Evert Augustus Duyckinck, “An Author in Europe and America,” Home Journal (New York, NY), series for 1847, no. 2, January 9, 1847, p. 2, col. 5

[page 2, col. 5:]

WHILE Mr. Poe, an author of understood merits, quite unique and apart from the rest of the literary race in his literary productions, which are all his own, paid for by himself in actual experience of heart and brain, is pestered and annoyed at home by penny-a-liners whom his iron pen has cut into too deeply, and denied all ability and morality whatever — it is curious to contrast this with his position abroad, where distance suffers only the prominent features of his genius to be visible, and see what is made of his good qualities in Europe.

Why the American press should be so intolerant of the original authors of the country, and battle with them at every step, while the most liberal good words are freely accorded to mediocrity, and imitative talents, is one of those little problems of human nature, well enough for Rochefoucauld to pry into, but which we have too much of the wisdom of the serpent and the good feeling of the dove to meddle with. The fact is, that our most neglected and best abused authors, are generally our best authors.

The reception of Mr. Poe's tales in England is well known. The mystification of M. Valdemar was taken up by a mesmeric journal as a literal verity, and enquiries were sent on here, to be supplied (in case the historian of the event were not accessible) by personal solicitation of the poor victim's neighbours at Harlem, where the scene was laid. A London publisher has got it out, in pamphlet, under the title of “Mesmerism in Articulo Mortis,” and a Scotchman in Stonehaven has recently paid a postage by steamer, in a letter to the author, to test the matter-of-factness of the affair. We can conceive of nothing more impressive in the way of curiosity. Miss Barrett, by the way, paid the author a handsome compliment on this story. After admiring the popular credulity, she says “The certain thing in the tale in question, is the power of the writer, and the faculty he has of making horrible improbabilities seem near and familiar.”

The tale of the “Murders in the [[Rue]] Morgue,” is giving rise to various editorial perplexities, in Paris. It has been translated by the feuilletons, local personal allusions discovered and the American authorship denied. One of the journals says “if there turn out to be such an American author, it will prove that America has at least one novelist besides Mr. Cooper” — and this, in France, is praise. The Revue des deux Mondes, in the meantime, has an elaborate review of the Tales. The North American Review of the same date calls them trash.

Besides a peculiar vein of invention, Mr. Poe has a style, a clearness, cleanness and neatness of expression, which, together, will always make their way. They are unmistakeable classic elements. By them Mr. Poe will live. A writer so ready in new resources as Mr. Poe, should command his own terms and full employment from the trade. It is a duty they owe the world, to astonish it now and then by some clever performance, and a duty they owe to their own families to put money in their pockets. An occasional book from Mr. Poe would unite these desirable conditions.