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                                    1844-49
                                   MARGINALIA
                               by Edgar Allan Poe
MARGINALIA

  DEMOCRATIC REVIEW, November, 1844
    In getting my books, I have been always solicitous of an ample
margin; this not so much through any love of the thing in itself,
however agreeable, as for the facility it affords me of pencilling
suggested thoughts, agreements, and differences of opinion, or brief
critical comments in general. Where what I have to note is too much to
be included within the narrow limits of a margin, I commit it to a
slip of paper, and deposit it between the leaves; taking care to
secure it by an imperceptible portion of gum tragacanth paste.
  All this may be whim; it may be not only a very hackneyed, but a
very idle practice;- yet I persist in it still; and it affords me
pleasure; which is profit, in despite of Mr. Bentham, with Mr. Mill on
his back.
  This making of notes, however, is by no means the making of mere
memorandum- a custom which has its disadvantages, beyond doubt "Ce que
je mets sur papier," says Bernadine de St. Pierre, "je remets de ma
memoire et par consequence je l'oublie;"- and, in fact, if you wish to
forget anything upon the spot, make a note that this thing is to be
remembered.
  But the purely marginal jottings, done with no eye to the Memorandum
Book, have a distinct complexion, and not only a distinct purpose, but
none at all; this it is which imparts to them a value. They have a
rank somewhat above the chance and desultory comments of literary
chit-chat- for these latter are not unfrequently "talk for talk's
sake," hurried out of the mouth; while the marginalia are deliberately
pencilled, because the mind of the reader wishes to unburthen itself
of a thought;- however flippant- however silly- however trivial- still
a thought indeed, not merely a thing that might have been a thought in
time, and under more favorable circumstances. In the marginalia,
too, we talk only to ourselves; we therefore talk freshly- boldly-
originally- with abandonnement- without conceit- much after the
fashion of Jeremy Taylor, and Sir Thomas Browne, and Sir William
Temple, and the anatomical Burton, and that most logical analogist,
Butler, and some other people of the old day, who were too full of
their matter to have any room for their manner, which, being thus left
out of question, was a capital manner, indeed,- a model of manners,
with a richly marginalic air.
  The circumscription of space, too, in these pencillings, has in it
something more of advantage than of inconvenience. It compels us
(whatever diffuseness of idea we may clandestinely entertain), into
Montesquieu-ism, into Tacitus-ism (here I leave out of view the
concluding portion of the "Annals")- or even into Carlyle-ism- a thing
which, I have been told, is not to be confounded with your ordinary
affectation and bad grammar. I say "bad grammar," through sheer
obstinacy, because the grammarians (who should know better) insist
upon it that I should not. But then grammar is not what these
grammarians will have it; and, being merely the analysis of
language, with the result of this analysis, must be good or bad just
as the analyst is sage or silly- just as he is Horne Tooke or a
Cobbett.
  But to our sheep. During a rainy afternoon, not long ago, being in a
mood too listless for continuous study, I sought relief from ennui
in dipping here and there, at random, among the volumes of my library-
no very large one, certainly, but sufficiently miscellaneous; and, I
flatter myself, not a little recherche.
  Perhaps it was what the Germans call the "brain-scattering" humor of
the moment; but, while the picturesqueness of the numerous
pencil-scratches arrested my attention, their helter-skelter-iness
of commentary amused me. I found myself at length forming a wish
that it had been some other hand than my own which had so bedevilled
the books, and fancying that, in such case, I might have derived no
inconsiderable pleasure from turning them over. From this the
transition- thought (as Mr. Lyell, or Mr. Murchison, or Mr.
Featherstonhaugh would have it) was natural enough:- there might be
something even in my scribblings which, for the mere sake of
scribblings would have interest for others.
  The main difficulty respected the mode of transferring the notes
from the volumes- the context from the text- without detriment to that
exceedingly frail fabric of intelligibility in which the context was
imbedded. With all appliances to boot, with the printed pages at their
back, the commentaries were too often like Dodona's oracles- or
those of Lycophron Tenebrosus- or the essays of the pedant's pupils,
in Quintilian, which were "necessarily excellent, since even he (the
pedant) found it impossible to comprehend them":- what, then, would
become of it- this context- if transferred?- if translated? Would it
not rather be traduit (traduced) which is the French synonym, or
overzezet (turned topsy-turvy) which is the Dutch one?
  I concluded, at length, to put extensive faith in the acumen and
imagination of the reader:- this as a general rule. But, in some
instances, where even faith would not remove mountains, there seemed
no safer plan than so to re-model the note as to convey at least the
ghost of a conception as to what it was all about. Where, for such
conception, the text itself was absolutely necessary, I could quote
it, where the title of the book commented upon was indispensable, I
could name it. In short, like a novel-hero dilemma'd, I made up my
mind "to be guided by circumstances," in default of more
satisfactory rules of conduct.
  As for the multitudinous opinion expressed in the subjoined farrago-
as for my present assent to all, or dissent from any portion of it- as
to the possibility of my having, in some instances, altered my mind-
or as to the impossibility of my not having altered it often- these
are points upon which I say nothing, because upon these there can be
nothing cleverly said. It may be as well to observe, however, that
just as the goodness of your true pun is in the direct ratio of its
intolerability, so is nonsense the essential sense of the Marginal
Note.

  I have seen many computations respecting the greatest amount of
erudition attainable by an individual in his life-time, but these
computations are falsely based, and fall infinitely beneath the truth.
It is true that, in general we retain, we remember to available
purpose, scarcely one-hundredth part of what we read; yet there are
minds which not only retain all receipts, but keep them at compound
interest forever. Again:- were every man supposed to read out, he
could read, of course, very little, even in half a century; for, in
such case, each individual word must be dwelt upon in some degree.
But, in reading to ourselves, at the ordinary rate of what is called
"light reading," we scarcely touch one word in ten. And, even
physically considered, knowledge breeds knowledge, as gold gold; for
he who reads really much, finds his capacity to read increase in
geometrical ratio. The helluo librorum will but glance at the page
which detains the ordinary reader some minutes; and the difference
in the absolute reading (its uses considered), will be in favor of the
helluo, who will have winnowed the matter of which the tyro mumbled
both the seeds and the chaff. A deep-rooted and strictly continuous
habit of reading will, with certain classes of intellect, result in an
instinctive and seemingly magnetic appreciation of a thing written;
and now the student reads by pages just as other men by words. Long
years to come, with a careful analysis of the mental process, may even
render this species of appreciation a common thing. It may be taught
in the schools of our descendants of the tenth or twentieth
generation. It may become the method of the mob of the eleventh or
twenty-first. And should these matters come to pass- as they will-
there will be in them no more legitimate cause for wonder than there
is, to-day, in the marvel that, syllable by syllable, men comprehend
what, letter by letter, I now trace upon this page.
  Is it not a law that need has a tendency to engender the thing
needed?

  Moore has been noted for the number of appositeness, as well as
novelty of his similes; and the renown thus acquired is indicial of
his deficiency in that noble merit- the noblest of all. No poet thus
distinguished was ever richly ideal. Pope and Cowper are instances.
Direct similes are of too palpably artificial a character to be
artistical. An artist will always contrive to weave his
illustrations into the metaphorical form.
  Moore has a peculiar facility in prosaically telling a poetical
story. By this I mean that he preserves the tone and method of
arrangement of a prose relation, and thus obtains great advantage,
in important points, over his more stilted compeers. His is no
poetical style (such as the French have- a distinct style for a
distinct purpose) but an easy and ordinary prose manner, which rejects
the licenses because it does not require them, and is merely
ornamented into poetry. By means of this manner he is enabled to
encounter, effectually, details which would baffle any other versifier
of the day; and at which Lamartine would stand aghast. In
"Alciphron" we see this exemplified. Here the minute and perplexed
incidents of the descent into the pyramid, are detailed, in verse,
with quite as much precision and intelligibility as could be
attained even by the coolest prose of Mr. Jeremy Bentham.
  Moore has vivacity; verbal and constructive dexterity; a musical ear
not sufficiently cultivated; a vivid fancy; an epigrammatic spirit;
and a fine taste- as far as it goes.

  Democratic Review, December, 1844
    I am not sure that Tennyson is not the greatest of poets. The
uncertainty attending the public conception of the term "poet" alone
prevents me from demonstrating that he is. Other bards produce effects
which are, now and then, otherwise produced than by what we call
poems; but Tennyson an effect which only a poem does. His alone are
idiosyncratic poems. By the enjoyment or non-enjoyment of the "Morte
D'Arthur" or of the "Oenone," I would test any one's ideal sense.
  There are passages in his works which rivet a conviction I had
long entertained, that the indefinite is an element in the true
poiesis. Why do some persons fatigue themselves in attempts to unravel
such fantasy-pieces as the "Lady of Shalott"? As well unweave the
"ventum textilem." If the author did not deliberately propose to
himself a suggestive indefinitiveness of meaning with the view of
bringing about a definitiveness of vague and therefore of spiritual
effect- this, at least, arose from the silent analytical promptings of
that poetic genius which, in its supreme development, embodies all
orders of intellectual capacity.
  I know that indefinitiveness is an element of the true music- I mean
of the true musical expression. Give to it any undue decision- imbue
it with any very determinate tone- and you deprive it at once of its
ethereal, its ideal, its intrinsic and essential character. You dispel
its luxury of dream. You dissolve the atmosphere of the mystic upon
which it floats. You exhaust it of its breath of fiery. It now becomes
a tangible and easily appreciable idea- a thing of the earth,
earthy. It has not, indeed, lost its power to please, but all which
I consider the distinctiveness of that power. And to the
uncultivated talent, or to the unimaginative apprehension, this
deprivation of its most delicate air will be, not unfrequently, a
recommendation. A determinateness of expression is sought- and often
by composers who should know better- is sought as a beauty rather than
rejected as a blemish. Thus we have, even from high authorities,
attempts at absolute imitation in music. Who can forget the
silliness of the "Battle of Prague"? What man of taste but must
laugh at the interminable drums, trumpets, blunderbusses, and thunder?
"Vocal music," says L'Abbate Gravina, who would have said the same
thing of instrumental, "ought to imitate the natural language of the
human feelings and passions, rather than the warblings of canary
birds, which our singers, now-a-days, affect so vastly to mimic with
their quaverings and boasted cadences." This is true only so far as
the "rather" is concerned. If any music must imitate anything, it were
assuredly better to limit the imitation as Gravina suggests.
  Tennyson's shorter pieces abound in minute rhythmical lapses
sufficient to asure me that- in common with all poets living or
dead- he has neglected to make precise investigation of the principles
of metre; but, on the other hand, so perfect is his rhythmical
instinct in general that, like the present Viscount Canterbury, he
seems to see with his ear.

  Godey's Lady's Book, September, 1845
    The increase, within a few years, of the magazine literature, is
by no means to be regarded as indicating what some critics would
suppose it to indicate- a downward tendency in American taste or in
American letters. It is but a sign of the times, an indication of an
era in which men are forced upon the curt, the condensed, the
well-digested in place of the voluminous- in a word, upon journalism
in lieu of dissertation. We need now the light artillery rather than
the peace-makers of the intellect. I will not be sure that men at
present think more profoundly than half a century ago, but beyond
question they think with more rapidity, with more skill, with more
tact, with more of method and less of excrescence in the thought.
Besides all this, they have a vast increase in the thinking
material; they have more facts, more to think about. For this
reason, they are disposed to put the greatest amount of thought in the
smallest compass and disperse it with the utmost attainable
rapidity. Hence the journalism of the age; hence, in especial,
magazines. Too many we cannot have, as a general proposition; but we
demand that they have sufficient merit to render them noticeable in
the beginning, and that they continue in existence sufficiently long
to permit us a fair estimation of their value.

  Broadway Journal, Oct. 4, 1845
    Much has been said, of late, about the necessity of maintaining
a proper nationality in American Letters; but what this nationality
is, or what is to be gained by it, has never been distinctly
understood. That an American should confine himself to American
themes, or even prefer them, is rather a political than a literary
idea- and at best is a questionable point. We would do well to bear in
mind that "distance lends enchantment to the view." Ceteris paribus, a
foreign theme is, in a strictly literary sense, to be preferred. After
all, the world at large is the only legitimate stage for the
autorial histrio.
  But of the need of that nationality which defends our own
literature, sustains our own men of letters, upholds our own
dignity, and depends upon our own resources, there can not be the
shadow of a doubt. Yet here is the very point at which we are most
supine. We complain of our want of International Copyright on the
ground that this want justifies our publishers in inundating us with
British opinion in British books; and yet when these very
publishers, at their own obvious risk, and even obvious loss, do
publish an American book, we turn up our noses at it with supreme
contempt (this is a general thing) until it (the American book) has
been dubbed "readable" by some literate Cockney critic. Is it too much
to say that, with us, the opinion of Washington Irving- of Prescott-
of Bryant- is a mere nullity in comparison with that of any
anonymous sub-sub-editor of the Spectator, the Athenaeum, or the
London Punch? It is not saying too much to say this. It is a solemn-
an absolutely awful fact. Every publisher in the country will admit it
to be a fact. There is not a more disgusting spectacle under the sun
than our subserviency to British criticism. It is disgusting, first
because it is truckling, servile, pusilanimous- secondly, because of
its gross irrationality. We know the British to bear us little but ill
will- we know that, in no case, do they utter unbiased opinions of
American books- we know that in the few instances in which our writers
have been treated with common decency in England, these writers have
either openly paid homage to English institutions, or have had lurking
at the bottom of their hearts a secret principle at war with
Democracy:- we know all this, and yet, day after day, submit our necks
to the degrading yoke of the crudest opinion that emanates from the
fatherland. Now if we must have nationality, let it be a nationality
that will throw off this yoke.
  The chief of the rhapsodists who have ridden us to death like the
Old Man of the Mountain, is the ignorant and egotistical Wilson. We
use the term rhapsodists with perfect deliberation; for, Macaulay, and
Dilke, and one or two others, excepted, there is not in Great
Britain a critic who can be fairly considered worthy the name. The
Germans and even the French, are infinitely superior. As regards
Wilson, no man ever penned worse criticism or better rhodomontade.
That he is "egotistical" his works show to all men, running as they
read. That he is "ignorant" let his absurd and continuous school-boy
blunders about Homer bear witness. Not long ago we ourselves pointed
out a series of similar inanities in his review of Miss Barret's [sic]
poems- a series, we say, of gross blunders, arising from sheer
ignorance- and we defy him or any one to answer a single syllable of
what we then advanced.
  And yet this is the man whose simple dictum (to our shame be it
spoken) has the power to make or to mar any American reputation! In
the last number of Blackwood, he has a continuation of the dull
"Specimens of the British Critics," and makes occasion wantonly to
insult one of the noblest of our poets, Mr. Lowell. The point of the
whole attack consists in the use of slang epithets and phrases of
the most ineffably vulgar description. "Squabashes" is a pet term.
"Faugh!" is another. "We are Scotsmen to the spiner" says Sawney- as
if the thing were not more than self-evident. Mr. Lowell is called a
"magpie," an "ape," a "Yankee cockney," and his name is
intentionally mis-written John Russell Lowell. Now were these
indecencies perpetrated by an American critic, that critic would be
sent to Coventry by the whole press of the country, but since it is
Wilson who insults, we, as in duty bound, not only submit to the
insult, but echo it, as an excellent jest, throughout the length and
breadth of the land. "Quamdiu Catilina?" We do indeed demand the
nationality of self-respect. In Letters as in Government we require
a Declaration of Independence. A better thing still would be a
Declaration of War- and that war should be carried forthwith "into
Africa."

  Graham's Magazine, March, 1846
    Some Frenchman- possibly Montaigne- says: "People talk about
thinking, but for my part I never think except when I sit down to
write." It is this never thinking, unless when we sit down to write,
which is the cause of so much indifferent composition. But perhaps
there is something more involved in the Frenchman's observation than
meets the eye. It is certain that the mere act of inditing tends, in a
great degree, to the logicalisation of thought. Whenever, on account
of its vagueness, I am dissatisfied with a conception of the brain,
I resort forthwith to the pen, for the purpose of obtaining, through
its aid, the necessary form, consequence, and precision.
  How very commonly we hear it remarked that such and such thoughts
are beyond the compass of words! I do not believe that any thought,
properly so called, is out of the reach of language. I fancy,
rather, that where difficulty in expression is experienced, there
is, in the intellect which experiences it, a want either of
deliberateness or of method. For my own part, I have never had a
thought which I could not set down in words, with even more
distinctness than that with which I conceived it:- as I have before
observed, the thought is logicalised by the effort at (written)
expression.
  There is, however, a class of fancies, of exquisite delicacy,
which are not thoughts, and to which, as yet, I have found it
absolutely impossible to adapt language. I use the word fancies at
random, and merely because I must use some word; but the idea commonly
attached to the term is not even remotely applicable to the shadows of
shadows in question. They seem to me rather psychal than intellectual.
They arise in the soul (alas, how rarely!) only at its epochs of
most intense tranquillity- when the bodily and mental health are in
perfection- and at those mere points of time where the confines of the
waking world blend with those of the world of dreams. I am aware of
these "fancies" only when I am upon the very brink of sleep, with
the consciousness that I am so. I have satisfied myself that this
condition exists but for an inappreciable point of time- yet it is
crowded with these "shadows of shadows"; and for absolute thought
there is demanded time's endurance.
  These "fancies" have in them a pleasurable ecstasy, as far beyond
the most pleasurable of the world of wakefulness, or of dreams, as the
Heaven of the Northman theology is beyond its Hell. I regard the
visions, even as they arise, with an awe which, in some measure
moderates or tranquillises the ecstasy- I so regard them, through a
conviction (which seems a portion of the ecstasy itself) that this
ecstasy, in itself, is of a character supernal to the Human Nature- is
a glimpse of the spirit's outer world; and I arrive at this
conclusion- if this term is at all applicable to instantaneous
intuition- by a perception that the delight experienced has, as its
element, but the absoluteness of novelty. I say the absoluteness-
for in the fancies- let me now term them psychal impressions- there is
really nothing even approximate in character to impressions ordinarily
received. It is as if the five senses were supplanted by five myriad
others alien to mortality.
  Now, so entire is my faith in the power of words, that at times I
have believed it possible to embody even the evanescence of fancies
such as I have attempted to describe. In experiments with this end
in view, I have proceeded so far as, first, to control (when the
bodily and mental health are good), the existence of the condition:-
that is to say, I can now (unless when ill), be sure that the
condition will supervene, if I so wish it, at the point of time
already described: of its supervention until lately I could never be
certain even under the most favorable circumstances. I mean to say,
merely, that now I can be sure, when all circumstances are
favorable, of the supervention of the condition, and feel even the
capacity of inducing or compelling it:- the favorable circumstances,
however, are not the less rare- else had I compelled already the
Heaven into the Earth.
  I have proceeded so far, secondly, as to prevent the lapse from
the Point of which I speak- the point of blending between
wakefulness and sleep- as to prevent at will, I say, the lapse from
this border- ground into the dominion of sleep. Not that I can
continue the condition- not that I can render the point more than a
point- but that I can startle myself from the point into
wakefulness; and thus transfer the point itself into the realm of
Memory- convey its impressions, or more properly their
recollections, to a situation where (although still for a very brief
period) I can survey them with the eye of analysis.
  For these reasons- that is to say, because I have been enabled to
accomplish thus much- I do not altogether despair of embodying in
words at least enough of the fancies in question to convey to
certain classes of intellect, a shadowy conception of their character.
  In saying this I am not to be understood as supposing that the
fancies or psychal impressions to which I allude are confined to my
individual self- are not, in a word, common to all mankind- for on
this point it is quite impossible that I should form an opinion- but
nothing can be more certain than that even a partial record of the
impressions would startle the universal intellect of mankind, by the
supremeness of the novelty of the material employed, and of its
consequent suggestions. In a word- should I ever write a paper on this
topic, the world will be compelled to acknowledge that, at last, I
have done an original thing.

  Democratic Review, April, 1846
    In general, our first impressions are true ones- the chief
difficulty is in making sure which are the first. In early youth we
read a poem, for instance, and are enraptured with it. At manhood we
are assured by our reason that we had no reason to be enraptured.
But some years elapse, and we return to our primitive admiration, just
as a matured judgment enables us precisely to see what and why we
admired.
  Thus, as individuals, we think in cycles, and may, from the
frequency, or infrequency of our revolutions about the various
thought-centres, form an accurate estimate of the advance of our
thought toward maturity. It is really wonderful to observe how
closely, in all the essentials of truth, the child- opinion
coincides with that of the man proper- of the man at his best.
  And as with individuals so, perhaps, with mankind. When the world
begins to return, frequently, to its first impressions, we shall
then be warranted in looking for the millennium- or whatever it is:-
we may safely take it for granted that we are attaining our maximum of
wit, and of the happiness which is thence to ensue. The indications of
such a return are, at present, like the visits of angels- but we
have them now and then- in the case, for example, of credulity. The
philosophic, of late days, are distinguished by that very facility
in belief which was the characteristic of the illiterate half a
century ago. Skepticism in regard to apparent miracles, is not, as
formerly, an evidence either of superior wisdom or knowledge. In a
word, the wise now believe- yesterday they would not believe- and
day before yesterday (in the time of Strabo, for example) they
believed, exclusively, anything and everything:- here, then, is one of
the indicative cycles of discretion. I mention Strabo merely as an
exception to the rule of his epoch- (just as one in a hurry for an
illustration, might describe Mr. So and So to be as witty or as
amiable as Mr. This and That is not- for so rarely did men reject in
Strabo's time, and so much more rarely did they err by rejection, that
the skepticism of this philosopher must be regarded as one of the most
remarkable anomalies on record.

  I have not the slightest faith in Carlyle. In ten years- possibly in
five- he will be remembered only as a butt for sarcasm. His linguistic
Euphuisms might very well have been taken as prima facie evidence of
his philosophic ones; they were the froth which indicated, first,
the shallowness, and secondly, the confusion of the waters. I would
blame no man of sense for leaving the works of Carlyle unread merely
on account of these Euphuisms; for it might be shown a priori that
no man capable of producing a definite impression upon his age or
race, could or would commit himself to such inanities and
insanities. The book about 'Hero-Worship'- is it possible that it ever
excited a feeling beyond contempt? No hero-worshipper can possess
anything within himself. That man is no man who stands in awe of his
fellow-man. Genius regards genius with respect- with even enthusiastic
admiration- but there is nothing of worship in the admiration, for
it springs from a thorough cognizance of the one admired- from a
perfect sympathy, the result of the cognizance; and it is needless
to say, that sympathy and worship are antagonistic. Your
hero-worshippers, for example- what do they know about Shakespeare?
They worship him- rant about him- lecture about him- about him, him
and nothing else- for no other reason than that he is utterly beyond
their comprehension. They have arrived at an idea of his greatness
from the pertinacity with which men have called him great. As for
their own opinion about him- they really have none at all. In
general the very smallest of mankind are the class of men-worshippers.
Not one out of this class have ever accomplished anything beyond a
very contemptible mediocrity.
  Carlyle, however, has rendered an important service (to posterity,
at least) in pushing rant and cant to that degree of excess which
inevitably induces reaction. Had he not appeared we might have gone on
for yet another century, Emerson-izing in prose, Wordsworth-izing in
poetry, and Fourier-izing in philosophy, Wilson-izing in criticism-
Hudson-izing and Tom O'Bedlam-izing in everything. The author of the
'Sartor Resartus,' however, has overthrown the various arguments of
his own order, by a personal reductio ad absurdum. Yet an Olympiad,
perhaps, and the whole horde will be swept bodily from the memory of
man- or be remembered only when we have occasion to talk of such
fantastic tricks as, erewhile, were performed by the Abderites.

  Graham's Magazine, January, 1848
    If any ambitious man have a fancy a revolutionize, at one
effort, the universal world of human thought, human opinion, and human
sentiment, the opportunity is his own- the road to immortal renown
lies straight, open, and unencumbered before him. All that he has to
do is to write and publish a very little book. Its title should be
simple- a few plain words- "My Heart Laid Bare." But- this little book
must be true to its title.
  Now, is it not very singular that, with the rabid thirst for
notoriety which distinguishes so many of mankind- so many, too, who
care not a fig what is thought of them after death, there should not
be found one man having sufficient hardihood to write this little
book? To write, I say. There are ten thousand men who, if the book
were once written, would laugh at the notion of being disturbed by its
publication during their life, and who could not even conceive why
they should object to its being published after their death. But to
write it- there is the rub. No man dare write it. No man ever will
dare write it. No man could write it, even if he dared. The paper
would shrivel and blaze at every touch of the fiery pen.

  Southern Literary Messenger, April, 1849
    I blush to see, in the--, an invidious notice of Bayard Taylor's
"Rhimes of Travel." What makes the matter worse, the critique is
from the pen of one who, although undeservedly, holds, himself, some
position as a poet:- and what makes the matter worst, the attack is
anonymous, and (while ostensibly commending) most zealously
endeavors to damn the young writer "with faint praise." In his whole
life, the author of the criticism never published a poem, long or
short, which could compare, either in the higher merits, or in the
minor morals of the Muse, with the worst of Mr. Taylor's compositions.
  Observe the generalizing, disingenuous, patronizing tone:-
  "It is the empty charlatan, to whom all things are alike impossible,
who attempts everything. He can do one thing as well as another, for
he can really do nothing.... Mr. Taylor's volume, as we have
intimated, is an advance upon his previous publication. We could
have wished, indeed, something more of restraint in the rhetoric,
but," &c., &c., &c.
  The concluding sentence, here, is an excellent example of one of the
most ingeniously malignant of critical ruses- that of condemning an
author, in especial, for what the world, in general, feel to be his
principal merit. In fact, the "rhetoric" of Mr. Taylor, in the sense
intended by the critic, is Mr. Taylor's distinguishing excellence.
He is, unquestionably, the most terse, glowing, and vigorous of all
our poets, young or old- in point, I mean, of expression. His
sonorous, well-balanced rhythm puts me often in mind of Campbell (in
spite of our anonymous friend's implied sneer at "mere jingling of
rhymes, brilliant and successful for the moment,") and his rhetoric in
general is of the highest order:- By "rhetoric, I intend the mode
generally in which thought is presented. When shall we find more
magnificent passages than these?

        First queenly Asia, from the fallen thrones
          Of twice three thousand years
        Came with the woe a grieving Goddess owns
          Who longs for mortal tears.
        The dust of ruin to her mantle clung
          And dimmed her crown of gold,
        While the majestic sorrow of her tongue
          From Tyre to Indus rolled.

        Mourn with me, sisters, in my realm of woe
          Whose only glory streams
        From its lost childhood like the Arctic glow
          Which sunless winter dreams.
        In the red desert moulders Babylon
          And the wild serpent's hiss
        Echoes in Petra's palaces of stone
          And waste Persepolis.

        Then from her seat, amid the palms embowered
          That shade the Lion-land,
        Swart Africa in dusky aspect towered,
          The fetters on her hand.
        Backward she saw, from out the drear eclipse,
          The mighty Theban years,
        And the deep anguish of her mournful lips
          Interpreted, her tears.

  I copy these passages first, because the critic in question has
copied them, without the slightest appreciation of their grandeur- for
they are grand; and secondly, to put the question of "rhetoric" at
rest. No artist who reads them will deny that they are the
perfection of skill in their way. But thirdly, I wish to call
attention to the glowing imagination evinced in the lines. My very
soul revolts at such efforts, (as the one I refer to,) to depreciate
such poems as Mr. Taylor's. Is there no honor- no chivalry left in the
land? Are our most deserving writers to be forever sneered down, or
hooted down, or damned down with faint praise, by a set of men who
possess little other ability than that which assures temporary success
to them, in common with Swaim's Panaces or Morrison's Pills? The
fact is, some person should write, at once, a Magazine paper exposing-
ruthlessly exposing, the dessous de cartes of our literary affairs. He
should show how and why it is that ubiquitous quack in letters can
always "succeed," while genius, (which implies self-respect with a
scorn of creeping and crawling,) must inevitably succumb. He should
point out the "easy arts" by which any one, base enough to do it,
can get himself placed at the very head of American Letters by an
article in that magnanimous Journal, "The Review." He should
explain, too, how readily the same work can be induced (in the case of
Simms,) to vilify personally, any one not a Northerner, for a trifling
"consideration." In fact, our criticism needs a thorough regeneration,
and must have it.

  Southern Literary Messenger, June, 1849
    I have sometimes amused myself by endeavoring to fancy what
would be the fate of any individual gifted, or rather accursed, with
an intellect very far superior to that of his race. Of course, he
would be conscious of his superiority; nor could he (if otherwise
constituted as man is) help manifesting his consciousness. Thus he
would make himself enemies at all points. And since his opinions and
speculations would widely differ from those of all mankind- that he
would be considered a madman, is evident. How horribly painful such
a condition! Hell could invent no greater torture than that of being
charged with abnormal weakness on account of being abnormally strong.
  In like manner, nothing can be clearer than that a very generous
spirit- truly feeling what all merely profess- must inevitably find
itself misconceived in every direction- its motives misinterpreted.
Just as extremeness of intelligence would be thought fatuity, so
excess of chivalry could not fail of being looked upon as meanness
in its last degree- and so on with other virtues. This subject is a
painful one indeed. That individuals have so soared above the plane of
their race, is scarcely to be questioned; but, in looking back through
history for traces of their existence, we should pass over all
biographies of "the good and the great," while we search carefully the
slight records of wretches who died in prison, in Bedlam, or upon
the gallows.


                          THE END