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The
situation of American literature is anomalous. It has no centre,
or, if it have, it is like that of the sphere of Hermes. It
is, divided into many systems, each revolving round its several
suns, and often presenting to the rest only the faint glimmer
of a milk-and-water way. Our capital city, unlike London or
Paris, is not a great central heart from which life and vigor
radiate to the extremities, but resembles more an isolated
umbilicus stuck down as near a's may be to the centre of the
land, and seeming rather to tell a legend of former usefulness
than to serve any present need. Boston, New York, Philadelphia,
each has its literature almost more distinct than those of
the different dialects of Germany; and the Young Queen of
the West has also one of her own, of which some articulate
rumor barely has reached us dwellers by the Atlantic.
Perhaps there is
no task more difficult than the just criticism of contemporary literature. It
is even more grateful to give praise where it is needed than where it is deserved,
and friendship so often seduces the iron stylus of justice into a vague flourish,
that she writes what seems rather like an epitaph than a criticism. Yet if praise
be given as an alms, we could not drop so poisonous a one into any man's hat.
The critic's ink may suffer equally from too large an infusion of nutgalls or
of sugar. But it is easier to be generous than to be just, and we might readily
put faith in that fabulous direction to the hiding place of truth, did we judge
from the amount of water which we usually find mixed with it.
Remarkable experiences
are usually confined to the inner life of imaginative men, but Mr. Poe's biography
displays a vicissitude and peculiarity of interest such as is rarely met with.
The offspring of a romantic marriage, and left an orphan at an early age, he was
adopted by Mr. Allan, a wealthy Virginian, whose barren marriage-bed seemed the
warranty of a large estate to the young poet.
Having received
a classical education in England, he returned home and entered the University
of Virginia, where, after an extravagant course, followed by reformation at the
last extremity, he was graduated with the highest honors of his class. Then came
a boyish attempt to join the fortunes of the insurgent Greeks, which ended at
St. Petersburg, where he got into difficulties through want of a passport, from
which he was rescued by the American consul and sent home. He now entered the
military academy at West Point, from which he obtained a dismissal on hearing
of the birth of a son to his adopted father, by a second marriage, an event which
cut off his expectations as an heir. The death of Mr. Allan, in whose will his
name was not mentioned, soon after relieved him of all doubt in this regard, and
he committed himself at once to authorship for a support. Previously to this,
however, he had published (in 1827) a small volume of poems, which soon ran through
three editions, and excited high expectations of its author's future distinction
in the minds of many competent judges.
That no certain
augury can be drawn from a poet's earliest lispings there are instances enough
to prove. Shakespeare's first poems, though brimful of vigor and youth and picturesqueness,
give but a very faint promise of the directness, condensation and overflowing
moral of his maturer works. Perhaps, however, Shakespeare is hardly a case in
point, his "Venus and Adonis" having been published, we believe, in his twenty-sixth
year. Milton's Latin verses show tenderness, a fine eye for nature, and a delicate
appreciation of classic models, .but give no hint of the author of a new style
in poetry. Pope's youthful pieces have all the sing-song, wholly unrelieved by
the glittering malignity and eloquent irreligion of his later productions. Collins'
callow namby-pamby died and gave no sign of the vigorous and original genius which
he afterward displayed. We have never thought that the world lost more in the
"marvellous boy," Chatterton, than a very ingenious imitator of obscure and antiquated
dulness. Where he becomes original (as it is called), the interest of ingenuity
ceases and he becomes stupid. Kirke White's promises were indorsed by the respectable
name of Mr. Southey, but surely with no authority from Apollo. They have the merit
of a traditional piety, which to our mind, if uttered at all, had been less objectionable
in the retired closet of a diary, and in the sober raiment of prose.
They do not clutch
hold of the memory with the drowning pertinacity of Watts; neither have they the
interest of his occasional simple, lucky beauty. Burns having fortunately been
rescued by his humble station from the contaminating society of the "Best models,"
wrote well and naturally from the first. Had he been unfortunate enough to have
had an educated taste, we should have had a series of poems from which, as from
his letters, we could sift here and there a kernel from the mass of chaff. Coleridge's
youthful efforts give no promise whatever of that poetical genius which produced
at once the wildest, tenderest, most original and most purely imaginative poems
of modem times. Byron's "Hours of Idleness" would never find a reader except from
an intrepid and indefatigable curiosity. In Wordsworth's first preludings there
is but a dim foreboding of the creator of an era. From Southey's early poems,
a safer augury might have been drawn. They show the patient investigator, the
close student of history, and the unwearied explorer of the beauties of predecessors,
but they give no assurances of a man who should add aught to stock of household
words, or to the rarer and more sacred delights of the fireside or the arbor.
The earliest specimens of Shelley's poetic mind already, also, give tokens of
that ethereal sublimation in which the spirit seems to soar above the regions
of words, but leaves its body, the verse, to be entombed, without hope of resurrection,
in a mass of them. Cowley is generally instanced as a wonder of precocity. But
his early insipidities show only a capacity for rhyming and for the metrical arrangement
of certain conventional combinations of words, a capacity wholly dependent on
a delicate physical organization, and an unhappy memory. An early poem is only
remarkable when it displays an effort of _reason, _and the rudest verses in which
we can trace some conception of the ends of poetry, are worth all the miracles
of smooth juvenile versification. A school-boy, one would say, might acquire the
regular see-saw of Pope merely by an association with the motion of the play-ground
tilt.
Mr. Poe's early
productions show that he could see through the verse to the spirit beneath, and
that he already had a feeling that all the life and grace of the one must depend
on and be modulated by the will of the other. We call them the most remarkable
boyish poems that we have ever read. We know of none that can compare with them
for maturity of purpose, and a nice understanding of the effects of language and
metre. Such pieces are only valuable when they display what we can only express
by the contradictory phrase of _innate experience. _We copy one of the shorter
poems, written when the author was only fourteen. There is a little dimness in
the filling up, but the grace and symmetry of the outline are such as few poets
ever attain. There is a smack of ambrosia about it.
TO HELEN
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore,
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary, way-worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece
And the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand!
The agate lamp within thy hand,
Ah ! Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land !
It is the tendency
of_ _the young poet that impresses us. Here is no "withering scorn," no heart
"blighted" ere it has safely got into its teens, none of the drawing-room sansculottism
which Byron had brought into vogue. All is limpid and serene, with a pleasant
dash of the Greek Helicon in it. The melody of the whole, too, is remarkable.
It is not of that kind which can be demonstrated arithmetically upon the tips
of the fingers. It is of that finer sort which the inner ear alone _can _estimate.
It seems simple, like a Greek column, because of its perfection. In a poem named
"Ligeia," under which title he intended to personify the music of nature,, our
boy-poet gives us the following exquisite picture:
Ligeia ! Ligeia !
My beautiful one,
Whose harshest idea
Will to melody run,
Say, is it thy will,
On the breezes to toss,
Or, capriciously still,
Like the lone albatross,
Incumbent on night,
As she on the air,
To keep watch with delight
On the harmony there?
John Neal, himself
a man of genius, and whose lyre has been too long capriciously silent, appreciated
the high merit of these and similar passages, and drew a proud horoscope for their
author.
Mr. Poe had that
indescribable something which men have agreed to call _genius. _No man could ever
tell us precisely what it is, and yet there is none who is not inevitably aware
of its presence and its power. Let talent writhe and contort itself as it may,
it has no such magnetism. Larger of bone and sinew it may be, but the wings are
wanting. Talent sticks fast to earth, and its most perfect works have still one-
foot of clay. Genius claims kindred with the very workings of Nature herself,
so that a sunset shall seem like a quotation from Dante, and if Shakespeare be
read in the very presence of the sea itself, his verses shall but seem nobler
for the sublime criticism of ocean. Talent may make friends for itself, but only
genius can give to its creations the divine power of winning love and veneration.
Enthusiasm cannot cling to what itself is unenthusiastic, nor will he ever have
disciples who has not himself impulsive zeal enough to be a disciple. Great wits
are allied to madness only inasmuch as they are possessed and carried away by
their demon, While talent keeps him, as Paracelsus did, securely prisoned in the
pommel of his sword. To the eye of genius, the veil of the spiritual world is
ever rent asunder that it may perceive the ministers of good and evil who throng
continually around it. No man of mere talent ever flung his inkstand at the devil.
When we say that
Mr. Poe had genius, we do not mean to say that he has produced evidence of the
highest. But to say that he possesses it at all is to say that he needs only zeal,
industry, and a reverence for the trust reposed in him, to achieve the proudest
triumphs and the greenest laurels. If we may believe the Longinuses; and Aristotles
of our newspapers, we have quite too many geniuses of the loftiest order to render
a place among them at all desirable, whether for its hardness of attainment or
its seclusion. The highest peak of our Parnassus is, according to these gentlemen,
by far the most thickly settled portion of the country, a circumstance which must
make it an uncomfortable residence for individuals of a poetical temperament,
if love of solitude be, as immemorial tradition asserts, a necessary part of their
idiosyncrasy.
Mr. Poe has two
of the prime qualities of genius, a faculty of vigorous yet minute analysis, and
a wonderful fecundity of imagination. The first of these faculties is as needful
to the artist in words, as a knowledge of anatomy is to the artist in colors or
in stone. This enables him to conceive truly, to maintain a proper relation of
parts, and to draw a correct outline, while the second groups, fills up and colors.
Both of these Mr. Poe has displayed with singular distinctness in his prose works,
the last predominating in his earlier tales, and the first in his later ones.
In judging of the merit of an author, and assigning him his niche among our household
gods, we have a right to regard him from our own point of view, and to measure
him by our own standard. But, in estimating the amount of power displayed in his
works, we must be governed by his own design, and placing them by the side of
his own ideal, find how much is wanting. We differ from Mr. Poe in his opinions
of the objects of art. He esteems that object to be the creation of Beauty, and
perhaps it is only in the definition of that word that we disagree with him. But
in what we shall say of his writings, we shall take his own standard as our guide.
The temple of the god of song is equally. accessible from every side, and there
is room enough in it for all who bring offerings, or seek in oracle.
In his tales, Mr.
Poe has chosen to exhibit his power chiefly in that dim region which stretches
from the very utmost limits of the probable into the weird confines of superstition
and unreality. He combines in a very remarkable manner two faculties which are
seldom found united; a power of influencing the mind of the reader by the impalpable
shadows of mystery, and a minuteness of detail which does not leave a pin or a
button unnoticed. Both are, in truth, the natural results of the predominating
quality of his mind, to which we have before alluded, analysis. It is this which
distinguishes the artist. His mind at once reaches forward to the effect to be
produced. Having resolved to bring about certain emotions in the reader, he makes
all subordinate parts tend strictly to the common centre. Even his mystery is
mathematical to his own mind. To him X is a known quantity all along. In any picture
that he paints he understands the chemical properties of all his colors. However
vague some of his figures may seem, however formless the shadows, to him the outline
is as clear and distinct as that of a geometrical diagram. For this reason Mr.
Poe has no sympathy with Mysticism. The Mystic dwells in the mystery, is enveloped
with it; it colors all his thoughts; it affects his optic nerve especially, and
the commonest things get a rainbow edging from it. Mr. Poe, on the other hand,
is a spectator _ab extra. _He analyzes, he dissects, he watches "with an eye serene,
The very pulse of the machine,"for such it practically is to him, with wheels
and cogs and piston-rods, all working to produce a certain end.
This analyzing
tendency of his mind balances the poetical, and by giving him the patience to
be minute, enables him to throw a wonderful reality into his most unreal fancies.
A monomania he paints with great power. He loves to dissect one of these cancers
of the mind, and to trace all the subtle ramifications of its roots. In raising
images of horror, also, he has strange success, conveying to us sometimes by a
dusky hint some terrible _doubt _which is the secret of all horror. He leaves
to imagination the task of finishing the picture, a task to which only she is
competent.
"For much imaginary work was there;
Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,
That for Achilles' image stood his spear
Grasped in an armed hand; himself behind
Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind."
Besides the merit
of conception, Mr. Poe's writings have also that of form.
His style is highly
finished, graceful and truly classical. It would be hard to find a living author
who had displayed such varied powers. As an example of his style we would refer
to one of his tales, "The House of Usher," in the first volume of his "Tales of
the Grotesque and Arabesque." It has a singular charm for us, and we think that
no one could read it without being strongly moved by its serene and sombre beauty.
Had its author written nothing else, it would alone have been enough to stamp
him as a man of genius, and the master of a classic style. In this tale occurs,
perhaps, the most beautiful of his poems.
The great masters
of imagination have seldom resorted to the vague and the unreal as sources of
effect. They have not used dread and horror alone, but only in combination with
other qualities, as means of subjugating the fancies of their readers. The loftiest
muse has ever a household and fireside charm about her. Mr. Poe's secret lies
mainly in the skill with which he has employed the strange fascination of mystery
and terror. In this his success is so great and striking as to deserve the name
of art, not artifice. We cannot call his materials the noblest or purest, but
we must concede to him the highest merit of construction.
As a critic, Mr.
Poe was aesthetically deficient. Unerring in his analysis of dictions, metres
and plots, he seemed wanting in the faculty of perceiving the profounder ethics
of art. His criticisms are, however, distinguished for scientific precision and
coherence of logic. They have the exactness, and at the same time, the coldness
of mathematical demonstrations. Yet they stand in strikingly refreshing contrast
with the vague generalisms and sharp personalities of the day. If deficient in
warmth, they are also without the heat of partisanship. They are especially valuable
as illustrating the great truth, too generally overlooked, that analytic power
is a subordinate quality of the critic.
On the whole, it
may be considered certain that Mr. Poe has attained an individual eminence in
our literature which he will keep. He has given proof of power and originality.
He has done that which could only be done once with success or safety, and the
imitation or repetition of which would produce weariness.
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