Text: Edgar Allan Poe (?), Literary, Broadway Journal (New York), October 11, 1845, vol. 2, no. 14, p. ???, col. ?

[page 216, column 2, continued:]

Editorial Miscellany.

THE NEW-YORK MIRROR has been much enlarged, and in some respects greatly improved — although we regret the necessity of the brevier in place of the bold bourgeois — and although we miss the original and racy editorials of Willis. In newspaper not less than in theatrical management we think the * system is a bad one. [column 2:]

Mr. or Mrs. Asterisk honored us lately with half a column which we have been sadly at a loss to comprehend. Can any of our readers help us out?

POE-LEMICAL. — In the last number of the Broadway Journal, the critical and learned editor reiterates his opinion of Mr. Simms, whom he considers the “best novelist that this country has, upon the whole produced.” Mr. Poe seems to have quite an original and peculiar standard of judging of the merits of men and books. Success is the common measure of talent, not only in regard to the productions of literary men, but in business also, in works of art or of usefulness; and in all the varied pursuits of life. It is the victory that confers fame on the hero, father than brave bearing, and manly courage on the battle-field. We are too apt to look at results merely, and to honor and praise the successful, rather than the meritorious man. In business, the millionare, into whose lap fortune has poured her treasures, and to whose prosperity the winds of heaven have seemed subservient, gains with his wealth the reputation of being wiser and shrewder than his competitors, who may perhaps have struggled harder, and reasoned better, and yet been thwarted in their efforts beyond avoidance or control. And in literature, also, the popular man, is the great man, — the author who sells best — who is most read — and oftenest quoted, — he is the man whom the people will honor in spite of all the critics. But then one class of philosophers tell us that the judgment of the million is always wrong — that the great majority of men, blinded by passion, and swayed by prejudice, are wholly incapable of deciding in matters of taste or morals, in politics or religion. On the other hand, there are many “learned Thebans,” who as strenuously maintain that the voice of the multitude is the voice of truth and God; and that in all cases it is the duty of the minority to acquiesce in the verdict of the people. Here, we take it, is the great rock on which politicians, moralists, and critics split and separate. Leaving this primal question as undecided as it is likely to remain until the “World's Convention” shall eradicate from human nature all the causes which lead to differences in the opinions of men, we are inclined to believe that it is above the power of any single critic — or of all the critics in the country combined, to convince the world that William Gilmore Simms is a better novelist than Cooper, or Brockden Brown. He is certainly less known and read at home and abroad. We doubt if the copy-right of all Mr. Simms’ collected works would bring as good a price in America or England, as the “Norman Leslie” of Fay, or the “Sketch Book” of Irving. But our surprise at Mr. Poe's estimate is somewhat diminished, when, on turning to another article, we find him speaking of our old friend, “Christopher North,” as “the ignorant and egotistical Wilson!” and adding, that, “with the exception of Macaulay and Dilke, and one or two others, there is not in Great Britain a critic who can be fairly considered worthy the name!” This is indeed, “bearding the lion in his den;” and as Mr. Poe is preparing to publish an edition of his “Tales” in England, (omitting the story of the Gold Bug, we suppose,) he can expect but little mercy from the back-biting reviews of the Lockharts and Fonblanques, those bull-dogs of the English press. It is, however, a matter of some pride that we have, at least, one critic, who is brave and Quixotic enough to attack any wind-mill, either in Europe or America, however formidable it may appear; and our good wishes go with our valiant neighbor.

Mr. (or Mrs.) Star suggests here first, (if we are not mistaken) that success is (or is not) the test of merit, and secondly, that it is not (or is). Are we right in this interpretation? No doubt of it.

The separation of our passage about Mr. Simms from its context, brings about a total misrepresentation of our ideas.

Mr. Simms is “better known” than Brockden Brown.

Putting the author of “Norman Leslie” by the side of the author of the “Sketch-Book,” is like speaking of “The King and I” — of Pop Emmons and Homer — of a Mastodon and a mouse. If we were asked which was the most ridiculous book ever written upon the face of the earth — we should answer at once, “Norman Leslie.”

We are not “preparing to publish” our Tales in England; [page 217:] we leave such manœuvres to those who are in the habit of bowing down to the Golden Calf of the British opinion. Our book, to be sure, has been re-published in England — long ago — but we had nothing to do with its republication, [[.]] Should we ever think of such a thing, however, we should undoubtedly give The “Bug” a more prominent position than it even occupies at present. We should call the book “The Gold-Bug and Other Tales” — instead of “Tales,” as its title stands. However highly we respect Mr. Willis’ talents, we feel nothing but contempt for his affectations.

But we have a curiosity to solve the anonymous of the * The star-dust theory is exploded — but can any one tell us which is the very smallest of all the stars to be found in the “Milky Way”?