Text: Anonymous, “Toujours Corbeau,” New York Tribune (New York, NY), vol. XXXV, whole no. 10,629, April 26, 1875, p. 6, col. 5

[page 6, column 5, continued:]

TOUJOURS CORBEAU.

“Always raven” must be worse than “always partridge,” because your raven, we take “ it, is not so toothsome nor so digestible a bird. It is related of Mr. Thomas Campbell that it annoyed him exceedingly to be always spoken of as “The Author of the Pleasures of Hope,” a juvenile poem which did not altogether commend itself to his older taste; and his biographer thinks that the poet might have smiled a little sadly to have seen still written upon his monument — “Author of the Pleasures of Hope,” since he also wrote “Lochiel” and “Ye Marnner of England.” He is to have a new monument in Glasgow ; and we are ready to wager a penny that “Author of the Pleasures,” &c. will be cut upon that also. Poor Mr. Poe has a like monotonous doom. We are by no means sure that “The Raven” is his best work; we that his prose tales exhibit a subtler suspect his criticism is the most incisive genius; which our literature has yet produced, and, the whole, the wholesomest. Still, when upon Mr. Poe, after long and not creditable delay, is to have a monument, the builders propose to inscribe on it: “Edgar A. Poe, born Jan. 19, “1811; died Oct. 7, 1849; author of ‘The Raven.’ My tantalized spirit here blandly reposes.”

Isn’t this bad enough to make the Rev. Rufus Griswold evacuate his grave and dance for joy? while Poe also gets up, wrestles with Griswold, and writes his epitaph for himself? Isn’t it enough, without the sculptured raven which is to adorn the structure — and which is attempt to materialize the most ideal characteristic of Poe's verses?

The lyric which is to be thus pertinaciously obtruded has merits which we are by no means disposed to underrate. In the first place, it is marvel of versification, and to this it owes a much of its popularity, for it catches the general ear like a lucky melody which everybody either sings or whistles. The lines, moreover, have meaning enough to carry them, and they are like many of Goethe's minor poems, profusely suggestive. They belong to a class of which “The Bride of Corinth” or “The Fishes” is the highest, and the nursery riddle the lowest form. Each reader makes his own interpretation, and, whatever it may be, he is not far wrong. “The Raven” is popular, but not as Burns's best songs are. It piques the imagination, mystifies the intellect, and charms the ear; but the hearts which it touches and warms are few.

Finally, the inscription is not only an injustice to Mr. Poe, but an impertinence to the reader, who may be supposed to know who wrote “The Raven.” If he does not know, of what interest is the tomb to him? If he knows nothing of Poe, the stone tells him nothing; if he knows all about him, the information is no information at all. Of line “My tantalized spirit here blandly reposes” we need say nothing, except that it is a falsehood. Blandly reposing or still “tantalized,” the spirit is not there.