Poe, Edgar Allen - The Complete Works of Edgar Allen Poe

by Volume 01-05 (lit)

  following fragment from the first scene of Act II. may be offered. The

  Duke, it should be premised, is uncle to Alessandra, and father of

  Castiglione her betrothed.

  _Duke. _Why do you laugh?

  _Castiglione. _Indeed

  I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not

  On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl?

  Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday.

  Alessandra, you and 1, you must remember!

  We were walking in the garden.

  _Duke, _Perfectly.

  I do remember it-what of it-what then?

  _Cas. 0 _nothing-nothing at all.

  _Duke. _Nothing at all !

  It is most singular that you should laugh

  'At nothing at all!

  _Cas._ Most singular-singular!

  _Duke. Look you, _Castiglione, be so kind

  As tell me, sir, at once what 'tis you mean.

  What are you talking of?

  _Cas. _Was it not so?

  We differed in opinion touching him.

  _Duke. _Him!--Whom?

  _Cas. _Why, sir, the Earl Politian.

  _Duke. _The Earl of Leicester! Yes!--is it he you mean?

  We differed, indeed. If I now recollect

  The words you used were that the Earl you knew

  Was neither learned nor mirthful.

  _Cas. _Ha! ha!--now did I?

  _Duke. _That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time

  You were wrong, it being not the character

  Of the Earl-whom all the world allows to be

  A most hilarious man. Be not, my son,

  Too positive again.

  _Cas. 'Tis _singular !

  Most singular! I could not think it possible

  So little time could so much alter one!

  To say the truth about an hour ago,

  As I was walking with the Count San Ozzo,

  All arm in arm, we met this very man

  The Earl-he, with his friend Baldazzar,

  Having just arrived in Rome. Hal ha! he is altered!

  Such an account he gave me of his journey!

  'Twould have made you die with laughter-such tales he told

  Of his caprices and his merry freaks

  Along the road-such oddity-such humor--

  Such wit-such whim-such flashes of wild merriment

  Set off too in such full relief by the grave

  Demeanor of his friend-who, to speak the truth,

  Was gravity itself--

  _Duke. _Did I not tell you?

  _Cas. You _did-and yet 'tis strange! but true as strange,

  How much I was mistaken ! I always thought

  The Earl a gloomy man.

  _Duke._ So, so,_ you _see! Be not too positive. Whom have we here?

  It can not be the Earl?

  _Cas._ The Earl! Oh, no! 'Tis not the Earl-but yet it is-and leaning

  Upon his friend Baldazzar. AM welcome, sir!

  (_Enter Politian and Baldazzar._)

  My lord, a second welcome let me give you

  To Rome-his Grace the Duke of Broglio.

  Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl

  Of Leicester in Great Britain. _[Politian bows haughtily_.]

  That, his friend

  Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has letters,

  So please you, for Your Grace.

  _Duke. _Hal ha! Most welcome

  To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian!

  And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you!

  I knew your father well, my Lord Politian.

  Castiglione! call your cousin hither,

  And let me make the noble Earl acquainted

  With your betrothed. You come, sir, at a time

  Most seasonable. The wedding--

  _Politian. _Touching those letters, sir,

  Your son made mention of--your son, is he not?

  Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them.

  If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here--

  Baldazzar! ah!--my friend Baldazzar here

  Will hand them to Your Grace. I would retire.

  _Duke. _Retire!--So soon?

  Came What ho ! Benito! Rupert!

  His lordship's chambers-show his lordship to them!

  His lordship is unwell. _(Enter Benito.)_

  _Ben. _This way, my lord! _(Exit, followed by Politian_.)

  _Duke. _Retire! Unwell!

  _Bal_. So please you, sir. I fear me

  'Tis as you say--his lordship is unwell.

  The damp air of the evening-the fatigue

  Of a long journey--the--indeed I had better

  Follow his lordship. He must be unwell.

  I will return anon.

  _Duke. _Return anon!

  Now this is very strange! Castiglione!

  This way, my son, I wish to speak with thee.

  You surely were mistaken in what you said

  Of the Earl, mirthful, indeed!--which of us said

  Politian was a melancholy man? _(Exeunt.)_

  ======

  ~~~ End of Notes ~~~

  End of Poems of Manhood

  POEMS OF YOUTH

  INTRODUCTION TO POEMS--1831

  _LETTER TO MR. B--._

  "WEST POINT, 1831.

  "DEAR B . . . . . . . . . Believing only a portion of my former volume to

  be worthy a second edition-that small portion I thought it as well to

  include in the present book as to republish by itself. I have therefore

  herein combined 'Al Aaraaf' and 'Tamerlane' with other poems hitherto

  unprinted. Nor have I hesitated to insert from the 'Minor Poems,' now

  omitted, whole lines, and even passages, to the end that being placed in a

  fairer light, and the trash shaken from them in which they were imbedded,

  they may have some chance of being seen by posterity.

  "It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by one who

  is no poet himself. This, according to your idea and _mine _of poetry, I

  feel to be false-the less poetical the critic, the less just the critique,

  and the converse. On this account, and because there are but few B-'s in

  the world, I would be as much ashamed of the world's good opinion as proud

  of your own. Another than yourself might here observe, 'Shakespeare is in

  possession of the world's good opinion, and yet Shakespeare is the

  greatest of poets. It appears then that the world judge correctly, why

  should you be ashamed of their favorable judgment?' The difficulty lies in

  the interpretation of the word 'judgment' or 'opinion.' The opinion is the

  world's, truly, but it may be called theirs as a man would call a book

  his, having bought it; he did not write the book, but it is his; they did

  not originate the opinion, but it is theirs. A fool, for example, thinks

  Shakespeare a great poet-yet the fool has never read Shakespeare. But the

  fool's neighbor, who is a step higher on the Andes of the mind, whose head

  (that is to say, his more exalted thought) is too far above the fool to be

  seen or understood, but whose feet (by which I mean his everyday actions)

  are sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means of which that

  superiority is ascertained, which but for them would never have been

  discovered-this neighbor asserts that Shakespeare is a great poet--the

  fool believes him, and it is henceforward his _opinion. _This neighbor's

  own opinion has, in like manner, been adopted from one above him, and so,

  ascendingly, to a few gifted individuals who kneel around the summit,

  beholding, face to face, the master spirit who stands upon the pinnacle.

  "You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer. He


  is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established wit of

  the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with law or

  empire-an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in

  possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors,

  improve by travel-their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a

  distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fops

  glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where the mystic

  characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so many

  letters of recommendation.

  "I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think the

  notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings is

  another. I remarked before that in proportion to the poetical talent would

  be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore a bad poet would, I

  grant, make a false critique, and his self-love would infallibly bias his

  little judgment in his favor; but a poet, who is indeed a poet, could not,

  I think, fail of making-a just critique; whatever should be deducted on

  the score of self-love might be replaced on account of his intimate

  acquaintance with the subject; in short, we have more instances of false

  criticism than of just where one's own writings are the test, simply

  because we have more bad poets than good. There are, of course, many

  objections to what I say: Milton is a great example of the contrary; but

  his opinion with respect to the 'Paradise Regained' is by no means fairly

  ascertained. By what trivial circumstances men are often led to assert

  what they do not really believe! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended

  to posterity. But, in fact, the 'Paradise Regained' is little, if at all,

  inferior to the 'Paradise Lost,' and is only supposed so to be because men

  do not like epics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and, reading

  those of Milton in their natural order, are too much wearied with the

  first to derive any pleasure from the second.

  "I dare say Milton preferred 'Comus' to either-. if so-justly.

  "As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly upon

  the most singular heresy in its modern history-the heresy of what is

  called, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might have been

  induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal refutation

  of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of supererogation. The

  wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge and Southey, but,

  being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so prosaically exemplifled.

  "Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most

  philosophical of all writings*-but it required a Wordsworth to pronounce

  it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetry is, or

  should be, instruction; yet it is a truism that the end of our existence

  is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part of our existence,

  everything connected with our existence, should be still happiness.

  Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness; and happiness is

  another name for pleasure;-therefore the end of instruction should be

  pleasure: yet we see the above-mentioned opinion implies precisely the

  reverse.

  "To proceed: _ceteris paribus, _be who pleases is of more importance to

  his fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and

  pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely the means

  of obtaining.

  "I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume themselves

  so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they refer to

  instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere respect for

  their piety would not allow me to express my contempt for their judgment;

  contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, since their writings are

  professedly to be understood by the few, and it is the many who stand in

  need of salvation. In such case I should no doubt be tempted to think of

  the devil in 'Melmoth.' who labors indefatigably, through three octavo

  volumes, to accomplish the destruction of one or two souls, while any

  common devil would have demolished one or two thousand.

  "Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study-not a passion-it

  becomes the metaphysician to reason-but the poet to protest. Yet

  Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued in contemplation

  from his childhood; the other a giant in intellect and learning. The

  diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute their authority would be

  overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom of my heart, that learning

  has little to do with the imagination-intellect with the passions-or age

  with poetry.

  "'Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow;

  He who would search for pearls must dive below,'

  are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths,

  men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; Truth lies

  in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought-not in the palpable palaces

  where she is found. The ancients were not always right in hiding -the

  goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon has thrown upon

  philosophy; witness the principles of our divine faith -that moral

  mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdom of

  a man.

  "We see an instance of Coleridge's liability to err, in his 'Biographia

  Literaria'--professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact, a

  treatise _de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis. _He goes wrong by reason of

  his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in the

  contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely sees, it

  is true, the star, but it is the star without a ray-while he who surveys

  it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star is useful to

  us below-its brilliancy and its beauty.

  "As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth the

  feelings of a poet I believe-for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy in

  his writings-(and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom-his _El Dorado)-but

  they _have the appearance of a better day recollected; and glimpses, at

  best, are little evidence of present poetic fire; we know that a few

  straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of the glacier.

  "He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the end

  of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the light

  which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequently is

  too correct. This may not be understood-but the old Goths of Germany would

  have understood it, who used to debate matters of importance to their

  State twice, once when drunk, and once when sober-sober that they might

  not be deficient in formality--drunk lest they should be destitute of

  vigor.

  "The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into admiration

  of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they are full of such

  assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at random) -"Of

  genius the only proof is the act of doi
ng well what is worthy to be done,

  and what was never done before;'-indeed? then it follows that in doing

  what is unworthy to be done, or what _has _been done before, no genius can

  be evinced; yet the picking of pockets is an unw orthy act, pockets have

  been picked time immemorial, and Barrington, the pickpocket, in point of

  genius, would have thought hard of a comparison with William Wordsworth,

  the poet.

  "Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be Ossian's

  or Macpherson's can surely be of little consequence, yet, in order to

  prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in the

  controversy. _Tantaene animis? _Can great minds descend to such absurdity?

  But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in favor of these

  poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his abomination with

  which he expects the reader to sympathize. It is the beginning of the epic

  poem 'Temora.' 'The blue waves of Ullin roll in light; the green hills are

  covered with day; trees shake their dusty heads in the breeze.' And this

  this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where all is alive and panting with

  immortality-this, William Wordsworth, the author of 'Peter Bell,' has

  _selected _for his contempt. We shall see what better he, in his own

  person, has to offer. Imprimis:

  "'And now she's at the pony's tail,

  And now she's at the pony's head,

  On that side now, and now on this;

  And, almost stifled with her bliss,

  A few sad tears does Betty shed. . . .

  She pats the pony, where or when

  She knows not . . . . happy Betty Foy!

  Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!'

  Secondly:

  "'The dew was falling fast, the-stars began to blink;