Text: Boyd Montgomerie Ranking, “Edgar Allan Poe,” Time: A Monthly Miscellany of Interesting and Amusing Literature (London, UK), September 1883, pp. 552-560

[page 552, unnumbered:]

AMONGST all the English speaking writers of generally acknowledged genius there has probably been none who has been more lavishly praised, or more widely condemned, than the unfortunate American whose writings would alone have been sufficient to constitute a national literature, even had others of his fellow-countrymen produced nothing. At the same time it would be safe to assert that much both of praise and condemnation is, in this country at least, based upon wholly insufficient data. Of the many who speak, even enthusiastically, of the artist's work, how many could pass a fairly satisfactory examination in either poetry or prose? If it came to the test, the chances are that nine out of ten would find their practical knowledge restricted under the first heading to The Raven, Annabel Lee, The Bells, and perhaps Ulalume; under the second to The Murders in the Rue Morgue, and some half-a-dozen others of the more popular tales. Poe's mystic and philosophical writings, such as Eureka, are practically unknown, and it may be added that his reputation has to some extent suffered from an entirely false and unfair style of criticism. The world has not the slightest business with the private life, or the moral character, of an author, except in so far as these may affect the productions of his genius, and the most hostile of critics cannot assert that Poe's writings are in any way tinged with the outcome of those excesses which unhappily darkened and shortened his brilliant career. Granting that he had broken the entire Decalogue — a feat of which not even Mr. Griswold has accused him — in what possible manner would that affect the value of his published writings, unless these advocated, directly or indirectly, an imitation of his crime? And it must at once be plainly stated that there is no one line or sentence in all the collected works of Edgar Allan Poe which even the most perverted taste could torture into a suggestion of sensualism; indeed the first thing that strikes one after a careful study of the writings as a whole is the singular purity of thought and feeling which pervades them.

No doubt the common verdict is based in a great measure upon the original American life of the author, which was the result of his own unfortunate choice of a biographer — an act which can never cease to cause wonder in the minds of those who have studied Mr. Griswold's narrative in the light of later and more trustworthy [page 553:] works on the subject — notably the masterly defence set up by Mr. John H. Ingram in the preface to his splendid collection of Poe's prose and poetical works. But for some incomprehensible reason, there seems almost from the outset to have been a dead set in certain quarters against the unlucky man's reputation. Five-and- twenty years ago, the Edinburgh Review,(1) in an article as one-sided as it was bigoted, attacked the author in a manner which is as exasperating for its strong Philistinism as it is ridiculous for its utter misappreciation of the requirements of the case. Not to dwell at any length upon this precious production, it may be noted amongst other charges that the writer positively denied all sense of humour to the man who wrote Hans Pfaal, Diddling Considered as one of the Exact Sciences, and How to write a Blackwood Article, the last named one of the most delicious bits of sarcastic burlesque of the present century! Let this pass as unworthy of serious consideration, and let us come to an inquiry into what were the special characteristics which distinguished the writings of Edgar Allan Poe from those of his contemporaries, and set him as it were apart.

It may be convenient to begin with his prose writings. The first strong impression upon the mind of any dispassionate reader will be made by the singular logical turn displayed in some of the more striking tales. However, the understanding may revolt. against the probability, or even the possibility, of such wild romances as those of Arthur Gordon Pym, or the Descent into the Maelstrom, one feels all the time of reading as if they must be true; one has unconsciously granted some apparently insignificant premise, and, by a chain of natural and sober deduction, from this the rest follows as a matter of course. Take, for example, the second named of these tales. The two points upon which it turns are perfectly intelligible, the one physical, the other scientific, viz., that it is possible at certain stages of the tide to cross the semi-mythical water in safety, and that cylindrical bodies revolving in gurgite vasto are less amenable to centripetal attraction than others. Grant these wo points, and there is nothing monstrous in the tale; the same might be predicated of others. But let us classify the author's characteristics, so as to arrive at a general estimate of his work. Setting aside that already noted, these are mainly three in number, and may for our present purpose be classified as Mystery — with a special leaning towards what are commonly known as supernatural phenomena, Grotesqueness and Humour, and under each head I propose to make some slight comment upon one or more of the prose tales which particularly illustrate the feature under immediate consideration. But before doing so, it will be necessary to refer briefly to certain of Poe's prose stories which cannot conveniently be classified under [page 354:] either of the headings in question, and which are yet amongst the most striking efforts of his genius, I mean those realistic studies of which the most powerful is undoubtedly The Murders in the Rue Morgue, just as the most generally bepraised is The Mystery of Marie Roget. With regard to this latter, I must confess my inability to understand wherein lies the extraordinary fascina tion which it has exercised over the minds of many cleverer men it has always seemed to me to be singularly unsatisfactory. As all students of Poe will remember, it is the relation of an ima- ginary criminal process in Paris, consequent upon the mysterious disappearance, and supposed murder, of a young girl of the humbler classes, the idea being suggested by an actual case which took place, in the year 1842, in New York. But, admirably worked up as the main body of the narrative certainly is, the interest ceases just where it might have been expected to culminate, and the careful reader, whose curiosity has been excited to the utmost, and who has laboriously followed the details of surmise and evidence, is left with absolutely no solution of the mystery! A foot-note in Mr. Ingram's collection, was probably intended in some measure as an apology for the disappointment involved; but, granting fully that the author's primary object was to aid in clearing up the mystery of the real case, I submit that the course adopted was inadmissible for the purposes of fiction. For all practical purposes the sketch is a romance, and should have been treated as such; Poe was perfectly justified in availing himself of real facts, but as an artist he was bound to make them lead up to some dénouement — else he was hardly entitled to surround his characters with imaginary surroundings, or to change the venue. In doing the latter he has sacrificed force, and has in one place involved himself in a blunder, strange in so wonderfully accurate a writer — the little sons of the innkeeper, Madame Deluc, are represented as being in the habit of searching the thicket where they made their discovery for the bark of the sassafras, which, however plentiful it may be in the woods about New York, would certainly not be a likely thing to find in the neighbourhood of the Barrière du Roule! Still it is impossible not to admire the delicate yet trenchant sarcasm in the strictures upon ordinary newspaper criticisms of evidence, and the almost superhuman acuteness of the Chevalier Dupin, whose power of logical deduction must be taken as representing the ordinary mental attitude of Poe himself. This is shown to greater advantage in the course of reasoning, which resulted in an identification of the real murderer of the unlucky Madame D’Espanaye and her daughter; what could be more ingenious than the gradual evolution of a probable simian actor in the tragedy out of a tuft of hair and an imperfect window-fastening, unless it be the identification, in The Purloined Letter, of the important document? The best point in the latter is that the chain of reasoning which led to the discovery is strictly [page 355:] in accordance with the dictates of common-sense, the mode of concealment is precisely that which a man, just cunning enough to over-reach himself, would be likely to adopt. But, brilliant as they are, these particular sketches appeal specially to only a certain class of mind, and may now be dismissed as having received sufficient consideration; let us revert to the original scheme.

Under the first heading there is some difficulty in selecting. examples, owing partly to an embarras de richesses, and partly to the extent in which the second assigned element enters into some of the more salient examples, as witness Hop-frog, which, in spite of its ghastly horror, shall be relegated to the second division. Let us take three of the most striking, viz.: The Fall of the House of Usher, William Wilson, and, in some respects most striking of all, Ligeia. The first named represents, with a hideous reality, the agony of a hypochondriacal student, whose melancholy has developed into secret madness, on discovering that he has, half-consciously, consigned his dearly loved sister to a living tomb. “Roderick Usher” is represented as addicted to the occult sciences, and the quaint catalogue of his favourite works has been made the occasion, in certain quarters, for some not too candid or generous strictness upon Poe's knowledge of literature. But let that pass, and let anyone who has shuddered over the weird story recall the description, growing in intensity as it proceeds, of the sounds from the vault which herald the apparition of the dying girl, of the miserable hero's wild burst of frenzy, or, as a piece of lurid word-painting, of the catastrophe when the accursed house rives asunder and plunges down into the sullen moat. In sober earnest, I know of nothing more awful, unless it be the last scenes of “The Duchess of Malfy,” and indeed, Poe always appears to me to have possessed, in common with Nathaniel Hawthorne at times, something of the spirit of Webster or Marlowe. William Wilson is probably the most distressing piece of pseudo-autobiography — if the phrase may pass muster — which the world has produced. There can be little doubt that the poor genius wrote it from his heart of hearts, with bitter self-reproach, in utter despair, not unlikely with overflowing eyes. The gradual deterioration of the man is so terribly sad; the gradual silencing of that extremely untrustworthy guide, conscience, and above all the awful trace of probably congenital insanity, that fatal heritage which cursed the world, and themselves, with Nero and Charles IX. And then there comes in such pitiful contrast the description of the old school at Stoke Newington — a reminiscence of innocent boyish days — which shows how keen, how susceptible to the influences of beauty in Art or Nature, was the man. Not to multiply instances on that point, let anyone read The Domain of Arnheim, and say if Edgar Allan Poe was not a born artist. Ligeia remains, as has been said, the strangest and most powerful of the sketches which have been [page 356:] chosen as illustrating the branch of the subject. Had it no other claim on the attention, it must always be remembered as the original vehicle by which was given to the world that magnificent charnel-house lyric “The Conqueror Worm.” But this is far from being its only merit; it is most valuable as giving a necessary clue to one phase of the author's character, viz., his leaning towards the occult world, and indirectly suggesting the source from which he, like another great master of the English language, drew both inspiration and a fallacious relief. In reading such passages as the description of the pentagonal bridal chamber, or the successive resuscitations of the Lady Rowena, one is infallibly reminded of some of De Quincey's recorded visions, but there is no need to insist upon this point. The two ideas which pervade the whole are primarily the ever fascinating one of metempsychosis, and secondarily that of suspended animation; these two in their respective beauty and grimness seem to have had a singular attraction for Poe; we trace their influence in many other places throughout his writings, notably in Morella, more gently in Eleanora and above all in The Case of M. Valdemar, probably the most ghastly tissue of horrors that has been written in the present century, not even excepting Mr. Julian Hawthorne's Archibald Malmaison, which I honestly own I do not care to read alone at night.

It is almost a relief to turn to the grotesque element in Poe's works, and here again let us select three elucidatory studies, viz.: Hop-frog, The Gold Bug, and The Devil in the Belfry, each in its different way a distinctive example of the quality which I have chosen thus to describe. The first is not so well known as it deserves to be. It may briefly be predicated that the original motif was obviously suggested by a historical incident, viz., the catastrophe which finally unsettled the weak reason of the unhappy Charles VI. of France. But, disgusting as are the outrages committed upon the dwarf and his love by the drunken king and servile courtiers, and terrible as is the narrative of Hop-frog's vengeance, the mind is diverted throughout by little touches which amply bear out the assertion that a feeling for the grotesque is the most distinctive element in the tale. It would be easy to give plentiful examples in proof of this, but one brief extract may suffice; the king has just dashed the wine in Trippeta's face:

“There was a dead silence for about half a minute, during which the falling of a leaf or of a feather might have been heard. It was interrupted by a low, but harsh and protracted grating sound which seemed to come at once from every corner of the room.

“What — what — what are you making that noise for?’ demanded the king, turning furiously to the dwarf.

“I — I? How could it have been me?’ [page 357:]

“The sound appeared to come from without,’ observed one of the courtiers. I fancy it was the parrot at the window, whetting his bill upon his cage wires.’

“‘True,’ replied the monarch, as if much relieved by the suggestion, but on the honour of a knight I could have sworn that it was the grinding of this vagabond's teeth.’”

Here will naturally occur to the reader the grim, yet quaint, simile, in another tale, with reference to the murdered man's heart, “a low, dull, quick sound — much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton.” Conceive of the mind which, in the height of such tremendous situations, could take refuge, so to speak, in the contemplation of figures which, with any less powerful context would seem trivial! The Gold Bug, as most people will remember, is an account of the discovery of Captain Kidd's buried treasure by means of a cryptogram, the key to which is about as ingenious as anything that was ever invented as the solution of a pre-arranged mystery. It is necessary only to touch in general terms on this capital romance, referring specially to the study of the old negro servant Jupiter, with his semi- filial, semi-paternal love for and care of his master. When he prepares to administer parental discipline to Legrand, and is disarmed only by the sight of his wan face, one really wonders what notion of humour can be entertained by any writer who could deny the possession of that quality to Poe! Finally, if anyone wants a thorough specimen of grotesque farce, let him turn to the description of Vondervottimeitis and its inhabitants, as good a satire on Dutch habits of extreme method and conservatism as could have been penned.

On second thoughts, space would not suffice to note all the numerous instances of wit and humour which force themselves upon us in going over the collected works, and their discovery and enjoyment must in the main be left to each individual reader. Let me however draw attention to one of the most laughable, as it is one of the least familiar, The Thousand and Second Tale of Scheherazade, simply inimitable as a burlesque and a satire on the follies of society at the time, as well as an ingenious description under allegorical forms of the wonders of nature and science. The ending is admirable, when the king, after swallowing some marvels, gradually begins to have his doubts, and at length indignantly repudiates belief in the monstrosities of feminine apparel, and informs his garrulous spouse that “Upon the whole you might as well get up and be throttled,” which the lady, like a dutiful wife, proceeds to do, comforting herself, in truly feminine fashion, with the reflection that her lord and master has, to use a slightly vulgar proverb, “cut off his nose to be revenged upon his own face,” as her stock of anecdotes was not nearly exhausted.

Of Eureka, which is probably the author's least known, as well [page 358:] as his most laborious work, it is not my intention to speak at any length; it is an intensely painful instance of misapplied genius and scientific knowledge. The nature of this long, thoughtful treatise may be generally gained from the following passage, concluding the essay, and seeming to point to a sort of vaguely conceived Buddhistic theory on the part of the writer: —

“Think that the sense of individual identity will be gradually merged in the general consciousness — that Man, for example, ceasing imperceptibly to feel himself Man, will at length attain that awfully triumphant epoch when he shall recognise his existence as that of Jehovah. In the meantime bear in mind that all is Life, Life — Life within Life — the less within the greater, and all within the Spirit Divine.”

No doubt such a rhapsody is distressing, but after all it is only the logical outcome of the theories of Protestantism and the Pilgrim Fathers, and it is hardly fair to blame Poe if, knowing no truer teaching, he, with his logical turn of mind, carried out supposed first principles to their obvious sequence.

The critical essays are as sound as they are brilliant, notably those on “The Rationale of Verse,” and on “The Poetic Principle,” which might be studied with advantage by all young aspirants to the trick of writing verse, only it seems almost like Pegasus at plough that a born poet, who naturally needed no vulgar teaching, should have spent his powers in producing such handbooks, admirable as they are. They might, however, prove useful as guides to would-be criticisers of poets. Some of the best things Poe has ever written are contained in the short, pithy passages in the “Marginalia” and kindred jottings; it is no exaggeration to say that in these he at times rivals even La Bruyère. Take, for instance, this: M ———

“In examining trivial details we are apt to overlook essential generalities. Thus M —— , in making a to-do about the typographical mistakes’ in his book, has permitted the printer to escape a scolding which he did richly deserve — a scolding for a ‘typographical mistake’ of really vital importance — the mistake of having printed the book at all.”

Or the following, which at the present day, apart from the fact of the author's nationality, is not unworthy of consideration:

“The vox populi, so much talked about to so little purpose, is, possibly, that very vox et preterea nihil which the countryman in Catullus mistook for a nightingale.” But enough of Poe's prose works, let us speak for a moment of his poetry.

At the risk of giving offence to some, it must frankly be said that Poe's poetical gifts have as a whole been much over-estimated, and his fame in the future will probably rest in the main on his prose works. Any competent critic who will take the trouble dispassionately to study the collected poems from beginning to end, [page 359:] must acknowledge that the author's reputation in this branch of art depends upon some half-a-dozen fine pieces, having a general similarity in thought, feeling, and even in expression; and it would be difficult to name any poet of eminence — Coleridge, perhaps, excepted — who with some magnificent work has published so much, in a corresponding ratio, that can at best be described as mediocre. Of course, the two most familiar, as they are two of the best, are “The Raven” and “The Bells”; thanks partly to their natural music, and partly to their frequent occurrence as public recitations, these are as much household words with us as, say “The Dream of Eugene Aram” or “Horatius,” and they deserve to be. The former, especially, has successfully stood that test of excellence in a poem that frequent parodies, however familiar they may be to one, fail to impair its first charm. But, to my thinking, at least, incomparably finer is the shorter poem “Lenore,” both in sentiment and in versification; and “Ulalume,” which many would rank next in order of merit, cannot compare with such pieces as “Eldorado” or “For Annie,” which latter contains one of the most sorrowful stanzas, when the poet's career is had in remembrance, that was ever penned. Poe was at his best when at his simplest; in his attempts at higher flights he shows a tendency to become turgid, and at times almost unintelligible, whilst his rhythm is often surprisingly faulty considering his own lucid comments on the theory of prosody.

As I have already asserted, I hold, in common with the Poet Laureate, if one may judge by one of the most forcible of his shorter pieces, that the public has no right to concern itself with the private life of authors. Still so much has been said on different sides about Poe's unhappy habits of intemperance that it may be permissible to briefly touch on the subject, with reference to a theory as to their true nature and origin. Charles Baudelaire, in one of the most graceful tributes that has been paid to the dead man's memory, inclines to suppose that he had resort to intoxication with the deliberate intent of stimulating the imagination; I doubt this extremely, and should be very sorry to believe that such a genius could have resort to so paltry and cold-blooded an expedient. Is it not much more probable that the fits of excess were the result of a misguided attempt to remove the languor and nervous depression consequent upon over-taxation of a too highly sensitive brain? So far as I can discover, it has never been proved that Poe habitually drank to excess in the vulgar sense of the term, though, no doubt, he often exceeded what could be borne by so frail a body, joined to so excitable a temperament; of course this was foolish and wrong, but surely it is a cause for our compassion rather than for the howl of reprobation, as if there were no other sin in the world, and he were the only man of note who had ever committed it! It is so very easy to cast the first stone! As some indication of what the poor fellow suffered in the matter, let me [page 360:] conclude these few remarks with his own words, the stanza of which I spoke but now:

The River of Death, to wit, poor soul! But those are hardly the utterances of a wilful, besotted debauchee!

B. MONTGOMERIE RANKING.

[[Footnotes]]

[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 353:]

1 Edinburgh Review, vol. i., e. vii., p. 419, Jan. I and April, 1858. VOL. IX. BB