, indeed, the somewhat involved nature of the passage in question suggests must have been the case in this instance. A critique on N. P. Willis constituted Poe’s sole contribution to the third number of the Broadway Journal, and it contained nothing very original or striking, but was chiefly occupied by an elaborate discussion as to the boundaries between Fancy and Imagination, travelling over much the same ground that had been traversed five years previously, in a review of koore’s poetry. On the 29th of January the first published version of Poe’s poetic chef d’œuvre, the far-famed “Raven,” appeared in the Evening Mirror, with these introductory words by Willis: — “We are permitted to copy, (in advance of publication,) from the second No. of the American Review, the following remarkable poem by Edgar Poe. In our opinion, it is the most effective single example of ‘fugitive poetry’ ever published in this country; and unsurpassed in English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification, and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift. . . . It is one of those ‘dainties bred in a book,’ which we feed on. It will stick to the memory of everybody who reads it.” This publication with the author’s name, and the immediate reproduction of the poem in the journals of nearly every town in the United States, prevented any attempt at concealment, had Poe really thought to make one. Certain it is that “The Raven” appeared in the American Review for February, as by “Quarles,” preceded by the following note, the inspiration, evidently, of the poet himself: — “The following lines from a correspondent, besides the deep quaint strain of the sentiment, and the curious introduction of some ludicrous touches amidst the serious and impressive, as was doubtless intended by the author — appear to us one of the most felicitous specimens of unique rhyming which has for some time met our eye. The resources of English rhythm for varieties of melody, measure, and sound, producing corresponding diversities of effect, have been thoroughly studied; much more perceived, by very few poets in the language. While the classic tongues, especially the Greek, possess, by power of accent, several advantages for versification over our own, chiefly through greater abundance of spondaic feet, we have other, and very great advantages of sound, by the modern usage of rhyme. Alliteration is nearly the only effect of that kind which the ancients had in common with us. It will be seen that much of the melody of “The Raven” arises from alliteration, and the studious use of similar sounds in unusual places. In regard to its measure, it may be noted, that if all the verses were like the second, they might properly be placed merely in short lines, producing a not uncommon form; but the presence