Text: Edgar Allan Poe (?), Literary, Broadway Journal (New York), November 1, 1845, vol. 2, no. 17, p. ???, col. ?

[page 261, column 2, continued:]

Editorial Miscellany.

WE TAKE the following paragraph from “The Sunday Times and Messenger” of October 26:

MR. POE’S POEM. — Mr. Poe was invited to deliver a poem before the Boston Lyceum, which he did to a large and distinguished audience. It was, to use the language of an intelligent hearer, “an elegant and classic production, based on the right principle; containing the essence of true poetry, mingled with a gorgeous imagination, exquisite painting, every charm of metre, and graceful delivery.” And yet the papers abused him, and the audience were fidgetty — made their exit one by one, and did not at all appreciate the efforts of a man of admitted ability, whom they had invited to deliver a poem before them. The poem was called the “Messenger Star.” We presume Mr. Poe will not accept another invitation to recite poetry, original or selected, in that section of the Union.

Our excellent friend Major Noah has suffered himself to be cajoled by that most beguiling of all beguiling little divinities. Miss Walters, of “The Transcript.” We have been looking all over her article, with the aid of a [page 262:] taper, to see if we could discover a single syllable of truth in it — and really blush to acknowledge that we cannot. The adorable creature has been telling a parcel of fibs about us, by way of revenge for something that we did to Mr. Longfellow (who admires her very much) and for calling her “a pretty little witch” into the bargain.

The facts of the case seem to be these: — We were invited to “deliver” (stand and deliver) a poem before the Boston Lyceum. As a matter of course, we accepted the invitation. The audience was “large and distinguished.” Mr. Cushing preceded us with a very capital discourse: he was much applauded. On arising, we were most cordially received. We occupied some fifteen minutes with an apology for not “delivering,” as is usual in such cases, a didactic poem: a didactic poem, in our opinion, being precisely no poem at all. After some farther words — still of apology — for the “indefinitiveness” and “general imbecility” of what we had to offer — all so unworthy a Bostonian audience — we commenced, and, with many interruptions of applause, concluded. Upon the whole the approbation was considerably more (the more the pity too) than that bestowed upon Mr. Cushing.

When we had made an end, the audience, of course, arose to depart — and about one-tenth of them, probably, had really departed, when Mr. Coffin, one of the managing committee, arrested those who remained, by the announcement that we had been requested to deliver “The Raven.” We delivered “The Raven” forthwith — (without taking a receipt) — were very cordially applauded again — and this was the end of it — with the exception of the sad tale invented to suit her own purposes, by that amiable little enemy of ours, Miss Walters. We shall never call a woman “a pretty little witch” again, as long as we live.

We like Boston. We were born there — and perhaps it is just as well not to mention that we are heartily ashamed of the fact. The Bostonians are very well in their way. Their hotels are bad. Their pumpkin pies are delicious. Their poetry is not so good. Their common is no common thing — and the duck-pond might answer — if its answer could be heard for the frogs.

But with all these good qualities the Bostonians have no soul. They have always evinced towards us individually, the basest ingratitude for the services we rendered them in enlightening them about the originality of Mr. Longfellow. When we accepted, therefore, an invitation to “deliver” a poem in Boston — we accepted it simply and solely, because we had a curiosity to know how it felt to be publicly hissed — and because we wished to see what effect we could produce by a neat little impromptu speech in reply. Perhaps, however, we overrated our own importance, or the Bostonian want of common civility — which is not quite so manifest as one or two of their editors would wish the public to believe. We assure Major Noah that he is wrong. The Bostonians are well-bred — as very dull persons very generally are.

Still, with their vile ingratitude staring us in the eyes, it could scarcely be supposed that we would put ourselves to the trouble of composing for the Bostonians anything in the shape of an original poem. We did not. We had a poem (of about 500 lines) lying by us — one quite as good as new — one, at all events, that we considered would answer sufficiently well for an audience of Transcendentalists. That we gave them — it was the best that we had — for the price — and it did answer remarkably well. Its name was not “The Messenger-Star” — who but Miss Walters would ever think of so delicious a little bit of [column 2:] invention as that? We had no name for it at all. The poem is what is occasionally called a “juvenile poem” — but the fact is, it is anything but juvenile now, for we wrote it, printed it, and published it, in book form, before we had fairly completed our tenth year. We read it verbatim, from a copy now in our possession, and which we shall be happy to show at any moment to any of our inquisitive friends.

We do not, ourselves, think the poem a remarkably good one — it is not sufficiently transcendental. Still it did well enough for the Boston audience — who evinced characteristic discrimination in understanding, and especially applauding, all those knotty passages which we ourselves have not yet been able to understand.

As regards the anger of the “Boston Times” and one or two other absurdities — as regards, we say, the wrath of Achilles — we incurred it — or rather its manifestation — by letting some of our cat out of the bag a few hours sooner than we had intended. Over a bottle of champagne, that night, we confessed to Mess. Cushing, Whipple, Hudson, Field, and a few other natives who swear not altogether by the frog-pond — we confessed, we say, the soft impeachment of the hoax. Et hinc iliae irae. We should have waited a couple of days.

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THE CONCORDIA (La.) Intelligencer” says:

By the bye, here is a touch from the pen of Poe the poet — editor of the Broadway Journal. A Niagara lick like this beats Mississippi all to fits.

Resolved, That the steamer Niagara will be as distinguished in the waters of the East, as the great cataract whose name she bears is among the wafers of the West.

We are sadly puzzled to understand what all this is about. One thing is certain: — we never made a “resolution” in our lives. Should we ever make one, we hope it will be in better taste than the one above.

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IT HAS BEEN roundly asserted, of late, that “the slashing article in the Foreign Quarterly upon American poets which so much excited the ire of the newspapers,” is ascertained, at last, to be the work of Sir John Bell.

We happen to know better. It was written by nobody in the world but Charles Dickens — and a very discriminating article it was; — that is to say, discriminating so far as the actual information of its author extended in regard to our poetical affairs.

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WE ARE in a fair way, at last, to obtain some accurate knowledge of Chinese history and geography. Among other works lately published we notice, besides Marco Polos's Travels, a “Scientific Voyage into Altay and Adjacent Countries on the Chinese Frontier” — also “Memoirs of Father Ripa, during Thirteen Years’ Residence at the Court of Pekin, &c. Selected and Translated from the Italian, by Fortunato Prandi.” Some Essays by Professor Neumann who has just returned from Persia, demonstrate that the Chinese, from time immemorial, have traded to Oregon and California.

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THE BRITISH CRITIC in a rather weak, although sufficiently complimentary review of “Tales by Edgar A. Poe,” says, among other things — “The author seems to have amused himself by tracing a series of references between every minute act, and so upward to the making and dethroning of kings [downward would have done better]. He has been as assiduous in this scheme as an Indian who follows the trail of a foe. He has learned from the dwellers in the American woods a marked acuteness [page 263:] which he has dealed out again to us, in the Tales before us.”

The only objection to this theory is that we never go into the woods (for fear of the owls) and are quite sure that we never saw a live Indian in our lives.

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IN THE HURRY of getting to press last week, there occurred one or two vexatious errata — the worst of which, perhaps, was the omission of a notice (prepared us by a friend) of Mr. Murdoch's Hamlet. The Greek verb which formed the motto of “The Thread-Bare,” was lamentably jumbled up. In the exquisite poem entitled “Sybil” (from the pen of William Gibson, U. S. N.) the word “raised” at the close of the third line, being printed “raises”, made nonsense of the whole sentence. From the fine ballad headed “Isadore”, the signature of A. M. Ide, Jr. was, also, accidentally omitted; and that of W. G. Simms should have been appended to the “Sonnet by the Poor Debtor.” These errors, however, are attributable to ourselves alone.

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MRS. SARAH JOSEPHA HALE is preparing for press a collection of her poems. Messrs. Clark & Austin will, most probably, be the publishers.

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MESSRS. WILEY & PUTNAM will publish, in season for the holidays, “The Book of Christmas,” by T. K. Hervey, the poet; La Motte Fouque's fine romance (contrasting the Northern and Southern Chivalry) “Thiodolf the Icelander;” Mrs. Southey's (Caroline Bowles’) Poettical [[Poetical]] Works, &c. &c.

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WE HAVE BEEN glancing at an article on the Reading Room of the British Museum. The deductions are, of course, the munificence and courtesy of the English government to strangers. There is one place at least where the scholar visiting London from a foreign country is at home — the British Museum. He sits at the table and may command the books — the Royal collections and all, familiarly as he would bid his own child take down for him the esteemed volume from the single shelf at home. Here he has his privileges and dignities, a place of labor where he may “break the neck of the day” as Sir Walter used to say, over a favorite folio, and sally out among the multitudes of London with the pleasing consciousness of at least some work respectably done. Let no man undervalue this who has not felt the solitude of London, the monotony of the streets and the want of those out-of-door sympathies so freely shared in Paris.

Some of the annoyances of the Reading Room are odd — the incursions for instance of the students of the University College. “Perhaps,” says the writer “it were too much to expect that each young Collegian should be at the expense of purchasing a Schrevelius’ Lexicon and using it at home.” Assuredly; — there were flies, it is to be presumed, in Paradise.

Another grievance is to be “fogged out” by a moist November day — the provisions of the Institution allowing no lights.

When shall we have a permanent Library in New York? — not a Circulating Library, with the volume which you want somewhere, probably, between finger and thumb in Westchester county, but a library confined to the premises, with a perpetual writ of ne exeat, included in the charter, against all volumes leaving the front door, It is not necessary that the library should be so large as many of the century accumulations of Europe. Fifty [column 2:] thousand volumes on the spot would be sufficient — gathered together scientifically, in the first instance, with proportion and completeness for the departments. Pens, ink and paper, wide chairs and wide tables, should be added; attendants for convenience and care of the books; and some formality to check mere literary loafers and all Collegians in round-a-bout jackets.

If we were autocrat for a week we should convert the Society Library buildings (after exorcising the tailors,) into just such an establishment; and we believe the Librarian and a majority of the members would be in favor of the change.

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A COMPLETE establishment of book pirnting [[printing]] has been recently discovered and broken up in the French provinces. Upwards of 18,000 volumes were found hidden away between the inner and outer walls — the works of La Martine and Thiers’ “Consulate and Empire,” among the number.

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MR. HUDSON, in his Shakspeare Lectures here, last winter, had the misfortune to put people unaccustomed to the operation, to the trouble of thinking — an annoyance which a certain class never forgets. There were, in his style, terseness and strength — a rude vigor. All conventionalism, pretence and affectation shrivelled in his grasp — witness his character of Jacques, in As You Like It, whom he made the type of the selfish, vain spectators in the world, men of large head and little heart who are superior in virtue to the men of action and purpose — only because they do nothing. The rigid, resolute manner of the lecturer was the index of the strength of his convictions. Perhaps his audiences were too limited to the cultivated class of readers and thinkers, for him to enjoy the highest triumphs. An assembly of all who attend the representation of Shakspeare at the Bowery, the Chatham and the Park, would have been impressed by his keen sarcasm upon successful evil and eloquent defence of persecuted virtue. He had that respect for the people that he would not shrink from telling them what their faint-hearted, hypocritical admirers call an unpopular truth. Mr. Hudson at the close of his lectures last winter, looked round upon his faithful audience who had kept him company through his whole course, thanked them for their kindness and attention, public and private, and remarked that he had not yet succeeded in New-York, but that he would return and succeed yet. There was a true democracy in this — a frank honesty which set aside mere cultivation and scholarship and social privileges, for an appeal to the heart of the public — that public to which he brought no letters, who would come to hear him for the sake of his subject, and not merely to keep up the appearance of a literary coterie. Mr. Hudson felt this, and had magnanimity enough to acknowledge it — and an appeal to this public was, we presume, what he meant when he said he would yet succeed in New-York.

We have not heard whether Mr. Hudson has made any arrangements to lecture in this city. Why should he not take Palmo's for a few nights and fill it as profitably as Mr. Templeton, or an interlude on the boards of the theatre itself, as well as De Meyer's piano? At any rate, he must come and give a New-York audience an opportunity of hearing his two new lectures on Lear and Othello, the composition of which, it is understood, employed him this last summer, and the first of which he has just delivered at Boston before the Lyceum. An accomplished and able critic speaks of it in “The Boston [page 264:] Times” of Saturday in the highest terms of commendation.

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“THE ZÖOLOGY of the English Poets, corrected by the writings of Modem Naturalists, by the Rev. R. H. Newell, pp. 8vo., with engravings on wood’‘ — is the title of a new work about to appear in London.

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MR. SIMMS’ new collection of Miscellanies will include a miniature biography of Cortez; the Literature of the Indians; a sketch of the life of the pioneer Boone; a paper on the works of J. Fenimore Cooper, &c. It is entitled “Views and Reviews in American History, Literature and Fiction.” In his capacity of Critic it will present him to the public, at the North, in a new and favorable light. His contributions to the Southern Quarterly Review are among the best papers in that periodical.

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MR. HEADLEY has in preparation “The Alps and the Rhine,” a sequel to his “Letters from Italy.”

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MR. EDWARD MATURIN, son of the author of “Bertram,” is getting ready a new work — “Montezuma, the last of the Aztecs.”

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MRS. KIRKLAND’S new book, with our own Poems, (including “Al Aaraaf,” the one with which we quizzed the Bostonians) will be issued in about ten days by Messrs. Wiley & Putnam.

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TO CORRESPONDENTS. — We are forced to decline “Thanatikos” — the “Lines To My Sister on Her Birth-Day’ — and “Prosings on Man.” “Twilight Memories” is rather too long.

To M. B. of Olive, we say, what you have done evinces genius, but inexperience. We cannot do you the injustice to print the communication — but hereafter shall, no doubt, be glad to publish anything you write. Persevere.

Alolo will soon appear — also “The Autumn Leaf.”