Text: J. Macartney Wilson, “A Causerie: Edgar Allan Poe,” unidentified newspaper (probably London), January 1909, p. ?, cols. ?-?

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I have been reading these handsome volumes* and renewing the memories of days long gone by. In the house in which I was brought up there was a cheap volume of the wonderful tales of Poe; and my omnivorous and not always entirely wholesome appetite for books drove me to read it at a sufficiently early age. One of the Olympians discovered me one day at this task, and promptly took the book away, telling me it was not good for little boys. As often happened in such cases, I was of a wholly different opinion, and so I hunted through the house, and at last succeeded in finding the book, which had been carefully concealed. For a time after that there went on a regular game of hide and seek; and I may mention that in no case was the concealment astute enough to baffle me for long. As it happened (it often happened so, though I was not aware of the fact) the Olympian was right, and I was wrong. There was a little girl staying in the house, who also, stimulated by my bad example, read the book. It exercised a fearful fascination on her mind, and her nightly slumbers were broken by horrible nightmares in which scenes from “The Pit and the Pendulum” and “The Black Cat” played a prominent part; from these dreams she would sometimes awake screaming. Hence it must be clearly understood that I do not recommend Poe's tales for children of tender age.

At that time, and often later, I was much puzzled by the problem of Poe's character. I imagine the book was prefaced by the well-known defamatory sketch of Poe's life; and I could not understand how such a brilliant writer could be such a bad man. I am glad to say that later inquiries have considerably changed the general opinion, and have helped to vindicate Poe from the worst of these charges. The problem is now shifted; and I am left wondering how any man could be so base as to pour out a flood of unfounded calumnies upon Poe's innocent head. Poe himself, it must be remembered, was a most trenchant writer; and it is probably that the slanderer was simply having his revenge for some unkind notice or unfavourable review. The whole truth is simply and clearly given in the sketch which is set at the beginning of this collected edition of his works. In later years, when his life was darkened by a great sorrow, it is certain that Poe indulged in the use of stimulants, and sometimes exceeded; but the abominable stories that his enemy told of him have been all clearly and amply disproved. It should be remembered that the two Coleridges, Charles Lamb, and De Quincy yielded to temptation in the same way.

Let us put aside these personal questions and turn to his writings; and let us ask ourselves the value of his contributions to literature. It should be remembered, however, that Poe spent five years of his boyhood (the third lustrum, he says) at a school in Stoke Newington, and the fact that he presents no distinctively American characteristics will be thereby explained.

Let us take him first as humorist. Others may not agree with me, but I must own that Poe as humorist does not appeal to me. He often tries to be funny, and the result is to me most lamentable and irritating. I much prefer Mark Twain. There is always something forced about Poe's fun; one feels it to be artificial, and out of keeping with his nature.

Then there is Poe as critic. Here again I fail in appreciation. He abounds in acute remarks, in luminous generalisations; frequently one feels his criticism to be just and helpful. Yet the fact remains that time has falsified most of his judgements. He is hard on Lowell and far from cordial to Longfellow; whilst he tells us that Emerson is a write he cannot abide. True, he praises Hawthorne, because there was much in common between the two men; but on the whole his criticism does not stand the terrible test of time. He praises many American writers but his swans have turned out mostly to be geese. Most of them have gone down into eternal oblivion, from which it seems a pity that they should ever be raised. Besides, Poe revels in the brutalities which marked the criticism of the age. When we read some of his critical articles, we can only rejoice that we have learned better manners now. Here is a sample: “We are heartily tired of the book, and thoroughly disgusted with the impudence of the parties [column ??:] who have been aiding and abetting in thrusting it before the public. To the post himself we have only to say — from any further specimens of your stupidity, good Lord, deliver us!”

When we reach his poetry, we are on surer ground it is safe to say that “The Raven” has secured immortality for the writer. Of Poe's poetry there is very little, and some of that little is not good; but here and there we meet with verses which abide in the memory and refuse to be dislodged. I particularly like the verses “To Annie,” and those others beginning “Helen, thy beauty is to me.” Poe had a theory that passion had no place in poetry, a theory which led him to underrate Robert Burns; possibly he might have done greater things had he believed differently. His verses are most musical, most melancholy there is also in them an element of the fantastic which adds to the charm; by a few of these poems he will assuredly live.

Poe is at his greatest as a teller of tales. This was his gift. In this region he holds an unchallenged place. It is singular to observe in how many ways he has proved to be a forerunner of fashions that have afterward hit the public taste. There is the tale of the wonders revealed by science. Mr. Wells is the most modern exponent in this kind, and some of his stories, such as “The Man in the Moon,” owe their first inspiration to Edgar Allan Poe. “Hans Pfaall” may be named as an instance of such tales; “The Descent into the Maelstrom” is another.

Nowadays we have innumerable detective tales; the public shows a greedy appetite for such diet. We have all read about the great Lecoq, and who is there who should profess himself wholly ignorant of Sherlock Holmes? Here again Poe is evidently the precursor. “The Gold Bug” and “The Purloined Letter” are remarkably good examples. Poe had an extraordinary gift for reading cryptograms and unravelling mysteries, and he puts this gift to excellent use in quite a number of fascinating short stories.

But his highest achievements were attained when he turned to write stories of mystery and wonder. Here he reigns supreme. If you really wish to be thrilled, Poe will do it for you. Bierce and al such writers clearly derive from Poe. His mind seemed to delight in the gruesome and horrible, and he possessed a singular power of communicating the emotion caused by the contemplation of such things to the reader. In these stories it must be admitted there is a lack of something — probably of healthy humanity. We cannot help feeling that in his gift there was something akin to madness. He certainly succeeds in describing the symptoms of insanity with remarkable power. But he never lifts the reader, whom he holds horribly fascinated, into a higher and purer air; we do not feel “The wind on the heath” — never see the stars. There is no denying that Poe has in him a strain of morbidity; he brings no medicine for the soul. That is his greatest defect. He has had a great vogue in France, and has attracted the decadents in that country — notably Baudelaire, who has drawn much of his inspiration from Poe's work of this kind.

And yet — and yet — there is something of greatness about Poe; and there are few of us whom he has not at some time held and thrilled. He is a fountain whence many streams have flowed. It was therefor desirable that there should be a collected edition of his works; and we are indebted to Mr. Ingram and Messrs. Black for these four handsome volumes, which must be for the future the final collected edition of the works of Edgar Allan Poe. They are light and easy to hold; and the price is astonishingly small. This edition will worthily preserve the remembrance of a writer whose hold on immortality is secure.

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(NOTE. — Poe was born at Boston on January 19, 1809. The present month, therefore, marks the centenary of his birth.)

[[Footnotes]]

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* The Works of Edgar Allan Poe. Edited by John Ingram Four volumes, 2s., 6d. each. A. and C. Black.