Text: Richard Beale Davis, “Conversations with Poe,” Chivers' Life of Poe, 1952, pp. 39-52

[page 39, continued:]

“What do you think of the present Pantheon of English Poets?” asked I. [page 40:]

“I consider Tennyson not only the greatest Poet in England, at present, but the greatest one, in many senses, that England, or any other Country, ever produced,” answered he. °“Horn [sic], perhaps, is next. The rest are not worth naming.”

“But you have left out °Thomas Lovel[l] Beddoes!” said I.

“Yes, I had forgotten him,” replied he. “He has written some very fine Dramatic Poems. You know my opinion of °Miss Barrette [sic],(43) as you have read my Criticism on the Drama of Exile in the °Broadway Journal. She stands, as a Poet, when compared with the male Poets of England, midway between Shelley and Tennyson — possessing(44) more of the Shelleyan abandon than the truly Tennysonian Poetic sense — but infinitely above any female that England ever produced — or, in fact, any other Country. Speaking of Horne, reminds me of the two copies of °Orion which he sent me by the last steamer from England.” Reaching his hand over to the left side of the bed, he took up two pamphlets in twelve mo. form and handed them to me. On looking over the title-page I saw that it was Orion, an Epic Poem in three Books, by R. H. Horne. On the back of one of them was an address “to E. A. Poe,” in Horn's [sic] own hand writing. On the other volume, such(45) a change of the title as would suit the Edition which he requested Poe to have brought out in New York. This he presented to me. The other he kept himself, because, as he then said himself, it contained the address in Horn's [sic] own handwriting. I then asked him if it was his intention to bring out a new Edition in New York. He then said: [page 41:]

°“I have taken this book to every respectable(46) Publisher in this City, and not one of them is willing to take upon himself the responsibility of the publication. Here is a work which is, at best, five hundred years in advance of the Age, and yet I cannot get a publisher for it in America; but if it were a book of romance, full of absurd improbabilities, bad grammar, and wanting in every other thing necessary to make it a book at all, I could find a Publisher at every corner. But here is [a] work superior even to Milton's Paradise Lost, which I do not expect ever to see published in America. There is not a Publisher in America, that deserves the name even of Bookseller.”

I then recited to him the following beautiful passage from Shelley's Prometheus Unbound:

Turning over in the bed, and, opening his large, mildly beaming hazle [sic] eyes, he looked me full in the face with a suspiciously apprehensive owllike(48) stare, the reason of which I was unable to understand until after the lapse of five] years(49) when it was proven to me(50) that the reason why he did so was, because he supposed I had quoted the passage in order to tantalize him for his periodical inebriation. [page 42:]

Then locking the fore-finger of his right hand into the little one of his left — his mild hazle eyes beaming with the heavenly light of the inspiration of the [thing?] which then descended upon him — while his mellow shell(51) like voice rolled over his lips like the soft tones of an Aeolian Harp when the music that has been sleeping in the strings is awakened by the Breezes of Eden laden with sweet Spices from the Mountains of the Lord — his soul ascended on the Dovelike wings of rapt enthusiasm into thoughts [illegible] (52) the highest Heaven of Beauty — Scattering down from the luminous wake of his soaring the manna dews of an ever-lasting eloquence.

Not long after this — even while we were talking about the state of his health — his wife entered the room, to whom he very politely introduced me. Presently Mrs Clemm, his mother-in-law, came in, to whom he also introduced me. I was very much pleased with his wife. She appeared to me to be a very tender-hearted and affectionate woman — particularly to him whom she addressed with the endearing appellation of My Dear! But she was not a healthy woman, as I perceived after a little acquaintance with her — as, at irregular intervals — even while we were talking — she was attacked with a terrible paroxysm of coughing whose spasmodic convulsions seemed to me almost to rend asunder her very body. This was so severe at times as to threaten her with strangulation. I then asked if Mrs Poe had been long ill? He replied “Yes — she has always been sick — never having been well since I first knew her!

“Has she caught cold? or [is] it a consumption under which she [is now] (53) labouring?” I then asked. [page 43:]

“No — it is not a cold — °Dr Mitchell, of Philadelphia, says that she has the Bronchitis. She ruptured a blood vessel while singing, in Philadelphia, and has never been well since. Do you know Dr Mitchell? He is a Poet.”

I then said, “No, I am not acquainted with him; but have often seen his pieces in the papers.”

Mrs Poe then got up and left the room — Mrs Clemm, her mother, following her. Presently she returned with a glass of Lemonade, which she handed to me. Then turning to Poe, she asked “My dear! will you have a glass?”

“No — I do not wish any at present,” said he, with an indifferent roll(54) on the pillow of his head.

Handing her the empty glass, she then left the room. Poe then turning to me, said, “I have long wished to see [you] upon a subject in which I am vitally interested. It is the publication of a °Magazine, about which I wrote you first from Philadelphia, to be called The Stylus. When I first wrote you from Philadelphia in the letter containing the Prospectus, it was my intention then to call it The Penn Magzine [sic]; but after having received your letter in which you suggested that such a title would render it too local, I then came to the conclusion to give it the name of the Pen with which the Greeks used to write, called The Stylus. This would not only be more significant, but determine in some sense — in fact, as far as any title whatsoever could — the precise nature of the work.”

By this time Mrs Poe had returned into the room again with her bonnet on.

Turning to her, he then said “My Dear, hand me the bundle of letters there in the Bureau Drawer touching upon the publication of The Stylus.” [page 44:]

She then went to the Bureau, took out a large bundle of letters — perhaps a hundred — and laid them down on a small table near the window where I was sitting, . .

Then passing around the bed towards the door, she said, “My Dear, I am going out with mother to take a small walk. I think it will do me good.”

“Very well,” said he, then turning towards me. “I am very willing. But you had, perhaps, better not walk too far. You know that Dr Mitchell said too much exercise was not good for you.”

She then said, while adjusting her bonnet-strings, “Shall I tell the °Servant Girl should any persons call to see you, not to admit them?”

“Yes, tell her to tell them that I am sick and cannot see them,” said he.

She then left the room.

“If you will glance at those letters there,” said he to me, “you will perceive in what estimation my proposal to publish The Stylus, is held [by] the most influential men in the Union. But those are not the tenth part of what I have received during the present year. I have many strong friends in the South and West who have promised me their aid in the procuring of subscribers. If you will open that letter which you now hold in your hand you will perceive that °Mr John Tomlin, of Jackson, Tennessee, who has written some pretty little things, has already obtained me thirty good paying subscribers. This, you will perceive, is strong evidence in favor of our establishing the Magazine immediately.”

I then asked him in what form it should be published. “Just hand me that book yonder on the Bureau,” said he, “and I will show you.” [page 45:]

I then got up took the book and handed it to him.(55)

“This,” said he, “is part of a fine London Edition of The °Arabian Nights Entertainments, translated by Lane. It is beautifuly printed — in just such a style as we ought to get up the Magazine. I saw it at Wiley & Putnam's Book Store and bought it on purpose to show to you.”

I then asked him how many papers ought each Number to contain.

He then said, “About the Number of °Colton's Whig Review — but no less. If you say that you will join me, I will publish a new Prospectus in which I will announce ourselves to the Public as the Editors. But as I am not very well at present, we will talk more about it at our leisure. But if we intend to do any thing, we ought to work immediately — for there is no time to be lost.”

I then told him that I would be ready to join him by the first of January, 1846.

“Did you ever see Lowell” asked he.°

“No, I never did,” was my reply.

“He called to see me, the other day,” said he; “but I was very much disappointed in his appearance as an intellectual man. He was not half the noble-looking person that I expected to see.”

I then told him that I could not but wonder at his expecting to see any thing great in Lowel — when he had never given a single indication in any of his writings of any thing that even resembled a great man.

“He has written some fine things,” said he. “Have you seen my Criticism on °Rosaline?”

“Yes,” said I, “I have.”

“Well, do you not consider that a fine Poem,” asked he. “In some respects it may be called a fine Poem,” said I; [page 46:] “but in many others it is anything but a Lyric of the highest order.”

“Do you not consider my Criticism a just one?” as[ked] he.

“No, I do not,” answered I — ”inasmuch as you have overpraised him.”

“In what respect do you consider that I have overpraised him?” asked he.

“In every possible one,” answered I “You have pronounced it one of the finest Poems ever written by any American; when it is as palpable a plagiarism as was ever palmed off by arrogant mental mediocrity upon a too credulous Public.”

“In what sense do you consider it plagiarism?” asked he.

“In every sense that can constitute it a Poem,” I answered. “Not only in the rhythms but also the rhyming consonations. In fact, it is a plagiarism in the very chime of it. I grant you it is the best thing that he ever wrote; but in doing this, I only show you how poor everything else that he has written is.”

He then looked sad and remained taciturn for some time. “How do you like Shelley?” asked he, a little piqued.

“I consider him one of the greatest Poets that ever lived,” I answered him. “His Cenci I consider not inferiour, as a true Dramatic Poem, to the very best of Shakespeare's plays. In fact, in some senses it is superior to any thing that Shakespeare ever wrote.”

“In passion he was supreme, but it was an unfettered enthusiasm ungoverned by the amenities of Art,” answered he.

“But it was the clairvoyant fortuitousness of intuition,” answered I. “Like St. John on the Island of Patmos he beheld his celestial Visions of the coming of the New Jerusalem [page 47:] of Man with the couched eyes of one of God's Holiest Prophets.”

“His principal forte was powerful abandon of rhythmical conception,” answered he. “But he lacked just that Tennysonian Art necessary to the creation of a perfect Poem. You are mistaken in supposing that passion is the primum mobile of the true Poet, for it is just the reverse. A pure Poem proper is one that is wholly destitute of a particle of passion.”

“Then you admire °Tennyson?” asked I.

“Yes, I consider him one of the greatest Poets that ever lived!” answered he.

“My God! Poe! how can you say that?” asked I in surprise. “Why, his Poems are as effeminate as a phlegmatic fat baby. He is the most perfectly Greek statuesque, if you please — in his conceptions of any man that ever lived since the days of Pericles.”

“This is just what constitutes him one of the greatest geniuses that ever lived,” answered he. “Passion has nothing to do with pure Poetry; for every drop of passion that you infuse into any Poem just so far do you materialize, deteriorate and render it no-Poem. A pure Poem is a rhythmical creation of Beauty wholly destitute of every thing, but that which constitutes purity, namely, etheri-(56) etheriality.”

“Well, but this would not only bring you in conflict with the time-honoured opinions of the world, but be the establishing of a new mode of Criticism of among [sic] the Nations,” said I.

“True, but that does not give me a moments concern,” answered he, with an imperial self-consciousness of his own importance, as well as the perfect knowledge of the purity of the truth, that he had just spoken. [page 48:]

“If what you say be true, then two thirds of every thing that Shakespeare ever wrote is absolutely good for nothing,” said I.

“Certainly it is good for nothing. Nothing is good for any thing except that which contains within itself the essence of its own vitality,” answered he. “Otherwise it is mortal and ought to die.”

“Then, if this be the case, — if all the Poetical works in the world were pruned of their excrescences [sic],(57) there would be very little real Poetry left,” answered I.

“Very little, indeed; but just enough to show what I say of Poetry is true,” replied he.

“Then Byron, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Montgomery, Southey, and many other world-renowned Sons of Song, would fare badly,” answered I.

“But no worse than they deserve,” answered he, very peremptorily.

“What do you think of Keats?” asked I.

“He was the greatest of any of the English Poets of the same age, if not at any age,” answered he, with the air of a man who was not only conscious of his own consummate ability, but who had long before deliberately formed his opinions. “He was far in advance of the best of them, with the exception of Shelley, in the study of his themes. His principal fault is the grotesqueness of his abandon.”

“What do you think of °Bryant?” asked I again —

“I hold the policy, — or shall I call it politeness — to speak, in noticing Bryant's Poems, respectfully — or, perhaps, I should here, too, qualify my expression [b]y saying flatteringly of the private opinions of Literary Circles. But did you not know — does not every true Critic know — that if Mr Bryant, himself does not know in what true Poetry [page 49:] consists, that it is eternally impossible these Private Circles should. But would any honest man — would any man but one who is an arrant coward — morally as well as physically — withhold his conscientious opinions of the merits of any book merely because they would come in conflict with the preconcerted opinions of the world? Certainly not. Then why should any man hesitate to say, most positively, that these before-mentioned Private Circles know nothing at all about the matter? They do not write Poetry — nor do they Criticise it — then, how can they know any thing about it? If Mr Bryant himself does not know what it is, how can his admirers? Has it come to this, that the Critic knows more than the Artist? It has always, heretofore, been the belief that the Artist was the Maker(58) of the Critic.”

“That Mr Bryant does not know, is proven by this incontestible fact, that he has never written the highest order of Poetry. Of what moment is it with any true Critic that any man, or any number of unpoetical men, should admire Bryant? No moment at all. It only proves that the Poet whom they admire, has something in him worthy of their admiration — that is all. But this only proves that they are incompetent to judge of the highest order of Poetry, inasmuch as the individual whom they admire, cannot write it. Yet, this is the sum total of all that has ever been, or ever will be, said about the opinions of Private Circles.

“Every body pretends he knows something — particularly about Poetry. You cannot meet with any man who will not tell you something about what he likes, or what he dislikes. Many men whom I have met in my life have intimated to me that what they liked in music was far in advance of any thing that was ever conceived of by any of the. Italian Composers. Others, again, have given preference to the °Æthiopian [page 50:] Melodies..(59) I once knew a man who swore that Sally in the Wildwoods was far above any thing that °Ole Bull could compose. I also once met with a lady who could not see any beauty at all in the Italian music. So the world wags.

“But who will be deterred from telling the truth on account of such people? Nobody in his senses. I vereily [verrily?] believe that there are people in this world who, if they had nothing better to do, would absolutely fall in love with the Devil.(60)

“The highest genius is that which has lying deep down within the crystal current of his being, the shining golden arc of the loftiest Art.”

Mr Poe, in speaking of °Mrs Welby's Poetry, says, that, a strain of music heard for the hundredth time would disgust. But why is this so?(61)

Why is it that a strain of music °will enchant us on first being heard? Because we hear it, of course. What I mean by this is, that the organs of hearing, by which the sound is communicated to the soul, are in a [sic] eruptive capacity to acknowledge sound. The vibratory molecules of the auricular organs are in that untired condition which enables them to respond, perceptively, to the vibrations of the musical tones. But after these organs have become jaded, by the continual application of the reverberatory action, they become jaded, — or, in other words, lose the power to communicate these vibrations to the sensorium. The same thing is true in regard to the smelling of a rose. When too [page 51:] long applied, the sense of smell becomes dulled to the particles of the odor. But if a lily, be applied, it is recognized — not because it has awaked any new power in the organ already jaded by the rose, — but because its particles, possessing a different molicular action, stimulate that portion of the nasal organs untouched before by the effluvium of the rose.

Now, as by changing the different flowers a continual and new-awakened delights [sic] can be kept up in the organs of smell; so, also, by the continued application of new and melodious imagery in a Poem,(62) ever-variant and novel intonations in music, is the soul enabled to injoy, while continually thirsting after protracted delights. This will, at once, unveil to us the secret of that Art necessary to write a true Poem — one that will give the greatest amount of pleasure in a certain given time, with the least tedium.

As all impressions are made upon the soul in time, subject to the mutations incident to it, while in this state, — it is obvious that no long-continued effort can last without a loss in these pleasurable sensations consignent upon freshness of nervous energy — (63) It is, therefore, clear that no Poem of any considerable length can be, from the very nature of the relations which subsist between the power of the soul to receive, and the impressions to be made, pleasing to any well-educated mind for any length of time. The same may be said of music. This is the reason why Lyrics in Poetry, and Ballads in dancing,(64) always have been and always will be pleasing.

In speaking of Tennyson's quaintness, he was just as far from giving the true bent of his genius. It is true that Lord Bacon said, °“There was no exquisite beauty without some [page 52:] strangeness in its proportions;” but it is no less true that this is not the truth.(65) To the couched eyes of an illuminated Seer, all things appear beautiful that are really so; but to an uncouched one, like Paradise to the Dives.(66) It is the objective indefiniteness of the charms of any pure Beauty, to any uncouched subjective eye, which makes it appear “strange.” But how could Pluto look upon the face of Jove, without having his eyes put out? But this indeffiniteness was thought, by Mr Poe, to be one of the essential secrets of Beauty. — (67) But this was making the Spirit of Beauty depend upon the manner of her being seen; and not on the graces of her own person.

He makes use of the same remark in regard to music. But who does not know that it is just as false in regard to music as to Poetry? The truth is, he, as well as Lord Bacon, was mistaken in the impression which non-beauty — or that which is terrestrial at least — makes upon the mind that is not able clearly to perceive it. But who does not know that to the clairvoyant soul of every true Poet — as well as to the Angels in Heaven — that Beauty is only beautiful when deffinitely, and not indiffinitely, seen? — when it is seen in all its crystalline entireness?(68)

[[Footnotes]]

[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 39:]

42 Written at top of sheet in Chivers’ later hand.

[The following footnotes appear at the bottom of page 40:]

43 Woodberry read this “Miss Rossetti [Barrett(?) ].” It can only be “Miss Barrette.”

44 Woodberry read this word as “promising,” which is impossible.

45 Woodberry misreads as “with.”

[The following footnotes appear at the bottom of page 41:]

46 Woodberry misreads as “reputable.”

47 Woodberry inserts three periods after “the” and places “nectar” in brackets.

48 Woodberry mistakenly reads “awelike.”

49 Followed by the marked-through: “though the peculiar owllike nature of the stare was forever visible before me to my mind's eye. Other collateral circumstances proved to me.”

50 Preceding six words written above marked-through passage given in note 49.

[The following footnotes appear at the bottom of page 42:]

51 Woodberry reads this as “shrill,” mistakenly.

52 Woodberry reads this passage: “into the highest thoughts [illegible] Heaven of Beauty.” Written-over and written-in words make it difficult.

53 Woodberry mistakenly inserts “is” as original text.

[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 43:]

54 Woodberry says “[illegible].” It is with this dialogue that the present editor has begun the insertion of quotation marks not present in Chivers’ MS.

[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 45:]

55 Woodberry cuts this sentence to: “I got up and handed it to him.”

[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 47:]

56 This ends page 17a, sic. Cf. next word with Woodberry's “etheristity.”

[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 48:]

57 Cf. Woodberry's “excrescences.”

[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 49:]

58 Woodberry mistakenly reads “Mother.”

[The following footnotes appear at the bottom of page 50:]

59 This is followed by the marked-through: “over any thing ever produced by any of the Schools of Fatherland.”

60 Woodberry ends his quotation here, at the end of a sheet. Though on the same paper and in the same period of handwriting, the next paragraph does not clearly fit in the sequence with the preceding material.

61 Followed by the marked-out: “He does not tell us. I fear it was because he did not know — as I have always found that whenever a man knows any thing he is very apt to tell it.”

[The following footnotes appear at the bottom of page 51:]

62 Followed by the marked-through: “to the mind, and.”

63 Followed by the marked-through: “and which always first impressions.”

64 Written over marked-through, “singing.”

[The following footnotes appear at the bottom of page 52:]

65 Followed by the marked-through: “Yet, from the number of times that he has quoted this, he must have believed it — What if Lord Bacon did say so! Are we to believe every thing that Lord Bacon says in the face of what we know to be the fact? Certainly not. Then never let me hear anything more about the strangeness in the proportions of Beauty — without you first prove to me that what is perfectly enchanting from the very gracefulness of its nature, is, at the same time, disgusting. In the couched eye of an illuminated Seer, all things appear beautiful that really are so; but, to an uncouched eye, all things appear [illegible] like Paradise did to the Dives.”

66 This sentence appears on a narrow slip pasted over the last few lines of the matter quoted in note 65.

67 Followed by the marked-through: “[blotted-illegible] by inferring that this is what constitutes the Spirit of Beauty.”

[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 52, running to the bottom of page 53:]

68 This is followed by these crossed-out paragraphs on the same page: [page 53:] “Thus did he measure the purity of [illegible] by the imperfections of the impurity of the presumptuous groundlings.