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ON the 8th of March 1845, Edgar Poe became joint-editor, with two New York journalists, of the Broadway Journal, a publication of no particular influence or circulation. One of his coadjutors devoted himself to the musical and dramatic section of the paper, and the other shred the literary department with their new associate. The views of Poe and his literary companion being diametrically opposite, it was arranged that each should be free to enunciate his own opinions independently of the other — an arrangement that produced a somewhat novel, not to say unseemly, appearance, during the few weeks the system lasted.

No sooner was Poe reseated in an editorial chair than he resumed an unfortunate “Discussion with Outis,” which he had commenced in Willis’s paper, [page 2:] the Evening Mirror, on the unsavoury subject of plagiarism, and which he now continued, from week to week, in the columns of the Broadway Journal. How this unprofitable disputation arose was thus: In the Evening Mirror for the 14th of January, Poe had published a short notice of “The Waif,” a collection of fugitive verses edited by Longfellow, observing in the course of his remarks. —

“Much discussion ensued,” says Poe, proceeding to narrate in the Journal that “a friend of Mr. Longfellow’s penned a defence, which had at least the merit of being thoroughly impartial; for it defended Mr. Longfellow not only from the one-tenth of very moderate disapproval in which I had indulged., but from the nine-tenths of my enthusiastic admiration into the bargain. . . . This well-intended defence was published in the Mirror with a few words of preface by Mr. Willis, and of postscript by myself. Still dissatisfied, Mr. Longfellow, through a second friend, addressed to Mr. Willis an expostulatory letter, of which the Mirror printed only the following portion:

In his reply in the Mirror (prefaced by a few words from Mr. Willis), the poet reiterated the charge that “Somebody is a thief,” with reference to the palpable “parallelism” between Hood’s beautiful poem “The Deathbed,” and some verses entitled “A Deathbed,” by Mr. J. Aldrich; but, after a collation of the two pieces, and a demonstration that the resemblance was too close to be accidental, he left it to the public to form its own judgment upon the affair. “At this point the matter rested for a fortnight,” continues the narration, “when a fourth friend of Mr. Longfellow took up the cudgels for him, in another communication to the Mirror,” which communication, signed “Outis,” Poe reprinted in full, and then proceeded to criticise thus: —

The poet continues, for several more paragraphs, in a similar strain; and in the following number of the Journal resumed what he styled “The Voluminous History of the little Longfellow War,” by a further reply to the “Letter of Outis.” This continuation is wiredrawn, and far from brilliant, and deferred till the following week “interesting developments” evidently with the intention of prolonging and increasing any excitement the discussion may have aroused. A few paragraphs may be cited, however: —

The following week a still more voluminous budget appeared from Poe’s pen, in continuation of this interminable discussion, but from it only these lines — of biographical import — require citation: — [page 10:]

To this terribly lengthy discussion anent plagiarism a postscript was subsequently indited by the poet, in which he sought to prove that unconscious plagiarism “is in the direct ratio of the poetic sentiment — of the susceptibility to the poetic impression; and, in fact,” he concluded, “all literary history demonstrates that, for the most frequent and palpable plagiarisms, we must search the works of the most eminent poets.”

That the results of this “Discussion” were far from beneficial to the contemporary fame and fortune of Poe few can doubt; that it added. to the number of his enemies — who were scarcely so few or so impotent as he affected to believe — is equally certain; whilst that it could in no way increase the presumed “multitude of cherished friends,” whatever it may have effected in the quantity of his readers, needs no demonstration.

It is pleasant to turn from this bitter repast to the more genial topic of the poet’s more literary work, although his gall was by no means all expended in the above profitless warfare. In the Broadway Journal for March, for instance, he contrived to deliver some very severe and, that they were true, ill-endured blows at certain national foibles, in a short article on “Satirical [page 13:] Poems.” In the following month he returned to his more natural manner, contributing revised versions of “The Valley Nis” and “The Doomed City,” and a new tale, “Some Words with a Mummy,” to the American Review.

“Some Words with a Mummy” is written in that humorous style which was so unnatural with Poe, and which his sombre — his ultra-poetic temperament — would have prevented him from ever becoming proficient in. It is, perhaps, his best effort in that direction, and contains many of those cutting satiric touches which he bandied about so freely, if unwisely, at this transition period of his life — the period when constant collisions with journalistic sharpshooters and jealous cliques caused a more decided deterioration of his morale than did any preceding or succeeding calamities. It was his frequent misfortune to attempt to fight men of the world with their own weapons, and with the invariable consequences that happen to those who touch pitch. A single paragraph from the last-named tale will show why it is that Poe’s writings are so unpopular with some of his countrymen; the Americans being, as a general rule, too susceptible to relish a joke at their own expense. The hero, Count Allamistakeo [all-a-mistake-o], the resuscitated Egyptian mummy, is informed of the benefits of the democratic institutions enjoyed by the Yankees; their advantages [page 14:] of having universal suffrage, and no king. “He listened with marked interest, and, in fact, seemed not a little amused. When we had done,” continues the narrator, “he said that a great while ago there had occurred something of a very similar sort. Thirteen Egyptian provinces determined all at once to be free, and so set a magnificent example to the rest of mankind. They assembled their wise men, and concocted the most ingenious constitution it is possible to conceive. For a while they managed remarkably well, only their habit of bragging was prodigious. The thing ended, however, in the consolidation of the thirteen states, with some fifteen or twenty others, in the most odious and insupportable despotism that ever was heard of upon the face of the earth. I asked what was the name of the usurping tyrant. As well as the Count could recollect, it was Mob.”

The April number of the Southern Literary Messenger contained an announcement to the effect that its old conductor and contributor was about to resume writing for its pages. “It needs an Argus to guard and watch the press,” says the editor, “and, to enable the Messenger to discharge its part, we have engaged the services of Mr. E. A. Poe, who will contribute a monthly critique raisonnée of the most important forthcoming works in this country, and Europe.” The poet’s multifarious labours, however, prevented him carrying out this projected [page 15:] scheme, although he subsequently recommenced writing for the Messenger, and continued a contributor during the rest of his life.

During April and May Poe published several minor articles and book notices in the Broadway Journal, and as many of these are uncollected, and their paternity unknown, the more interesting will be alluded to, and quoted from, in these pages. It may, indeed, be remarked here, that the poet’s own revised copy of the Journal being in our possession, and his articles therein which were published anonymously, or over noms de plume, having his initials appended in pencil, we are enabled to rescue much interesting matter from oblivion.

“Human Magnetism” was a subject Poe was now deeply interested in, although he was not to be deceived by many of the impostures prevalent. Noticing a work on this subject, and pointing out certain views in which he differed from its author, he took occasion to say — “Most especially do we disagree with him in his (implied) disparagement of the work of Chauncey Hare Townshend, which we regard as one of the most truly profound and philosophical works of the day — a work to be valued properly only in a day to come.” “Anastatic Printing” was also a subject that attracted his attention, and upon which he wrote a short article, replete with idiosyncratic [page 16:] remarks. The invention was one that greatly excited his imagination, and caused him to foresee a palmy future for authors; to anticipate the time when writers would be enabled to publish their works “without the expensive interference of the type-setter, and the often ruinous intervention of the publisher.” This literary millennium was to produce, among other unfulfilled blessings, “some attention to legibility of manuscript” by men of letters; and i’ the cultivation of accuracy in manuscript,” opined the poet, would “tend, with an inevitable impetus, to every species of improvement in style; more especially in the points of concision and distinctness; and this again, in a degree even more noticeable, to precision of thought and luminous arrangement of matter;” and his conclusion was, that “at present the literary world is a species of anomalous congress, in which the majority of the members are constrained to listen in silence, while all the eloquence proceeds from a privileged few. In the new régime the humblest will speak as often and as freely as the most exalted, and will be sure of receiving just that amount of attention which the intrinsic merit of their speeches may deserve.”

A revival of Sophocles’ “Antigone” having been attempted in New York, in imitation of similar revivals in Europe, Poe, in commenting very, severely upon the performance, said — “Apart from all this, there is about [page 17:] the ‘Antigone,’ as well as about all the ancient plays, an insufferable baldness, or platitude, the inevitable result of inexperience in art — but a baldness, never “’ theless, which pedantry would force us to believe the result of a studied and supremely artistic simplicity alone. Simplicity is, indeed, a very lofty and very effective feature in all true art — but not the simplicity which we see in the Greek drama. The simplicity of the Greek sculpture is everything that can be desired, because here the art in itself is the simplicity in itself, and in its elements. The Greek sculptor chiselled his forms from what he saw before him every day, in a beauty far nearer to perfection than any work of any Cleomenes in the world. But in the drama, the direct — the straightforward, unGerman Greek had no Nature so directly presented, from which to copy his conceptions. . . . To the Greeks, beyond doubt, their drama seemed perfection — and this fact is absurdly urged as proof of their drama’s perfection in itself. It need only be said, in reply, that their art and their sense of art must have been necessarily on a level.”

Adverting to the absurdity of attempting to reproduce a Greek play before a modern audience, especially with such a want of all the requisite appliances as this little New York theatre displayed, Poe paused to bestow his praise upon the successful manner in which Mendelssohn [page 18:] has wedded his music to the Hellenic drama he must, he says, “have been inspired when he conceived the plan. . . . He had,” remarked Poe, “many difficulties to contend with; his own natural style must be abandoned, and the cramped and unmelodious system of the Greek unisonous singing adopted. To preserve that distinctive character, and still render the music acceptable to modern ears, must have taxed the utmost ingenuity of the composer. But he has succeeded to a marvel.”

Some of Poe’s strictures on the performance and the performers of “Antigone” aroused the anger of the manager, or director, or whatever he was, of the theatre, and he indited an amusingly pompous epistle to the poet, addressed to “Edgar Poe, Esq., &c., &c., &c., Author of THE RAVEN,” in which, after stating that he deemed his critique “characterised much more by ill-nature and an illiberal spirit, than by fair and candid, or even just criticism,” and that, therefore, he, the great Somebody, “in justice to myself, have withdrawn your (Poe’s) name from the free list.” On this display of “Achilles’ wrath” Poe wrote an amusing paper in the Broadway Journal, from which this paragraph may be cited: —

“We are not wrong (are we?) in conceiving that Mr. — is in a passion. We are not accustomed to compositions of precisely this character — (that is to say, notes written in large [page 19:] capitals, with admiration notes for commas, — the whole varied occasionally with lowercase) — but still we think ourselves justified in imagining that Mr. was in a passion when he sent us this note from his suite of boudoirs at the Astor House. In fact, we fancy that we can trace the gradations of his wrath in the number and impressiveness of his underscoring. The SIRS!! for example, are exceedingly bitter; and in THE RAVEN, which has five black lines beneath it, each one blacker than the preceding, we can only consider ourselves as devoted to the infernal gods.”

Among more serious subjects which followed in the Journal from Poe’s pen, may be mentioned, as amongst his uncollected writings, an article on the science of Street Paving; a review of Leigh Hunt, in which the conclusion was arrived at that taste was his forte, but that of critical analysis he was utterly deficient; a sympathetic notice of “Eothen,” then recently issued, drew forth the remark that its author “brings the East to us more vividly than any other Eastern traveller has done.” A critique on Old English Poetry, replete with Poesque passages, and noticeable for its glowing enthusiasm for “The Ancient Mariner,” followed, and from among old poems singled out for especial commendation, was Marvell’s exquisitely tender lines on the “Maiden’s Lamentation for her Fawn.” A scarification of “Poems” by a Mr. Lord, and ‘a friendly notice of “Philothea” — in which were some significant allusions to “Zanoni” — concluded the week’s number. [page 20:]

In May the tale of “Three Sundays in a Week” appeared in the Journal, in the insatiable panes of which periodical were republished, all more or less revised, and frequently over noms de plume, nearly the whole of Poe’s stories, and a large portion of his poems. As an extract from The New World, some stanzas in parody of “The Raven” appeared in this month’s issue, under the title of “A Gentle Puff;” and were republished with the editorial remark that this one only, out of the many complimentary notices they received, would be reprinted, and it because of its uniqueness. As the opinion of a contemporary journalist on Poe’s non-respect of persons in his critical capacity, one stanza may be worth citation: —

Amid critical notices by the poet, other than those adverted to already, are many interesting opinions upon literature and kindred topics; and his indignation is particularly aroused by some deprecatory comments of certain reviewers of “the august works of Tennyson [page 21:] and Miss Barrett.” “It is worse than sacrilege,” exclaims Poe, “to intrust to such hands poems which, if we are entitled to estimate the merit of anything by its effect on the greatest intellects and the noblest hearts, are divine, if there be any divinity within the soul of man.”

“The Power of Words,” one of the best of Poe’s prose poems, appeared in the Democratic Review for June. The tale, if such it may be termed, for it is utterly devoid of incident, is merely the conversation of two disembodied spirits as they soar through the infinite vistas of space. Their discourse on such syllogisms as that only the acquiring, and not the possessing, knowled;e, produces happiness, passes by natural transitions into a discussion — every line of which is pregnant with poetic suggestion — on the physical power of words, and concludes with a dénouement as startling as that of any of its author’s works.

In the Broadway Journal for this month Poe published a sketch of a very different description, on Magazine-writing, entitled “Peter Snooks.” It was called forth as a commentary on a paper by Mr. Duyckinck on Magazine Literature; is replete with excellent remarks and, it might almost be said, with prophecies that have already been fulfilled. Alluding to the relative value of European and American magazine articles, and to some of the disadvantages [page 22:] under which contributors of the latter then laboured, Poe said: —

“We are so circumstanced as to be unable to pay for elaborate compositions — and, after all, the true invention is elaborate. There is no greater mistake than the supposition that a true originality is a mere matter of impulse or inspiration. To originate, is carefully, patiently, and understandingly, to combine. The few American magazinists who ever think of this elaboration at all, cannot afford to carry it into practice for the paltry prices offered them by our periodical publishers. For this, and other glaring reasons, we are behind the age in a very important branch of literature, a branch which, moreover, is daily growing in importance, and which, in the end (not far distant), will be the most influential of all the departments of letters.

“We are lamentably deficient not only in invention proper, but in that which is more strictly art. What American, for instance, in penning a criticism, ever supposes himself called upon to present his readers with more than the exact stipulation of his title — to present them with a criticism, and something beyond? Who thinks of making his critique a work of art in itself, independently of its critical opinions? a work of art, such as are all the more elaborate and most effective reviews of Macaulay? Yet these reviews we have evinced no incapacity to appreciate when presented, The best American review ever penned is miserably ineffective when compared with the notice of Montagu’s ‘Bacon,’ and yet this latter is, in general, a piece of tawdry sophistry, owing everything to a consummate, to an exquisite arrangement — to a thorough and just sufficiently comprehensive diffuseness, to a masterly climacing of points — to a style which dazzles the [page 23:] understanding with its brilliancy, but not more than it misleads it by its perspicuity, causing us so distinctly to comprehend that we fancy we coincide — in a word, to the perfection of art — of all the art which a Macaulay can wield, or which is applicable to any criticism that a Macaulay could write.”

Hereafter follows an analysis of “Peter Snooks,” that tale being referred to as a specimen of the artistic manner in which an experienced English magazinist constructs his story, a most remarkable deficiency in that branch of literature being ascribed to Americans of the period. Poe declared, indeed, that except Hawthorne and one or two others, there “was not even a respectable skilful tale-writer on that side the Atlantic.”

In July, Messrs. Wiley & Putnam announced for publication, in their Library of American Books, a volume of “Tales by Edgar A. Poe” himself. This collection was made for the publishers by Mr. E. A. Duyckinck, editor of the well-known Cyclopedia of American Literature. Besides many of the poet’s previously ‘published tales, the book contained the new story of “Mesmeric Revelation,” a story issued soon afterwards in the Columbian Magazine. Poe was somewhat annoyed at the selection made, and wrote to a correspondent: —

Subsequently the author seems to have somewhat modified his views as to the nature of this collection for the editor of which he always expressed a high opinion. Small as was the volume, and limited its contents in quantity, the quality elicited a large amount of admiration and respect, not only in the United States but also in Europe. The “Tales” were published simultaneously in New York and London, and from the latter city Mr. Martin F. Tupper wrote to the publisher, “Shall we make Edgar Poe famous by a notice in the Literary Gazette?” Mr. Putnam does not state whether he accepted this generous offer; it is, therefore, difficult to say how much of the poet’s renown is due to the mediation of the “Proverbial Philosopher.” Probably the most important of the foreign reviews of these “Tales” was the appreciative critique by Monsieur E. D. Forgues that appeared in the Revue des Deux Mondes. The reviewer, after an analysis of the various stories, proceeds to comment upon their shortness, and the greater probability of fame such writings possess over the wire-drawn inanities of our [page 25:] novelists, concluding with real prescience, that “il sera opportun de les comparer quand le temps aura consolidé la reputation naissante du conteur étranger et — qui sait? — ébranle quelque peu celles de nos romanciers féconds.” This, and other highly flattering notices of the young foreigner, gave an impetus to his reputation in Europe, which may be deemed to have culminated in the vraisemblant translations of Baudelaire, who, indeed, spent many years of his life in an endeavour to thoroughly identify his mind with that of his favourite littérateur, Edgar Poe, and who has reproduced many of Poe’s finest tales with but little, if any, loss of vigour and originality. Indeed, it is chiefly due to the efforts of Baudelaire — to the, in some respects, kindred genius of him to whom Victor Hugo wrote: — “ ‘Vous avez doté le ciel de l‘art d‘on ne sait quel rayon macabre — vous avez créé un frisson nouveau” — that Poe’s works have become standard classics in France. Edgar Poe, it may be pointed out, is the only American writer really well known and popular in that country. In Spain his “Historias Extraordinarias” speedily acquired fame, and have been thoroughly nationalised; whilst in Germany his poems and tales both have been frequently translated; also in Italy three or four separate translations of the latter have been published.

Poe forwarded a copy of his “Tales” to Mrs. Browning, then Miss Barrett, who, writing to a correspondent [page 26:] shortly afterwards, remarked — “There is a tale of his which I do not find in this volume, but which is going the rounds of the newspapers, about mesmerism, throwing us all into most admired disorder, or dreadful doubts as to whether it can be true, as the children say of ghost-stories. The certain thing in the tale in question is the power of the writer, and the faculty he has of making horrible improbabilities seem near and familiar.” The story to which Mrs. Browning referred was “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar,” not published until December of that year.

In July, the sole management of the Broadway Journal devolved upon Poe, although the publication did not become his own property for some months later. The new volume opened with the usual flourish of trumpets from the publisher, who, after thanking his numerous friends for their aid in “the very difficult task of establishing a literary and critical weekly,” informs them that “the success of the work, in the brief period of its existence, has been, he truly believes, beyond precedent, and that from a brilliant past he looks confidently to a triumphant future.”

To the Journal for this month Poe contributed, besides revisions of his earlier tales and poems, a lengthy review of Mr. Hirst’s poems, a sympathetic one of Mr. Hoyt’s quaint “Chaunt of Life,” several voluminous critiques on The Drama, and many shorter [page 27:] notices and notes, of more or less interest. His dramatic critiques were chiefly occupied with the acting of Mrs. Mowatt — of whose grace and beauty he spoke in terms of enthusiastic admiration — and from the first of them these significant sentences may be cited: —

Poe’s contribution to the American Review for this month was the poem of “Eulalie,” and to Graham’s Magazine that most suggestive story, “The Imp of [page 28:] the Perverse.” Probably in no other tale of this author will such originality of investigation, and such acumenical analysis of a monomania, be discoverable, as in this one. The field of research would appear to have been quite unexplored in this direction, and had, perchance, been left so, because hitherto no one bad at once combined in his own person the power to analyse, and the morbid “sixth sense” of perversity analysable. Many, most persons, have, undoubtedly, to some extent, and at certain times, felt promptings to act in a manner they know to be diametrically opposed to their own interests, and that for no reasonable reason; yet few, whose mental equilibrium is invariably unshaken, come within the morbid circle of those depicted by Poe, with whom “the assurance of the wrong, or error, of any action is often the one unconquerable force which impels us, and alone impels us, to its prosecution.” Whether this “overwhelming tendency to do wrong for the wrong’s sake” will not, as the poet declares, “admit of analysis, or resolution, into ulterior elements,” or whether it really “is a radical, a primitive, impulse,” may safely be left to the professed psychologist to discuss; but no thoughtful person will refuse to admit the truth of the illustrations Poe offers in corroboration of his theory. The love, inherent in human nature, to dally with danger, is faithfully rendered in these words: — [page 29:]

Thoughts and investigations like these are not the stock of a conventional writer; even if they be not original discovery, they are the result of personal research, and are handled with a power, and clearness, and fascination, that no attempt at depreciation can dissever from true genius.

In August, Poe published in the American Review a crucial examination of certain native dramatic works, under the title of “The American Drama.” The poet advances some very strong arguments to prove the fallacy of the often made assertion that “the Drama has declined;” but if the specimens of contemporary native art he proceeds thereupon to criticise might be deemed a fair sample of the efforts of To-day, it would have to be confessed that, in this instance, the vox populi is in the right. The article affords occasion for adducing some very pungent and forcible reasoning. “The great opponent to Progress is Conservatism,” says the poet, “in other words — the great adversary of Invention is Imitation: the propositions are in spirit identical. Just as an art is imitative, it is [page 31:] stationary. The most imitative arts are the most prone to repose — and the converse.”

In this and the following month, a series of “Marginal Notes,” in continuation of the “Marginalia” of the Democratic Review, were issued in the Lady’s Book. They vary in value, but embody in a condensed and pithy manner many of Poe’s idiosyncratic ideas. Some of the sayings, indeed, as in the following sentences, are of real autobiographic application: — “So vitally important is this last (i.e., industry), that it may well be doubted if anything to which we have been accustomed to give the title of ‘a work of genius’ was ever accomplished without it; and it is chiefly because this quality and genius are nearly incompatible, that ‘works of genius’ are few, while mere men of genius are, as I say, abundant.” But although, as Poe points out, industry must combine with genius to produce a chef-d‘œuvre, he is very careful to warn his readers against the ancient error that industry itself is genius.

The Broadway Journal during these two months manifested numerous proofs of its editor’s industry, and no lack of his genius. In a running commentary, evidently written in great haste, on Thomas Hood’s works, he took occasion to express his admiration of many of that poet’s exquisite lyrics, restraining, however, his enthusiasm until he came to “The Haunted [page 32:] House,” which struck kindred fire from him; calling forth the remark, that had Hood written nothing else, “it would have sufficed to render him immortal.” Many critiques of books and authors — native and foreign — and all more or less marked by his distinguishing traits of thought, appeared in the weekly columns of the Journal. On the 16th August “Lenore,” a most musical chaunt, founded upon its author’s juvenile poem of “The Paean,” was published, and in the following number the weird story of “The Tell-Tale Heart.” This tale well deserves to rank amid Poe’s best works, not only on account of its able construction, and masterly delineation of a homicidal monomania, but because it embodies within its few short pages some of those hitherto undescribed, but universally experienced, “touches of nature” which make the whole world kin. How true — terribly true — is the description of the old man’s agony, while he is listening in the silent night for the uplifting of the door-latch, and seeks, but vainly, to persuade himself that his fears are groundless; whilst he says to himself, “It is nothing but the wind in the chimney It is only a mouse crossing the floor;” or, “It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” There is more of real horror in the hints of such a narration, than in all the imaginary bloodshed with which tragedy has drenched the stage.

The same issue of the Journal contained an editorial [page 33:] note defending the editor against an allegation by a contemporary, anent “The American Drama” critique, that he, Poe, could never find anything to admire in Longfellow’s writings. “Now this is doing us the grossest injustice,” says Poe, for “from Mr. Longfellow’s first appearance in the literary world until the present moment, we have been, if not his warmest admirer and most steadfast defender, at least one of his warmest and most steadfast. We even so far committed ourselves, in a late public lecture, as to place him at the very head of American poets. Yet, because upon several occasions we have thought proper to demonstrate the sins, while displaying the virtues, of Professor Longfellow, is it just or proper, or even courteous, on the part of The Gazette, to accuse us, in round terms, of uncompromising hostility, to this poet?” Poe had made too many enemies not to find these anonymous insinuations and misrepresentations of daily occurrence, and it is a somewhat pitiable sight to see him stooping, although often unavoidably, to defend himself against such scurrilities. One of these charges was somewhat amusingly put, and noticed in the Broadway in a not unfriendly manner. The jeu d‘esprit may be cited here, by way of contrast to the generally but too dark shades in the story, of the “Raven,” as his friends liked to style the poet: —

Other noteworthy things by Poe, which appeared in the Journal during the two months referred to, were a laudatory review of Mrs. Oakes Smith’s “Poems;” [page 35:] a trenchant critique on “Christopher North,” and an analysis of his critical powers; a defence of Machiavelli spoken of as “a man of profound thought, of great sagacity, of indomitable will, and unrivalled during his time, if not in knowledge of the human, at least in knowledge of the Italian, heart;” — new remarks on “Leigh Hunt,” “Festus,” and the effects of travel on literary wares. With respect to this last item, “it is astonishing to see how a magazine article,” said the poet, “like a traveller, spruces up after crossing the sea. We ourselves have had the honour of being pirated without mercy — but as we found our articles improved by the process (at least in the opinion of our countrymen), we said nothing, as a matter of course. We have written paper after paper which attracted no notice at all until it appeared as original in Bentley’s Miscellany or the Paris Charivari. The Boston Notion* once abused us very lustily for having written ‘The House of Usher.’ Not long afterwards Bentley published it anonymously, as original with itself, whereupon the Notion,: having forgotten that we wrote it, not only lauded it ad nauseam, but copied it in toto.”

Charles Lamb next comes under the poet’s critical notice, on account of his “Essays of Elia,” and he is, opined Poe, the most original of all the British essayists.” [page 36:] Of all original men, too, Lamb,” said his reviewer, “has the fewest demerits. Of gross faults he has none at all. His merest extravagances have about them a symmetry which entitles them to critical respect. And his innumerable good qualities who shall attempt to depict?”

But literary squabbles still occupied a large portion of the poet’s time and his journal — the literary world was too much with him, either for his comfort or reputation. A certain Mr. Jones now excited his wrath by his [published] opinions on “American Humour,” or rather his attacks on authors he deemed deficient of that element. “The French,” said this Mr. Jones, “have no humour;” to which Poe retorted, “Let him pray Heaven that in Hades he fall not into the clutches of Moliere, of Rabelais, of Voltaire?” and forthwith proceeded to administer a severe castigation to the offending journalist. The following week the skirmishing was resumed, but nothing very desperate appears to have taken place in this case; although a regular hornet’s nest, of pilferers were stirred up by an exposure, in the same number, of their plagiarisms. From these miserable petty matters it is pleasant to pass to some truly noble thoughts on Milton, aroused by the publication of his “Prose Works,” the language of which, said the American poet, after due allowance has been made for the time [page 37:] in which they were written, “no man has ever surpassed, if, indeed, any man has ever equalled, in purity, in force, in copiousness, in majesty, or, in what may be termed, without the least exaggeration, a gorgeous magnificence of style.” In the course of this’ article occasion was taken to defend Bacon from the accusation of being “the meanest of mankind.” “We would undertake to show à priori,” said Poe, “that no man, with Bacon’s thorough appreciation of the true and beautiful, could, by any possibility, be ‘the meanest,’ although his very sensibility might make him the weakest ‘of mankind.’ ”

Week after week this work of reviewing books, authors, drama, and fine arts, and attacking or defending people and opinions, went on with more or less skill, as if the poet were aided by some hundredhanded demon. Much parade was made in editorial notes of the literary help received from well-known littérateurs, but, beyond a few verses, little was contributed by any of the persons named. In the last week of October Poe became proprietor as well as editor of the Journal, and inaugurated his assumption of the sole control of the publication by the commencement of an absurd disputation with some Boston newspapers. This petty but lengthy journalistic warfare arose thus: In consequence of the furor excited by the lecture the poet gave in New York, in [page 38:] the early part of the year, he was invited to Boston to deliver a poem in the Lyceum of that city. It is stated that the lecture — course of this institution was waning in popularity, and that Poe’s fame being at its zenith, he was invited as a great attraction for the opening of the winter session. Unfortunately the poet accepted the invitation, having the intention, his earliest biographer avers, of writing an original poem for the occasion, upon a subject which had haunted his imagination for years, but his manifold cares and anxieties prevented the accomplishment of the purpose — if such he had — and he contented himself with the recitation of his juvenile poem of “Al Aaraaf.”

“I remember him well, as he came on the platform,” says one who was present. “He was the best realisation of a poet in feature, air, and manner, that I had ever seen, and the unusual paleness of his face added to its aspect of melancholy interest. He delivered a poem that no one understood, but at its conclusion gave the audience a treat which almost redeemed their disappointment. This was the recitation of his own ‘Raven,’ which he repeated with thrilling effect. It was something well worth treasuring in memory. . . . Poe,” adds this authority,“after he returned to New York, was much incensed at Boston criticism on his poem.”

Probably the poet was not incensed to any very [page 39:] great extent at what was said about him, but doubtless deemed it a favourable opportunity, for his journal’ sake, to make what he termed “a bobbery.” A just view of the case was taken by a contemporary publication, the Charlestown Patriot, when it remarked that for a man endowed with such a genius, and constituted as was Poe, “it was a blunder to accept the appointment which called him to deliver himself in poetry before the Boston Lyceum. Highly imaginative men,” as it says truly, “can scarcely succeed in such exhibitions. . . . In obeying this call to Boston,” it continues, “Mr. Poe committed’ another mistake. He had been mercilessly exercising himself as a critic at the expense of some of their favourite writers. The swans of New England, under his delineation, had been described as mere geese, and those, too, of none of the whitest. . . . Poe had dealt with favourites of Boston unsparingly, and they hankered after their revenge. In an evil hour, then, did he consent to commit himself, in verse, to their tender mercies. It is positively amusing to see how eagerly all the little witlings of the press, in the old purlieus of the Puritan, flourish the critical tomahawk about the head of their critic. In their eagerness for retribution, one of the papers before us actually congratulates itself and readers on the (asserted) failure of the poet. . . . Mr. Poe committed an error in consenting to address an audience in verse, who, for [page 40:] three mortal hours, had been compelled to sit and hear Mr. Caleb Cushing in prose. The attempt to speak, after this, in. poetry, and fanciful poetry, too, was sheer madness. The most patient audience in the world must have been utterly exhausted by the previous infliction. But it is denied that Mr. Poe failed at all.

He had been summoned to recite poetry. It is asserted that he did so. The Boston Courier, one of the most thoughtful of the journals of that city, gives us a very favourable opinion of the performance which has been so harshly treated. ‘The poem,’ says that journal, ‘called “The Messenger Star,’ ” was an eloquent and classic production, based on the right principles, containing the essence of true poetry, mingled with a gorgeous imagination, exquisite painting, every charm, of metre, and a graceful delivery.’ ”

A week after the recitation of his poem Poe began to comment, in a tone of badinage, upon the remarks made by some of the Bostonian papers with respect to his recent performance: “We have been quizzing the Bostonians,” was his assertion, “and one or two of the more stupid of their editors and editresses have taken it in high dudgeon.” In the next issue of the Broadway Journal, the poet, after quoting a vindicatory paragraph from the Boston Sunday Times, proceeds

This lengthy letter did not conclude Poe’s comments upon the matter; for three weeks he permitted the affair to remain dormant, so far as his own journal was concerned, but at the expiration of that period he issued another long editorial, beginning with the remark, “As we very confidently expected, our friends in the southern and western country (true friends and tried) are taking up arms in our cause — and more especially in the cause of a national as distinguished from a sectional literature. They cannot see (it appears) any further necessity for being ridden to death by New England.” After quoting certain opinions of the press, [page 44:] the poet goes on to say, that if asked “What is the most exquisite of sublunary pleasures?” the reply would be “the making a fuss, or, in the classical words of a Western friend, the ‘kicking up a bobbery;’ ” adding, “never was a ‘bobbery’ more delightful than that which we have just succeeded in ‘kicking up’ all round about Boston Common. We never saw the Frogpondians so lively in our lives. They seem absoutely to be upon the point of waking up . . . to certain facts which have long been obvious to all the world except themselves — the facts that there exist other cities than Boston . . . other vehicles of literary information than the ‘Down-East Review.’ ”

Other newspaper opinions are then cited, and other over-wrought banterings indulged in, and then what was really the gist of the article was given in these words: —

From the postscriptum to this editorial may be cited these few more sentences: “Miss Walters (the Siren!) has seen cause, we find, to recant all the ill natured little insinuations she has been making against us (mere white lies — she need not take them so much to heart), and is now overwhelming us with apologies — things which we have never yet been able to withstand. She defends our poem on the ground of its being ‘juvenile,’ and we think the more of her defence because she herself has been juvenile so long as to be a judge of juvenility.”

During the following weeks Poe delivered a few [page 47:] more Parthian darts at these Bostonian editors, but, so far as the Broadway Journal was concerned, this was the end of the far-famed, attack on Frogpondium. The whole squabble was petty, and little worthy of the strenuous exertions it aroused against the poet. Those hurried jocular, although overstrained, newspaper jottings, — thrown off in the midst of cares and anxieties of all kinds, and whilst their unfortunate writer, suffering under almost chronic impecuniosity, and unable to pay for literary aid, was obliged to supply “copy” for nearly the whole of the Journal, — have been referred to, and adduced from, as evidence of Poe’s irretrievably bad nature. Work of a more pleasing nature, however, was now occupying his attention and time. In October he published in his journal the poetically worded sketch of “The Island of the Fay,” in which some of his most salient traits of thoughts are expressed. In this composition he pointed out how human figures disfigure a landscape; reiterated his ofttold love of solitude; and affected to believe, with the old geographer Pomponious Mela, that the earth is a living sentient being. In this same prose poem Poe, in drawing attention to the palpable fact that space is an object in our universe, laid down a proposition that really contained the germ of his subsequent great work “Eureka.”

In the Following month of November, the tale of [page 48:] “Spectacles” appeared in the Broadway Journal, which also contained the announcement that Poe was now its “sole proprietor and editor;” Graham’s Magazine contained “The System of Dr. Tarr and Professor Fether,” and “Mesmeric Revelations” was published in the Columbian Magazine. This last story, and its sequel of “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar” — published next month in the American Review created a more profound and wider-spread excitement than any other of his previous works. He was overwhelmed with inquiries as to their being fact or fiction, and carefully avoided giving the public a definite answer. Commenting upon The Tribune’s remarks about the latter tale — that terrible tale of mesmerising a man in articulo mortis — Poe said, “For our past, we find it difficult to understand how any dispassionate transcendentalist can doubt the. facts as we state them; they are by no means so incredible as the marvels which are hourly narrated, and believed, on the topic of mesmerism. Why cannot a man’s death be postponed indefinitely by mesmerism? why cannot a man talk after he is dead? why? — why? — that is the question; and as soon as the Tribune has answered it to our satisfaction we will talk to it further.” And in reprinting “The Facts” in his journal, he notes that the article “has given rise to some discussion — especially in regard to the truth or falsity of [page 49:] the statement made. It does not become us, of course,” he adds, “to offer one word on the point at issue. We have been requested to reprint the article, and do so with pleasure. We leave it to speak for itself. We may observe, however, that there are a certain class of people who pride themselves upon Doubt as a profession.”

The wordy warfare as to the facts of “The Facts” being a record of real circumstance or not, waxed warmer, and even people who should have known better took the side of the believers. Dr. Collyer, a well-known mesmerist, was among the many who expressed their belief as to the “case of Monsieur Valdemar” being a true one, and he wrote this letter to Poe on the subject: —

In public allusion to this communication, Poe humorously said, “We have no doubt that Dr. Collyer is perfectly correct in all that he says, and all that he desires us to say; but the truth is, there is a very small modicum of truth in the case of M. Valdemar, which, in consequence, may be called a hard case very hard for M. Valdemar, for Dr. Collyer, and ourselves. If the story was not true, however, it should have been, and perhaps The Zoist may discover that it is true, after all.”

In England “Valdemar’s Case” also startled the public, and actually found certain pseudo scientific writers ready to accept it as a narration of facts. The Popular Record of Modern Science, a London weekly [page 51:] paper sub-styling itself “A Journal of Philosophy and General Information,” reprinted the tale with the comment, “It bears internal evidence of authenticity!” and in criticising the remarks of the Morning Post — which also reprinted the narratio — took occasion to say:

It is easy to imagine the delight with which Poe [page 52:] chuckled over the absurd sophistry of these pseudo scientists, and over the success, in an English self-titled philosophical paper, of his “ ‘Valdemar Case’ hoax,” as he called it in a letter to a friend. He would find more true gratification, however, in these allusions to the work in a letter of Mrs. Browning’s: — “Then there is a tale of his which I do not find in this volume,* but which is going the rounds of the newspapers, about mesmerism, throwing us all into most admired disorder, “or dreadful doubts as to whether it can be true, as the children say of ghost stories. The certain thing in the tale in question is the power of the writer, and the faculty he has of making horrible improbabilities seem near and familiar.”

To Mrs. Browning Poe now dedicated, in most enthusiastic terms, a new collection of his poems, published in November by Messrs. Wiley and Putnam, as “The Raven and other Poems.” In the Preface to the volume the poet pathetically remarks, “Events not to be controlled have prevented me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in reverence; they must not — they cannot at will be excited with an eye to the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, [page 53:] of mankind.” And, in a note to the Poems written in Youth, he says, — chiefly with reference to the remark of Charles Dickens in the Foreign Quarterly Review, that Poe “had all Tennyson’s spirituality, and might be considered as the best of his imitators” — “Private reasons — some of which have reference to the sin of plagiarism, and others to the date of Tennyson’s first poems — have induced me, after some hesitation, to republish these, the crude compositions of my earliest boyhood.” The volume of poetry did not appear to make such a deep impression upon the public as did the volume of “Tales,” partly, perchance, on account of the contents being already well known through reprints, and partly because it contained little beyond “The Raven” likely to earn the approbation of the multitude.

On turning to the less literary, although scarcely less public, life of Poe at this period, he is seen mixing in the best society New York could boast of, and charming every one by the fascination of his manners and the brilliancy of his conversational powers. Mrs. Oakes Smith informs us, that “It was in the brilliant circles that assembled in the winter of 1845-46 at the houses of Dr. Dewey, Miss Anna C. Lynch, Mr. Lawson, and others, that we first met Edgar Poe. His manners were, athese reunions, refined and pleasing, and his style and scope of conversation that of a gentleman [page 54:] and a scholar. Whatever may have been his previous career, there was nothing in his appearance or manner to indicate his excesses. He delighted in the society of superior women, and had an exquisite perception of all the graces of manner and shades of expression. He was an admiring listener, and an unobtrusive observer. We all recollect the interest felt at the time in everything emanating from his pen — the relief it was from the dulness of ordinary writers, the certainty of something fresh and suggestive. His critiques were read with avidity; not that he convinced the judgment, but that people felt their ability and courage. Right or wrong he was terribly in earnest.” “Like De Quincey,” as Mrs. Whitman remarks, “he never supposed anything, he always knew.”

This last named lady, in her beautiful monograph on “Poe and his Critics,” instances, as evidence of the habitual kindliness and courtesy of the poet’s nature, an incident that occurred at one of the soirdes above alluded to: — “A lady, noted for her great lingual attainments, wishing to apply a wholesome check to the vanity of a young author, proposed inviting him to translate for the company a difficult passage in Greek, of which language she knew him to be profoundly ignorant, although given to a rather pretentious display of Greek quotations in his published writings. Poe’s earnest and persistent remonstrance against this [page 55:] piece of méchanceté alone averted the embarrassing test.” Trifling as this anecdote may appear, it is good proof of that generous and charitable disposition which they who knew him only from the scandalous calumnies of his detractors have so unwarrantably denied him the possession of.

Those who have thus far followed Poe’s story through these pages, will know what a passionate adoration he bore towards the beautiful sharer of his luckless lot. “Sometimes,” says Mrs. Whitman,” his fair young wife was seen with him at the weekly assemblages in Waverley Place. She seldom took part in the conversation, but the memory of her sweet and girlish face, always animated and vivacious, repels the assertion, afterwards so cruelly and recklessly made, that she died a victim to the neglect and unkindness of her husband, ‘who,’ as it has been said, ‘deliberately sought her death that he might embalm her memory in immortal dirges.’ . . . We might cite the testimony alike of friends and enemies,” continues Mrs. Whitman, “to Poe’s unvarying kindness towards his young wife and cousin, if other testimony were needed than that of the tender love still. cherished for his memory, by one whose life was made doubly desolate by his death — the sister of his father, and the mother of his Virginia. It is well known to those acquainted with the parties,” [page 56:] Mrs. Whitman proceeds to narrate, “that all who have had opportunities for observation in the matter have noticed her husband’s tender devotion to her during her prolonged illness. Even Dr. Griswold speaks of having visited him during a period of illness caused by protracted anxiety and watching by the side of his sick wife. It is true that, notwithstanding her vivacity and cheerfulness at the time we have alluded to, her health was, even then, rapidly sinking; and it was for her dear sake, and the recovery of that peace which had been so fatally perilled amid the irritations and anxieties of his New York life, that Poe left the city and removed to the little Dutch cottage in Fordham, where he passed the remaining three years of his life.”

Returning to the poet’s labours on the Broadway Journal, we find some noteworthy critiques in the last November number, on various works of contemporary and permanent interest. Professor Raumer’s book on America is noticed, chiefly as an instance of the difficulties experienced by foreigners to obtain correct information about American literature, and the fact that the author professedly derived his knowledge of their poets from Griswold’s compilation is commented upon in stinging terms. Victor Hugo is next alluded to, his fictions being referred to as unequalled, whilst his “Notre Dame” calls forth Poe’s enthusiastic sympathy, as “a work of high genius controlled by [page 57:] consummate art.” Tennyson’s “Poems” then come under review, and their creator is spoken of as “a poet who (in our own humble, but sincere opinion) is the greatest that ever lived. We are perfectly Willing to undergo all the censure,” subjoins Poe, “which so heretical an opinion may draw down upon us.” This month’s literary labours were concluded by the publication, in Graham’s Magazine, of the “System of Dr. Tarr and Professor Fether,” a tale of no particular value.

In the December numbers of his Journal Poe gave a lengthy review of the Poems of Mrs. Osgood, of whom more will be heard later on, some appropriate remarks on Mrs. Norton’s “Child of the Isles,” sympathetic allusions to Prescott, reference to “Love and Mesmerism” by Horace Smith, as the work of “an author who never did anything ill,” and manifold minor reviews and notices, including one on the works of Shelley, opined to be “a poet whom all poets, and whom poets only, appreciate.”

The days of his periodical were numbered, but before resigning the control of its columns, the poet contrived to enliven the “Editorial Miscellany” with another small skirmish. “The Brook-Farm” folk, now best remembered by their embalmment in Hawthorne’s “Blithedale Romance,” went out of their way to find fault with Poe, whose fame, their chief journal alleged, [page 58:] was degenerating into “notoriety, through a certain blackguard warfare which he had been waging against the poets and newspaper critics of New England, and which it would be most charitable to impute to insanity.” After this last insinuation — a somewhat awkward one for a people so situated as were the “Farmers” — its propounders, reviewing Poe’s recent volume of poems, concluded their animadversions by declaring that the author “does not write for Humanity; he has more of the art than the soul of poetry. He affects to despise the world while he writes for it. He certainly has struck out a remarkable course: the style and imagery of his earliest poems mark a very singular culture, a judgment most severe for a young writer, and a familiarity with the less hackneyed portions of classic lore and nomenclature. He seems to have had an idea of working out his forms from pure white marble. But the poet’s humanity is wanting; a morbid egotism repels you. He can affect you with wonder, but rarely with the thrill of any passion, except, perhaps, of pride, which might be dignity, and which therefore always is interesting. We fear this writer even courts the state described by Tennyson: —

Of these final not altogether unflattering and in [page 59:] some respects not quite unfaithful, remarks, Poe took no note; but the innuendoes as to his insanity, insulting a Boston audience, ill motives, plagiarism of Tennyson, and so forth, he accompanied by a running commentary as caustic as it was pertinent, introducing the subject in this fashion: —

With this farewell volley Poe’s connection with the periodical may be said to have ceased, for although it did not expire until. the following month, and the latest number contained some noteworthy remarks by the poet on Cromwell and on Faber’s Speaking Automaton, [page 60:] the editorial management had then passed into the hands of a certain “Thomas Dunn English,” of whom more will be heard presently. In his Valedictory, the ex-editorial proprietor stated, “Unexpected engagements demanding my whole attention, and the objects being fulfilled, so far as regards myself personally, for which the Broadway Journal was established, I now, as its editor, bid farewell as cordially to foes as to friends.”

[[Footnotes]]

[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 35:]

* Edited by R. W. Griswold.

[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 52:]

* I. e., the 1845 edition of “Tales.”