Text: Eugene L. Didier, “The Centennial of the Birth of Edgar A. Poe,” The Poe Cult and Other Poe Papers (1909), pp. 284-301

[page 284:]

The splendor of Poe's fame, the extraordinary and distinct quality of his genius, and the universality of its recognition, made the Centennial of his birth on the 19th of January, 1909, one of the most interesting events in the literary history of the United States, if not in the world.

When Edgar A. Poe was born, it would have required an astrologer of divine gifts to have drawn the horoscope of his life. The child of strolling players, left a destitute orphan at the age of “two years, brought up in luxury, taught to expect to inherit a splendid fortune, he was turned out on the world at the most critical period of his youth without experience, without a guide, without a dollar, but, by the divine right of genius, he has conferred more glory upon American literature than any other American writer, and taken a place among the few, the immortal names that are not born to die. Other writers of his time lived, wrote, and died, and in the course of a [page 285:] few years, their works were forgotten, and their lives possess no interest to the generations that succeeded them. Who reads Willis, Halleck, Hoffman, Drake, Paulding, Whipple, Tuckerman, Headley, Simms, and others — how few now read even Bryant, Lowell, Longfellow, Irving, Prescott, and Cooper? While these once prominent writers are forgotten, or seldom read, edition after edition of Poe's Works are required to supply the ever-increasing demand. Twelve lives of Poe have been published, and the end is not yet. Magazine and newspaper articles, more or less false, are eagerly read.

The universal voice of two continents has pronounced Edgar A. Poe the most extraordinary genius of the nineteenth century. After a life of sorrow, suffering, and song, he died when a better and a brighter day was about to dawn upon the “unhappy Master of ‘The Raven,’” who had lived and died a mystery to the world, to his friends, and to himself. He died under a cloud, and for a quarter of a century, his name and fame were blackened by the vindictive malice of his enemies. The literary lion died, and asses kicked and mangled the defenceless poet; with fiendish delight, the literary jackals revelled in [page 286:] their prey. The malice of Poe's defamers was only equalled by their ignorance.

“In this dismal room fame was won,” said Hawthorne, after the Scarlet Letter had made him famous. He had waited long and patiently for fame to come to him: for more than ten years he was “the most obscure literary man in America,” as he said of himself. He was nearly fifty years old when he ceased to be “the most obscure literary man in America,” and became one of the most famous. To Poe fame came early in life: before he was twenty-seven years old he had acquired a national reputation by his tales and criticisms. He was only thirty-four when “The Raven” was published, which showed him to be the most original writer of his time. But, after his tragical and untimely death — he was only forty — in the full splendor of his mental vigor, his name and fame passed under a cloud which grew blacker and blacker, until, in the course of time, America rejected her most marvelous genius, and worshipped at the shrine of false poetical idols. He passed so absolutely out of the world's thoughts that even the time and place of his birth were uncertain, and the time of death and the place of his burial were unknown.

The unveiling of the Poe monument, in Baltimore, [page 287:] on the 17th of November, 1875, started a revival of interest in the life and works of Poe. Since which time no American, and few writers of any nation, have been so written about in books, magazines, and newspapers. Careful and systematic investigation has discovered that he possessed the very virtues and attributes — gratitude, sincerity, and affection — which were denied to him by his early biographers. To the Honorable John P. Kennedy, his first literary friend, he always expressed the most unbounded gratitude on every occasion. In a letter dated Richmond, Va., January 22, 1836, after speaking of his restored health and bright prospects, he says: “I shall never forget to whom all this happiness is, in a great degree to be attributed. I know without your timely aid I should have sunk under my trials.” From a letter of Mr. Kennedy to Poe, dated Baltimore, December 22, 1834, we learn that Poe was paid only one dollar a printed page for his contributions to Miss Leslie's “Souvenir,” one of those namby-pamby “Annuals,” “Keepsakes,” or “Gift-Books,” which flourished in England and the United States between 1830 and 1850.

The amazing growth of Poe's fame is shown by the extraordinary prices that the first editions of his works command in the book auction [page 288:] market, and by the universal interest in everything connected with his works, and especially with his life. One of the tests of an enduring literary rank is that of cosmopolitan approval. That Poe stands this test is shown by his rank as a world-poet. An American writer, who is not especially noted for bestowing indiscriminate praise — Prof. William P. Trent, of Columbia University — declares that Poe is a “Prince in the Court of Fame,” and that the “Palm of immortality is upon his head.”

Naturally, the great occasion of the Poe Centennial caused many articles to be published about the poet in the newspapers and magazines. Most of these articles were inspired by either ignorance, indifference, or injustice. It is a singular fact that, even at this late day, when so much has been written about Poe, it is impossible for the average writer to tell the simple truth about him. The poet's portrait, as drawn by the press, resembles a ruined palace attempted to be restored by unskillful apprentices, in which stately columns stand in the midst of ghastly desolation, and once beautiful frescoes are bespattered with mud.

The early biographers of Poe were actuated by envy and malice, and invented lies to [page 289:] blacken his name and cloud his fame. No offence was too grave, no crime too monstrous for the diabolical ingenuity of his enemies to lay at his door. The world read, wondered, and believed. The devil's work that the immortally infamous Griswold did was in accepting the position of Poe's biographer and editor, when his heart was full of hate and malice. The law of biography is that the best should be told, and when this false biographer told the evil things about Poe, the world believed that he had made the best of a bad story; and, thus an injustice was done to Poe that still overshadows his memory. Dr. Goldwin Smith, in the garrulousness of old age, prates of Poe as being untrue to his art. Either Dr. Smith has not read Poe's works, or he has outlived the capability of understanding them. All readers of Poe know that he was true to his art even in his slightest story, and this fidelity has caused him to be regarded as one of the most artistic writers that has enriched the literature of the world.

The most laughable ignorance about Poe was displayed by a writer who claims to be a relative of the poet. A magazine of some standing was found easy enough to publish this absurd article in which Baltimore is claimed as the birthplace of the author of [page 290:] “The Raven.” Baltimore was, undoubtedly, the right place for the birthplace of our poet, but, unfortunately, fate decreed that he was born in Boston, a city which he heartily despised. The article under discussion contains scarcely a correct statement; I have neither time nor space to mention all of them. These will suffice: speaking of the present Holliday Street Theatre, Baltimore, she says, “fifty years ago a noble player folk thronged its board. There in the dim ago, stood young Elizabeth Arnold, afterward the mother of Edgar Allan Poe.” The old Holliday Street Theatre was not opened until the Spring of 1812, months after Elizabeth Poe's death; it was burned down on the loth of September, 1873, and the present theatre erected, so “fifty years ago, a noble player folk” could not have “thronged its boards.” In a rambling sort of a way the article goes on to speak of Poe's “wanderings in Greece and Turkey.” All intelligent readers know that Poe never went to Greece and Turkey. She further says that “Mrs. Allan died while Poe was at West Point.” In fact, Mrs. Allan died on the 28th of February, 1829, and Poe did not enter West Point until July 1, 1830. She says “Mrs. Clemm died only a few years ago.” Mrs. Clemm died on February 15, 1871. She says [page 291:] John P. Kennedy, one of the committee who awarded the prize to Poe, “was, afterward, Postmaster General, under President Tyler.” He was nothing of the kind — he was Secretary of the Navy under President Fillmore. Speaking of Poe's strange, mysterious death, she says, “on the night of October 4, 1849, he arrived in Baltimore from Richmond, by train.” On the contrary, he left Richmond by boat and arrived in Baltimore on the morning of the 3d of October. She says, further, that he “was drugged by Plug Uglies, by whom he was voted around the city.” In fact, the political roughs known as Plug Uglies were not heard of in Baltimore until nearly ten years after Poe's death, that is to say, about 1857. Again, she says he “was found on the steps of the old Baltimore Museum, corner of Baltimore and Calvert Streets.” He was found at the Fourth Ward polls, on Lombard Street, between High and Exeter Streets. She says he “was followed to the grave by Mrs. Clemm and a few classmates.” Mrs. Clemm did not know of his death until after he was buried, and only one of his classmates attended the funeral — Z. Collins Lee, afterward Judge of the Superior Court of Baltimore. She calls Sarah Helen Whitman Sarah Osgood Whitman. The article, from beginning to end, is a tissue of errors. [page 292:] How such stuff gets printed would be a wonder did we not know how profoundly ignorant is the run of magazine editors.

Amid the almost universal paeans of praise, of national pride, and international appreciation evoked by the Centennial of the birthday of Edgar A. Poe, a few discordant notes were heard, piped by puny, petty, petulant men and women, who are either grossly ignorant of the poet's life and works, or envious of his splendid fame. While these few shallow, discredited American critics employed falsehood, insinuation, and vituperation in a vain attempt to belittle their own poet, the English reviewers celebrated the centenary of Poe's birth by articles distinguished by rare and discriminating appreciation, by fine literary style, exquisite culture, and ripe scholarship.

As a specimen of the narrow-minded spirit still prevailing in some portions of this country, it is only necessary to quote the language of Professor Arthur D. Hadley, of Yale University, in attempting to explain the second rejection of Poe for a place in the so-called Hall of Fame: “Because nearly everything he wrote reads like the work of a man who was occasionally intemperate, and who did not habitually pay his debts.” [page 293:]

What folly! What supreme ignorance! How convincing such a statement is that your college professor, outside of his own narrow sphere, is the most ignorant of men, excepting a police officer.

Strange that men so fastidious in regard to the moralities could conscientiously vote for Henry Ward Beecher, or Ralph Waldo Emerson, who pronounced John Brown a “saint,” or John Greenleaf Whittier, who was an avowed Abolitionist. Poe's scorn of mediocre men would have made him unwilling to be in such ill-sorted company as this absurd attempt at an American Valhalla has gathered together by the votes of ignorant and prejudiced electors.

All true friends of Poe should rejoice at the colossal stupidity which has kept him out of this incongruous and heterogeneous mess. Can we imagine a French Hall of Fame without Victor Hugo — an English Hall of Fame without Byron — a German Hall of Fame without Goethe? And Poe was an archangel of virtue compared with these famous men.

The asinine conduct of the electors of our so-called Hall of Fame inspired the blind-poet of the South, Father Tabb, to write this quatrain: [page 294:]

Some men have been foolish enough to say that Shakespeare was no poet. Shallow, narrow-minded critics have said that Poe was no genius. The world has decided otherwise. Ignorant people have said that Poe's wonderful poems and tales were the work of a madman or a drunkard. It is a well-known fact that crazy people believe all others insane. The conclusion is irresistible that those persons who say Poe was mad because he wrote such marvelous poems and tales are themselves fit subjects for the lunatic asylum, or the straitjacket. As to those splendid works emanating from the brain of a drunkard, I have only to say that it would be well to supply some of the present American authors with the same brand of whisky that inspired Poe so that our literature would be more worthy of our place as the foremost nation of the world.

Compared with his detractors, Poe's genius is that of the electric search light to a tallow candle. The small fry of American literature cani;ot harm the author of “The Raven” by their malice and mendacity: he is too far above them to be hit by their pointless arrows.

When Alexander the Great was asked [page 295:] whether he would contend at the Olympian Games, he answered royally: “Yes, if Kings are my antagonists.” So, I claim that Edgar A. Poe should be judged by his peers, if any can be found, and not by the small fry of American literature, such as some of those who have bobbed up in this his centennial year.

A handful of fanatics, mad with impotent rage, rush out of the desert, and hurl their javelins at the Pyramids. The furious fanatics retire, in confusion, to their desert home, leaving the Pyramids unharmed by their futile frenzy. They stand, the imperishable monuments of the ancient, and the admiration of the modern, world. So the fame of Edgar A. Poe has outlived the vicious but impotent attacks of envy, stupidity, imbecility, and mediocrity.

Availing himself of the universal interest in Poe on account of his centennial, an obscure writer in Scribner's Magazine attempted to dress himself in a little brief notoriety by attacking a literary artist whose intellectual shoes he is not worthy to loose. We all know who Edgar Poe is, but who is this obscure scribbler — what has he done in literature that qualifies him to judge such a man as the author of “The Raven”? He shall not enjoy even the unenviable infamy of Griswold, for [page 296:] he is one of the unknown writers whom the world will willingly let die. Careful research and systematic investigation having exposed the lies told of Poe by his earlier biographers, later writers have attempted to depreciate his genius, but, in this they have succeeded, not in endangering Poe's fame, for that is worldwide, but simply in writing themselves down as being of the long-eared kind, to use no harsher term. Poe's Works stand, and will ever stand as the imperishable monuments of his rare and remarkable genius. There they are. They cannot be written out of the world's literature by the puny attacks of ignorant, malicious, and jealous scribblers. Unfortunate would it be for American literature should the impotent ravings of such poor creatures be heeded.

I determined not to lend even my mite to keep alive the ignoble names of the later defamers of Poe. One journal of imfamous history opened its columns to articles inspired by jaundiced imbecility, premeditated malice, and vulgar spite. Oh, for the powerful pen of Poe to strike down these wretched scribblers who, in their mad jealousy, have assailed the master-genius of American literature in the hour of his glory. One of these writers is so ignorant of American literary biography that he speaks of Poe as a native of Virginia,, and [page 297:] of the exquisite Maryland poet, Edward C. Pinkney, as a South Carolinian! Think of such an ignoramus having the audacity to attempt to belittle Edgar A. Poe, whose genius is the admiration of two continents and the glory of his own ! Think of such a man daring to speak of Poe's stories, which have filled the world with wonder, as “apprenticepieces!” Think of such a man who writes rubbish which no intelligent person can read, and which have long since been thrown on the trash pile — think of such a man, who has no more imagination than a street-digger — having the supreme insolence to say that Poe has no imagination, when all the world has wondered at his astonishing imagination ! Think of such a man having the effrontery to say that “this generation is doing work entirely surpassing Poe's in beauty.” Where is this wonderful work? Certainly not in this fellow's terrible trash. Poe's works are eagerly read sixty years after his death, while it is impossible to read this fellow's realistic rubbish, although he is still alive. He, also, says that the “leading magazines of the present day would not have Poe, if he were writing now, and the theatres would no more have Shakespeare.” No doubt, the magazines that print his stuff would not “have” Poe's fine, artistic work. He says, [page 298:] further, he could not give his whole heart to more than three or four of his pieces, and in these not to above a stanza or two.” He says” of “The Raven” itself, I would willingly part with far the greater portion, and I would bestow in charity the untouched entirety of the ‘Ulalumes,’ and Xenores,’ and ‘Annabel Lees,’ and others of that make, but I should like to keep for myself . . . nearly all of the poem, ‘To Helen,’ because of two lines:

Such criticism is worthy of a crude, shallow, uncultured mind — to depreciate the exquisite gems which the world has admired for over sixty years, and to praise two lines of a juvenile poem written at the age of fourteen ! It is a silly, transparent,, mean attempt to destroy Poe's poetical reputation, but such criticism is taken for what it is worth by the reading public, and it is worth nothing at all. Literature to me is a “dainty goddess,” and I cannot bear to see it drest in the garb of imbeciles and pretenders.

In striking contrast with the disparaging tone of some so-called American critics was the exalted praise bestowed upon Poe by European scholars and critics. An eminent French [page 299:] writer, Teodor de Wyzewn, declares in the Revue des Deux Mondes, that “Poe's verse is the most magnificent which the EngHsh language possesses, and his poems masterpieces of emotion and music.” Baudelaire makes American materialism responsible for Poe's misfortunes. He is not very complimentary in speaking of our country, saying “this barbarity — referring to America — crushed, villified, murdered him.” Poe, according to Baudelaire, “in this seething mass of mediocrity and commonplace, cared only for the exceptional, and painted it with rare beauty and exquisite art.” Another French writer, Barbey d’Aurevilly, treats Poe as “the most beautiful thing which that offscouring of humanity — America — has produced.” Poe, stranded “on that desert waste was trampled to death by the elephantine feet of American materialism.” Still another Frenchman, Peladan, in his introduction to a translation of Poe's Poems, attacks this land “without civilization, without art, without nationality, without a language, as the murderer of the greatest genius of the nineteenth century.”

Twenty-three editions of Poe's Works have been published in France where he is regarded as a native writer. This unique distinction makes him a world-poet. [page 300:]

Among German scholars, Poe enjoys the first place as poet and prose writer. Dr. Eric Schmidt, of the University of Berlin, sees in Poe's works “the rare union of the boldest fancy and the keenest intelligence.” Professor Wulker, of the University of Leipsic, pronounces him “the first poet of North America.” Dr. William Victor, of the University of Marburg, says, “the cultivated world owes much to Poe's genius.” England is equally enthusiastic. Swinburne, her leading poet, speaks of Poe's “strong and delicate genius — so sure of aim, and faultless of touch, in all the better and finer part of work he has left us.” He adds: “I take leave to express my firm conviction that, widely as the fame of Poe has already spread, and deeply as it is already rooted in Europe, it is even now growing wider and striking deeper as time advances; the surest presage that time, the eternal enemy of small and shallow reputations, will prove, in this case also, the constant and trusty keeper of a true poet's full-grown fame.” Maurice Hewlett writes, “Nothing that I could say could add to Edgar Poe's fame. So far as Europe is concerned, he is sure of his immortality.” Israel Zangwell says, “while nobody has been able to imitate his poetry, his prose has created a school in France, in Germany, and in [page 301:] England.” George Bernard Shaw places Poe above Tennyson, Dickens, Thackeray, and speaks of his “superb distinction” as an author, and pronounces him “the most classical of modern writers.” Walter A. Raleigh, of Oxford University, writes “I have the profoundest admiration for Poe, and his influence on European literature has been enormous.”

A writer in the Nation of January 14, 1909, Curtis H. Page, declares emphatically that Poe “is vastly superior to all his American rivals for fame, as an artist pure and simple, whether in the short story, or in verse. Therefore, he is the one American who has been accepted and acclaimed by the majority of intelligent Frenchmen.”

After all of these magnificent tributes to Poe's genius, the discordant croakings of his detractors will have no more effect upon the established fame of our poet than the hooting of a night-owl has upon the destiny of nations.

THE END.