Text: S. A. G., “Edgar Allan Poe,” Marietta Collegiate Magazine (Marietta College, Marietta, OH), vol. 3, no. 1, June 1856, pp. 17-21

[page 17:]

EDGAR ALLAN POE *

————

The lives of men of genius are often melancholy objects of contemplation. But while we regret that misfortune should be so often the companion of the poet and the scholar: while we know that such spirits are often too sensitive to bear patiently the ills of life, and too careless to succeed in the strfe [[strife]] for wealth or precedence; we know also, that poverty and sorrow are incentives to action and may serve to strengthen and purify the character. We lament that suffering should overshadow the career of those to whom the world owes so much; but we admire the virtues which it develops, and the dauntless energy which it sometimes inspires. How noble the fortitude of Milton, who could calmly endure poverty, neglect and blindness, in the full confidence that posterity would well appreciate the sublimity of the strains which he sung. How untiring the perseverance of Scott in his efforts to “win back his lost estate. But there are lives Whose history is indeed written in tears, but blotted also with crime, over which we can but mourn as a sad record of wasted endowments, and misdirected powers. Such was the course of the gifted, but unfortunate subject of this sketch; a course without a parallel in the literary history of this country.

Edgar Allan Poe was born in Baltimore in the year 1811. The offspring of a romantic marriage, he was left an orphan at an early age, but was adopted by Mr. John Allan, a wealthy merchant, who was childless. By him he was educated and regarded as a son. He passed several years in an English school near London, and entered the University of Charlottesville, Va., in the year 1 822, a few months after his return to the United States, He was at this period distinguished as a scholar and debater, and remarkable also for his conversational powers and his skill in declamation. But a career of reckless dissipation resulted in his expulsion from the University, and as his patron refused to pay his so-called debts of honor, he formed the wild resolution of going to Europe, to fight in the Greek Revolution. He seems however, to have wandered about the continent for a year, after which he came home and entered the Military Academy at [page 18:] West Point. For a short time he seems to have controlled himself, and to have gained the confidence of his preceptors; but he soon relapsed into his former habits, and was cashiered. Then followed his expulsion from Mr. Allan's family, in disgrace which was probably but too well merited.

About this time he published in Baltimore a small volume containing “Al Araaf,” Tamerlane,” and some shorter poems. These, though not very remarkable, contain some fine passages, and certainly give evidence of his powers, since they were written at an early age. We next hear of him as a common soldier, but his restless spirit soon led him to desert; and making his way to Baltimore, he henceforth made literature his profession. Shortly afterward, while in Richmond, he married his cousin, Miss Virginia Clemm, a gentle and beautiful woman, whose love seems to have been his greatest blessing, and almost his only source of happiness. It is perhaps hardly necessary to allude to his subsequent history, and his unhappy end.

His works, forming four duodecimo volumes, are made up of poems, tales and critical papers, which were, for the most part, published during his lifetime in various periodicals; but are now for the first time collected together. While these volumes contain much that is worthless, they contain also much that is original and valuable, and seem to occcupy [[occupy]] a place by themselves in American literature. Whatever may have been the author's opinion of his powers, or whatever may have been claimed for him by others, it seems to be certain that his genius was peculiar and not various. With a vivid imagination, and a remarkable skill in delineating the mysterious and the horrible, he combines the greatest ingenuity, and the utmost logical precision and coherence. He was singularly successful in depicting the play of the passions, and in making us familiar with the darker truths and facts of human experience. His style is graphic and terse, and has also an unusual degree of acuteness and vigor. It is sometimes invested with a stately gloom, or with a strange beauty which throws a spell over the reader that cannot be readily shaken off. In his versification he is ingenious and quaint; and sometimes it is singularly musical and sweet. But we think it evident that his genius was in its nature constructive, rather than creative. His own account of his method of composition, and the curious illustration which he gives in speaking of the “The Raven,” would seem to show this; and we know that he was indebted to others for the machinery of some of [page 19:] his most striking tales. Of the volumes before us only a small portion is poetry, and of this there is some which has no great value. But a very considerable part is fine, and there are some which, though brief, are touchingly beautiful. Beside others better known, we may mention “The Haunted Palace,” “Annabel Lee,” and the lines “To Helen;” any one of which we should gladly quote if time permitted. The first is intended to typify the ruin of a mind possessed by phantoms, and the second is a tender elegy upon the death of his lovely wife; and both are among the best of his metrical compositions. His muse is no mountain nymph rejoicing in grove and fountain, and singing for very gladness; she rather comes to us as a Sybil, for there is magic in her presence, and a charm in the strain she chants. And so will it haunt the memory when many a gay carol shall be forgotten.

There is, perhaps, almost as much talent evinced in some of our author's tales, as in anything else from his pen. Especially do they display his power of skillful analysis, and his faculty of imparting to whatever he wrote an air of truth by the care with which all his details are managed. Let us take for example, the “Descent into the Maelstrom,” or “Mesmeric Revelations. Events more improbable could hardly be imagined, and yet, in reading the first we hardly once think of doubting the verity of the narrative; and the second with its sequel, was supposed to be a faithful account of an astonishing incident, and as such was translated into several languages. “The Fall of the House of Usher” and “Ligeia,” are perhaps the best illustrations of his skill in dealing with romantic mystery; and the style in which they are clothed, cannot but affect the most unimaginative reader, by its vigor and beauty. “William Wilson,” in which he has illustrated the workings of conscience, with the hand of a master, deserves also a place among his most perfect productions. “The Pit and the Pendulum,” though not strictly original, can scarcely be read without a thrill of horror. It is a story of the dungeons of the Inquisition, from which the narrator is supposed to have escaped. This shadowy realm of the imagination then, was Poe's chosen sphere, and here he had few superiors. He probably drew much upon his own experience, for his works bear the unmistakable impress of his character throughout; and his own life was one long romance. With little peace or rest, and with much of the tumult of passion; he had only to look into his own heart and write. And no doubt the gloom which pervades his writings, is to be attributed to [page 20:] the cloud which hung over liis life, and which never melted away. His ingenuity is strikingly exhibited in the sketches entitled, “The Gold Bug,” “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” and the “Mystery of Marie Roget;” indeed so skillfully are these managed, that Dupin and Legrand become to us real personages, and we wonder at their acuteness. There also is some wit contained in these volumes, though it is certain that the writer was mistaken in supposing that he was largely endowed with this faculty. In’‘Eureka,” a metaphysical essay upon the Cosmogony of the Universe, he propounded a new theory of the harmony of nature, which, though it is regarded as evincing ability, has not hitherto attracted much attention.

As a critic, Poe did not excel. He wrote keenly and is often correct, but he was too much influenced by his feelings and his prejudices, and too much inclined to partial and limited views. Nor was he always either consistent or candid. His conception of the poetic principle as consisting wholly in the apprehension and expression of the Beautiful, and his theory of composition, are hardly to be regarded as altogether tenable. In his treatment of other writers he was often harsh and unjust in the highest degree. The fourth volume of his works which has recently been published will add nothing to his reputation. It is made up of “The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym,” a sea story of nearly two hundred pages, and other miscellaneous matter; and we believe contains nothing which has not been published before. This tale is his longest work, but is of little value, as a whole, though it has perhaps some sort of merit. It is a record of adventure in the Southern ocean, and is full of horrors and improbabilities. Excepting the article on “The Automaton Chess Player,” which, as his biographer remarks, is characteristically ingenious and conclusive, there is little which is worthy of preservation. We are therefore surprised to find that the author considered some of the tales as among the most successful of his productions. Certainly, few readers will be found who will agree with him in this opinion.

Mr. Griswold has alluded to the fact, that indications of character are unusually abundant in these works. And from them, as well as from his knowledge of the author, he has drawn a character which is indeed most repulsive. We are but too well aware that Poe's character was bad, and that little can be said in his defence. We know that his life was very irregular, and that he constantly violated the plainest laws of morality. But we would fain believe that he was not always destitute of feeling, reverence and conscience. We think [page 21:] indeed, that traces of these may be discerned in his writings. The record is a sad one. Could a more striking example of present retribution be imagined. Here is a man of the finest natural endowments, having every advantage, and every means of success; whose life is filled with misery, and brought to an untimely close, by his own reckless and ungovernable desires and passions. In the thrilling tale which he has entitled “William Wilson,” he introduces two persons alike in every respect — one, in name and in nature; except that the one is ever pure and virtuous, while the other is utterly depraved. But they are never separated, and never is one tempted to sin, when his shadow, from whom he has tried in vain to flee, does not raise a voice of warning. At length, in a terrible fit of passion, the desperate man puts an end to the life of his companion, who in dying foretells the doom of the survivor. Thus has he chosen to represent the power of conscience. And may we not suppose those terrible words but an echo from his own heart — but an expression of the doom which we know he felt that he himself had incurred in sinning against his better nature. “You have conquered, and I yield. Yet henceforward art thou also dead — dead to the world, to Heaven and to Hope. In me didst thou exist — and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself.”

He closed his melancholy career in the thirty-eighth year of his age, in the very prime of life, while all his powers were in their full vigor, and when he might have reasonably looked forward to years of happiness, had he obeyed the laws of nature and of virtue. May it be long before such a sad fate shall overtake another man of ability, and long before we are called again to mourn over such a waste of intellectual wealth, or such a misapplication of intellectual power.

S. A. G.

[[Footnotes]]

[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 17:]

*  Works of the late Edgar A. Poe, with a Memoir by R. W. Griswold, 3 vols., Redfield, N. Y. 1855. Do. Vol. 4th, 1856.