Poe vs. The Crazyites

Poe was already a household name when The Raven and Other Poems was published in 1845, mostly due to the title poem in that collection. On December 6, 1845, one very different periodical reviewed the book.

The Harbinger was the official publication of the experimental community at Brook Farm at West Roxbury, Massachusetts. Formed in 1841 by George Ripley and his wife Sophia, the working farm meant to put in practice the ideals of Transcendentalism. Every community member did their fair share of the work, but buy-in required a part-ownership of their joint-stock company. One of the founders, Nathaniel Hawthorne, left early on and asked for his money back. The Farm was dissolved about five years after its founding.

With their high ideals for perfect living, the Brook Farmers anticipated plenty of time to explore the Arts, culture, and other intellectual pursuits. The Harbinger was the outlet to show off their success. Critic John Sullivan Dwight reviewed The Raven and Other Poems in the December 6, 1845 issue. "Mr. Poe has earned some fame by various tales and poems, which of late has become notoriety through a certain blackguard warfare which he has been waging against the poets and newspaper critics of New England, and which it would be most charitable to impute to insanity." Ouch.

More to the point, he wrote: "We must confess that they [e.g. the poems] have a great deal of power, a great deal of beauty... originality, and dramatic effect. But they have more of effect, than of expression... There is a wild unearthliness, and unheavenliness, in the tone of all his pictures, a strange unreality in all his thoughts; they seem to stand shivering, begging admission to our hearts in vain, because they look not as if they came from the heart."

A few days later, December 13, Poe gave his opinions of The Harbinger in the magazine he owned, the Broadway Journal. He notes that he "sincerely respect[s]" the publication as "the most reputable organ of the Crazyites" (i.e. the Transcendentalists?). He dismisses them by noting the group is "conducted by an assemblage of well-read persons who mean no harm — and who, perhaps, can do less." Harmless as they are, Poe then dissects Dwight's review and ridicules his poor grammar. He concludes, "it shocks us to hear a set of respectable Crazyites talking in so disingenuous a manner." In the future, he hopes, they "will never have any opinion of us at all."

*Images: Brook Farm by Josiah Wolcott; its idealism is emphasized by the rainbow. From the collection of the Massachusetts Historical Society. The other image is the front page of a November 1846 issue of The Harbinger; it continued publishing from New York for about a year after Brook Farm dissolved.

Birth of Mark Twain

What a curious thing a "detective" story is. And was there ever one that the author needn't be ashamed of, except the "Murders in the Rue Morgue"?

So says Mark Twain (the pen name of Samuel L. Clemens). Twain was born on November 30, 1835. He never knew Poe (he was 13 when Poe died) but both writers were pursuing a national identity in American literature. Twain, however, thought Poe had failed miserably (he thought so about many authors). A day before Poe's centennial in 1909, he wrote to William Dean Howells and told his fellow novelist his opinion of the master of the macabre: "To me his prose is unreadable—like Jane Austen's. No, there is a difference. I could read his prose on salary, but not Jane's."

It's unclear what kind of salary Twain got for reading Poe or for writing an obscure short story called "The Facts Concerning the Recent Carnival of Crime in Connecticut." Scholar Robert Comeau identified this story by Twain as borrowing themes from Poe's "William Wilson," a character from "Hop-Frog," and a device from "The Raven."

Poet-turned-Poeist Daniel Hoffman wrote: "In Poe's own country the only thing like 'William Wilson' is by that other demon-haunted genius, Mark Twain. But where Poe's tale is taut with demonic intensity, there is a wonderful hilarity in 'The Facts Concerning A [sic] Recent Carnival of Crime In Connecticut.'" In the story, a character is tortured by his Calvinist conscience, but outwits his tormentor (e.g. his conscience) by murdering him. Suddenly conscience-free, the character goes on murdering, cheating, and generally indulging in mischief.

For a time, the character's conscience is perched on a bookshelf. According to Comeau, this serves as the same symbolism as the bust of Pallas in Poe's "The Raven."

Happy birthday, Samuel Clemens/Mark Twain.

Like a procession of moonlight clouds

By the time The Raven and Other Poems had been published in 1845, Poe was a well-known figure in American writing. Though his earliest fame (infamy?) was more for his criticism, publishing a certain poem about a black bird with limited vocabulary established him as one of the most talked about poets in the United States. It was because of that instant fame that The Raven and Other Poems was published — and some big-name critics sunk their teeth into it.

One such critique was published in the Daily Tribune in New York on November 26, 1845. The critic, Margaret Fuller, commented on Poe's introduction (in which he called his poems "trifles"). She agreed. "The productions in this volume indicate a power to do something far better. With the exception of The Raven, which seems intended chiefly to show the writer's artistic skill, and is in the way a rare and finished specimen, they are fragments... almost all of which leave us something to desire or demand."

Among the "fragments" in the book were "To One in Paradise" (which she said "breathe[s] a passionate sadness") and "The Haunted Palace" (she referred to its "dignity"). The review printed in full the poem "Israfel," presumably as a specimen which she particularly liked.

Overall, Margaret Fuller deemed Poe's poems as:

a sweep of images, thronging and distant like a procession of moonlight clouds on the horizon, but like them characteristic and harmonious one with another, according to their office. The descriptive power is greatest when it takes a shape not unlike an incantation, as in the first part of "The Sleeper."

Fuller's overall positive review is somewhat surprising, considering the personal quarrel with Poe she got herself involved with. By the way, she was only about one year younger than Poe — which means next year, 2010, is her bicentennial. For information on celebrations in honor of her 200th, visit www.margaretfuller.org.

Not a purpose, but a passion

The popularity of "The Raven" led to the publication of a collection of poetry titled The Raven and Other Poems, released on November 19, 1845. Wiley & Putnam issued the small volume of 100 pages with a cover price of 31 cents. In his introduction, Poe referred to the poems within as "trifles." He adds: "It is incumbent upon me to say, that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the public, or very creditable to myself."

These "trifles" included not only the title poem but also "The Valley of Unrest," "Bridal Ballad," "The Sleeper," "The Coliseum," "Lenore," "The City in the Sea," "To One in Paradise," "Eulalie," "The Haunted Palace," and "The Conqueror Worm" (my personal favorite), among others.

I tend to agree with George Pope Morris, who wrote in his review: "In spite of Mr. Poe's majestic disclaimer of any great interest in this book, we must venture to think it contains a good deal of that which we call poetry — an element too rare in these days of frigid verse-making to be treated with disregard."

Poe also notes that "with me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion." He could never dedicate his life to writing poetry because he knew he would never make substantial money from it. So, rather than it being a "purpose," it was a "passion" for him.

Poe dedicated the collection to the popular English poet Elizabeth Barrett. Poe had reviewed her work (specifically The Drama of Exile and Other Poems) earlier that year and Barrett (later Browning) responded positively to "The Raven." Poe's dedication was as follows:

To the Noblest of her Sex—
To the author of
The Drama of Exile—
To Miss Elizabeth Barrett Barrett,
Of England
I Dedicate This Volume
With the most Enthusiasm Admiration
And with the most Sincere Esteem.

A football interlude

Way back in 1995, the ill-fated NFL franchise the Cleveland Browns was struggling (what else is new?). The controversial owner, Art Modell, was frequently criticized for his leadership. But, Cleveland is a football town, and the city discussed the possibility of spending a substantial amount of money to upgrade their stadium, all for the benefit of the Browns (and their fans).

Amid discussions of improving the stadium, however, Modell was secretly in talks with the state of Maryland about their desire for a football team (they were without a team since the Colts moved to Indianapolis in the 1980s). Just days short of the city's announcement that it would upgrade the stadium, on November 5, 1995, Art Modell announced that he was taking his team on the road — permanently. Reaction was quick and harsh, and critics said Modell purposely got ahead of the bill to improve the stadium so he had one more excuse why the Cleveland Browns needed to leave Cleveland. The city sued the Browns and its leadership. The agreement was to shut down the team entirely for a three-year period, suspending the creation of a Maryland football team until 1999, and requiring that the team's brand (name, colors, etc.) never make it out of Ohio.

The good news was that the NFL approved an expansion team to be named "Cleveland Browns." So, football stayed in Cleveland.

Back in Maryland, in preparation for their new team, to be housed in Baltimore, a local poll asked for help in determining their team name and mascot.

What does this have to do with Edgar A. Poe?

The city of Baltimore, in naming their relocated football team, chose to honor their greatest writer, their adopted son, by naming the team the Baltimore Ravens. Their mascot was named in his honor (originally Edgar, Allan, and Poe; now just Poe). In their second season, the team won their first (and only) SuperBowl. So far as I know, the Baltimore Ravens remain the only professional sports team named after a poem.

Hirst and Poe: Rollicking companions

After Poe's death, Maria Clemm believed much of the negative things written about Poe by Rufus Wilmot Griswold, partly because Griswold had evidence to prove it. It turns out, however, that Griswold forged many of the documents that served as back-up for his concerted character assassination on Poe. Reading Griswold's lies, Maria Clemm lamented: "To think of that villain Griswold dragging before the public all my poor Eddie's faults and not to have the generosity of speaking one word of his good qualities."

That's why Maria Clemm was particularly grateful to the people who came forward in defense of Poe. One such defender was Henry B. Hirst, a friend from Philadelphia. Clemm wrote to him (using black-bordered "mourning" stationary) on October 23, 1849, thanking him for his kind words. As she wrote, "God bless you for doing justice to the memory of my own dear Eddie."

Henry Hirst is a strange character in the study of Poe. The two were introduced in Philadelphia some time in the summer of 1839 (by, of all people, Thomas Dunn English). The two became friends during Poe's tenure in Philadelphia. Though a minor poet at best, Hirst did his best to make money from writing. He even wrote a biography of Poe, published in 1843, in the Philadelphia Saturday Museum. He also reviewed (rather caustically) Griswold's The Poets of Poetry of America in that same newspaper. Poe's own published reviews of Hirst's poetry isn't particularly flattering, though he also accused T. D. English of plagiarizing from Hirst. Poe also though Hirst was stealing his own poetry, but those accusations weren't published in Poe's lifetime ("I do not object to him stealing my verses," Poe wrote; "but I do object to his stealing them in bad grammar. My quarrel with him is not, in short, that he did this thing, but that he has went and done did it."). In fact, Hirst at one point suggested that he was the true author of "The Raven" (who wasn't trying to steal Poe's thunder?), the only evidence being that he owned a pet raven for a time (well, so did Dickens).

Later, after Poe's death, Hirst became a heavy drinker, and it was well-known that he was addicted to absinthe, and soon went insane. The association between Poe and Hirst, especially his defense of Poe and reference to "rollicking" companionship made by John Sartain, led to the rumor that Poe was a heavy absinthe drinker himself (something I still hear about on occasion; a quick Google for "Poe and absinthe" proves there are still people out there perpetuating the rumor). However, as the Edgar Allan Poe Society (Jeff Savoye?) has proven, Poe was almost certainly never an absinthe drinker.

The Poetic Principle: A rich intellectual treat

Edgar Poe presented an evening lecture on August 17, 1849 in Richmond titled "The Poetic Principle." The lecture, which adapted a similar one presented in Providence, Rhode Island in December 1848, was held at the Exchange Hotel. It began at 8:00 p.m. and admission was 25 cents. Poe spoke to a room filled to capacity.

Poe's appearance was a highly-anticipated event in the city which embraced him as one of their own. One newspaper proudly hailed him as "a native of this city [who] was reared in our midst." Another hyped up the lecture in advance, advising its readers: "Those who desire to enjoy a real treat, should hear this effort of Mr. Poe's." The Richmond Whig newspaper teased that Poe would conclude by reciting "The Raven."

His audience was not disappointed.

The Whig, despite looking forward to hearing "The Raven," had apparently not expected much from Poe. After the lecture, they reported: "We attended the Lecture of Mr. Poe... with the expectation of hearing nothing more than the common dissertation upon the poetic faculty... We must say we were never more delighted in our lives." The Daily Republican reported it was "one of the richest intellectual treats... The clearness and melody of his voice, and the harmonious accentuation of his words, were soul inspiring." Novelist John Esten Cooke recalled that Poe "stood in a graceful attitude, leaning one hand on a small table beside him, and his wonderfully clear and musical voice speedily brought the audience under its spell. Those who heard this strange voice once, never afterwards forgot it... The lecture ended in the midst of applause."

The content of the lecture on "The Poetic Principle" was distinctly Poe. One contemporary review notes that Poe denounced the didacticism in poetry as the "heresy of modern times" rather than allowing a poem to stand for beauty and nothing more. He spoke about specific authors and both praised and criticized as appropriate. Among those he mentioned was Edward Coote Pinkney, likely the American poet which Poe most admired. He also read from the work of Tennyson. Even journalist John M. Daniel, with whom Poe had once almost dueled, reluctantly admitted: "Mr. Poe is a man of very decided genius. Indeed, we know of no other writer in the United States, who has half the chance to be remembered in the history of literature" (though he rightly predicted his reputation would be based on a small number of works).

The irony might be that Poe lost his lecture notes before he made it to Virginia. That means he had to rewrite it just before taking the center stage.

"I never was received with so much enthusiasm," Poe reported to his mother-in-law Maria Clemm. The lecture later became the essay of the same name, published posthumously. That manuscript is somewhat controversial; allegedly found after Poe's death, it was first published by Rufus Wilmot Griswold in his collected works of Poe. The original manuscript was immediately lost after publication.

"Tales" by Edgar A. Poe announced

An advertisement in the March 22, 1845, issue of the New York-based Weekly News reported: "Wiley & Putnam have in press a volume of Poe's 'Tales by Edgar A. Poe'." Indeed, the work in question — with the very simple title Tales by Edgar A. Poe — was a long time coming. In early March, Wiley & Putnam agreed to issue the collection as the second volume in their "Library of American Books," purposely trying to capitalize on the recent success of Poe's poem "The Raven." The book was copyrighted on June 13 and released on June 25.

For Poe, this is a bit unusual. As a writer, Poe was generally writing exclusively for whatever magazine he was attached to — or, worse, stuck with freelancing. This meant that pay was low, as was circulation. Payments were often slow and Poe was, quite often, forced into drudgery writing just to make money (this has led many scholars to speculate as to which of Poe's works were meant to be taken seriously and which were merely an appeal for quick cash... amongst those on the latter list include "The Raven," "The Gold-Bug," and almost all of his horror tales). Copyright was also a major concern, as many magazines (likely due to their non-stop monthly or even weekly schedule) didn't bother copyrighting — Graham's Magazine is believed to be the first. Shorter works like Poe's were often pirated wholesale and reproduced — even legitimately as part of critical reviews in which massive quoting was the norm; beyond what today's "fair use" laws would allow. Some would say that Poe's focus on the magazine industry rather than the book industry was the sole catalyst for Poe's incessant financial woes; a writer like Washington Irving, for example, actually was capable of turning a profit by focusing on book publishing.

Truth be told, in Poe's lifetime, very few of his works were in book format, and even fewer were produced on a massive scale. Tales likely inspired a great sigh of relief from Poe — Wiley & Putnam even secured the copyright overseas and issued a British edition in July (cross-continental copyright was much more precarious than the magazine industry). The book was a success; by October 4, Poe was claiming 1500 copies sold in the U.S. Of course, Poe was not well-versed in the art of book publishing and did not secure a good deal with Wiley & Putnum; Tales did not make Poe any significant amount of money.

In case you're interested, the table of contents for Tales should really whet your appetite. Its contents were dictated by the influential-yet-forgotten Evert Augustus Duyckinck; Poe was not particularly pleased (noting an excessive focus on ratiocinative tales), but the list isn't so bad for a compact 12-tale book*: "The Gold-Bug," "The Black Cat," "Mesmeric Revelation," "Lionizing," "The Fall of the House of Usher," "A Descent into the Maelström," "The Colloquey of Monos and Una," "The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion," "The Murders in the Rue Morgue," "The Mystery of Marie Rogêt," "The Purloined Letter," and "The Man of the Crowd."

*With the exception of "Lionizing," which is not worth the ink! It's also curious that "The Tell-Tale Heart" did not make the cut. Like Poe, I was also surprised by the lack of "Ligeia" and "The System of Doctor Tarr and Professor Fether."

To the Noblest of Her Sex

On March 6, 1806, Elizabeth Barrett Moulton-Barrett — better known today as the English poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning — was born.* As with many other well-known writers of the time period, she has a connection to Edgar A. Poe.

The easy connection is in Poe's famous poem "The Raven." In writing that poem, he chose to emulate the complex poetic format and rhyming scheme of Barrett's "Lady Geraldine's Courtship." Both "The Raven" and "Lady Geraldine's Courtship" use a poetic form called "trochaic octameter" — that is, lines are made up of eight metrical feet utilizing trochees (a stressed syllable followed by an unstressed one). This is a very wide meter — it's so long, in fact, that Poe requested his publishers not print it in the typical two-column style magazines used in those days but to instead allow only a single column, so that the entire line could run across the page.

Poe noted one line of Barrett's in particular as a source of inspiration: "With a rushing stir, uncertain, in the air, the purple curtain" which sounds very similar to Poe's "And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain..."

But, enough with the poetry lesson. Let's talk about the correspondence between Barrett and Poe.

Poe's earliest known review of Barrett was published in the Janaury 4, 1845, issue of the Broadway Journal — shortly after he had sold "The Raven." He reviewed her book The Drama of Exile, and Other Poems. The review (which later had a part two) was, I think, rather on the neutral side (though other Poe scholars refer to it as "gushing" and "enthusiastic"), especially because he condemns her "continuous mystical strain of ill-fitting and exaggerated allegory." What he does offer, however, is praise of Barrett's technical ability at crafting poems. He also notes that her "sense of art is pure in itself" (any time Poe uses "pure," he's giving the equivalent of a 5-star rating). A copy of the review is sent to Barrett through an acquaintance (and fellow poet) named Richard Henry Horne on January 25, along with a copy of "The Raven." While awaiting a reply, Poe criticized another journal for its negative comments about Barrett, referring to her as "the queen of all female poets." Okay, now we're getting gushy.

Barrett, after some delay, writes to Horne on May 12 that "The Raven" has power, though it suggests its author is not sane. As she writes, "it does not appear to me the natural expression of a sane intellect in whatever mood." She praises Poe's rhythm (ironically?) and the repeated "nevermore." Overall, she says, "there is an uncommon force and effect in the poem."

Barrett, within moments of this letter, writes another to Horne, telling him not to share her words with Poe. She downplays her interest in "The Raven" and instead focuses on the review, making sure to sound grateful for his praise. She refers to him as "a wonder among critics."

The success of "The Raven" prompted Poe to publish a full collection of poems (something he hadn't done in 14 years!). The Raven and Other Poems included the dedication: "To the noblest of her sex — to the author of 'The Drama of Exile' — to Miss Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, of England, I dedicate this volume, with the most enthusiastic admiration and with the most sincere esteem."

The dedication was a bit odd. The two had not corresponded directly, only through Horne as an intermediary. She was a bit surprised. As she wrote to Robert Browning on November 28, 1845, acknowledging the dedication: "And think of Mr. Poe... He wrote a review of me... the two extremes of laudation & reprehension, folded in on one another—You would have thought that it had been written by a friend & foe, each stark mad with love & hate, & writing the alternate paragraphs."

Poe finally sent her a personal, autographed copy of his collected poems and tales (presumably a London-printed version) in February 1846. A month later, she wrote to a friend: "Mr. Poe sent me a volume containing his poems and tales collected, so now I must write and thank him for his dedication. What is to be said, I wonder, when a man calls you the 'noblest of your sex'? 'Sir, you are the most discerning of yours.'" The letter she writes to Poe, some time in April 1846, says: "It is too great a distinction, conferred by a hand of too liberal generosity. I wish for my own sake I were worthy of it." She also, quite famously, refers to the English response to "The Raven," saying it has "produced a sensation, a 'fit horror'... Some of my friends are taken by the fear of it and some by the music. I hear of persons haunted by the 'Nevermore,' and one acquaintance of mine who has the misfortune of possessing a 'bust of Pallas' never can bear to look at it in the twilight." She also notes her fascination with Poe's tale "The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar" (one of my favorites too!). Poe was proud of her response and is reported to have read it aloud to guests at his Fordham cottage some time that summer.

* I will refer to her as "Barrett" throughout. At the time this correspondence take place, she was not yet married to Robert Browning.

Poe and The Broadway Journal

Still reeling from the success of his poem "The Raven," Edgar A. Poe signed into a business partnership on February 21, 1845, as one-third owner of the New York periodical, The Broadway Journal. His partners were John Bisco and Charles Frederick Briggs (a good friend, by the way, of James Russell Lowell - if you're interested in him, come back here tomorrow). The New York-based publication was brand new when Poe signed his year-long contract which also entitled him to one-third of all profits.

Briggs was well-known as the author of the two-volume romp through New York, The Adventures of Harry Franco (1839). He was headstrong and intended to keep his fingers tightly around his editorial duties, but he met his match in Poe. By then the "tomahawk" criticism of Poe was well-known, and Briggs thought it was too much. Partly inspired by Poe's accusations against Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Briggs gave up on the Broadway Journal by June 1845. And then there were two.

Bisco didn't last much longer. He wasn't the editorial type, but more of a businessman. Poe really could have used his expertise but, by October, Bisco sold his part ownership to Poe for $50. Poe paid him using a loan from, of all people, the newspaper powerhouse Horace Greeley.

Thus, by October 1845, Poe was the sole proprietor and editor of his very own journal. It was the closest he ever got to launching his dream project, The Stylus. With full editorial control, Poe was able to continue his special brand of literary criticism amidst the "puffers" of the time without a boss giving him a hard time for it. Of course, his partners had abandoned ship for a reason: the Broadway Journal never gained its financial footing, and it was sinking. Poe continued as best he could but the market was flooded with competing magazines and periodicals. The final issue was dated January 3, 1846.

Poe never really abandoned his hope for a new journal, however. To inherit a journal is one thing, but to create one in his image was something entirely different. The Stylus, Poe believed, would be superior to the competition in every way, not just in content and scope, but also in its physical presentation: Poe even detailed the high quality paper he wanted to use. Alas, The Stylus, never came to be, and his brief stint as sole owner and editor of the Broadway Journal was as close as he ever got.

The first lost "Lenore"

Years before he lost his Lenore in "The Raven," Poe used the name in a poem aptly titled "Lenore."

It was first titled "A Pæan" (a poem of praise, but often directed toward the dead) and its lines were spoken by a bereaved husband — with no mention of Lenore — in 1831. Poe, always re-writing and revising, went back to "A Pæan" and substantially changed it a dozen years later. And so, Poe's first usage of the name "Lenore" came to be, in the February 1843 issue of The Pioneer, a journal edited by James Russell Lowell.

The name itself is relatively meaningless (though some biographers, notably Kenneth Silverman, enjoy trying to find a connection to someone in Poe's life, including his brother William Henry Leonard Poe — which, let's be honest, is a big stretch). However, the name was based on Poe's staunch poetic logic: in order to evoke emotion, words need to use appropriate sounds. As I explained in an earlier blog post, Poe loves the inherent melancholy in a long, protracted "O" sound, and he seems to enjoy the "L" sound too — it pops up in "Lenore," "Annabel Lee," "Eulalie," "Ulalume"...

Former equivalent of the poet laureate Daniel Hoffman made an important comment about this poem, which I completely agree with: for a poet that emphasizes the logical composition of poetry so much, Poe really made it easy on himself when he named his character "Guy De Vere" in this poem. You might also notice another word, "Nevermore," that makes a triumphant return in "The Raven". Take a look. This is the 1843 version from The Pioneer:

AH, broken is the golden bowl!
The spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll! — A saintly soul
Glides down the Stygian river!
And let the burial rite be read —
The funeral song be sung —
A dirge for the most lovely dead
That ever died so young!
And, Guy De Vere,
Hast thou no tear?
Weep now or nevermore!
See, on yon drear
And rigid bier,
Low lies thy love Lenore!

"Yon heir, whose cheeks of pallid hue
With tears are streaming wet,
Sees only, through
Their crocodile dew,
A vacant coronet —
False friends! ye loved her for her wealth
And hated her for her pride,
And, when she fell in feeble health,
Ye blessed her — that she died.
How shall the ritual, then, be read?
The requiem how be sung
For her most wrong'd of all the dead
That ever died so young?"

Peccavimus!
But rave not thus!
And let the solemn song
Go up to God so mournfully that she may feel no wrong!
The sweet Lenore
Hath "gone before"
With young hope at her side,
And thou art wild
For the dear child
That should have been thy bride —
For her, the fair
And debonair,
That now so lowly lies —
The life still there
Upon her hair,
The death upon her eyes.

"Avaunt! — to-night
My heart is light —
No dirge will I upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight
With a Pæan of old days!
Let no bell toll!
Lest her sweet soul,
Amid its hallow'd mirth,
Should catch the note
As it doth float
Up from the damned earth —
To friends above, from fiends below, th' indignant ghost is riven —
From grief and moan
To a gold throne
Beside the King of Heaven?"

Charles Dickens with his raven

A special birthday tribute to a writer from across the pond, Charles Dickens (who still has a few years yet before he turns 200). I like to use Dickens as an example of what was happening in American literature because, though he wasn't American, he was the best-selling novelist in the United States for a time. American literature (and especially the American novel) had a slow start, and Americans were looking to mother England and its long-standing tradition of literature. Of course, there's also the whole international copyright issue, which meant that much of Dickens's work was published in the United States without legal permission. Ah well.

Our own Edgar Poe connects with Dickens in a couple of ways and I'm sure I'll mention the others throughout the year. Today, however, I'd like to connect one of Dickens's lesser-known novels with Poe's most famous poem.

Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty, like most of Dickens's works, originally was printed in serialized form, in this case between 1840 and 1841. Poe was working in Philadelphia for Graham's Magazine at the time and reviewed Dickens's work in the February 1842 issue (of which I happen to have a first printing). The long review — nearly 12 columns — applauds Dickens's efforts, with an occasional negative criticism peppered throughout ("Mr Dickens fails peculiarly in pure narration").

The majority of Poe's praise is directed towards Dickens's ability to present dramatis personae — dramatic characters. Such skill "sustain[s] the high fame of Mr. Dickens as a delineator of character... Their traits are founded in acute observation of nature, but are exaggerated to the utmost admissible extent." He does find a flaw or two, and one particular one which he emphasizes: Dickens included as a character a talking raven. He wrote:

The raven, too, intensely amusing as it is, might have been made, more than we now see it, a portion of the conception of the fantastic Barnaby. Its croakings might have been prophetically heard in the course of the drama.

And thus, the concept of a talking raven that serves as a prophet was first crafted by Poe — and, by the way, those are Poe's italics, not mine.

In this review, we see another connection that Poe will make between Barnaby Rudge and his own poem "The Raven" in just a couple years. Poe questions that "no work of fiction can fully suit, at the same time, the critical and the popular taste". He would challenge this assertion very specifically in "The Raven", as he explains in its companion essay "The Philosophy of Composition" using nearly those exact same words.

Poe didn't deny Dickens's inspiration, either. He mentioned Barnaby Rudge in "The Philosophy of Composition" and many other writers knew it too. James Russell Lowell, for example, famously referred to Poe in A Fable for Critics (1848) as coming "with his Raven, like Barnaby Rudge."

Dickens, by the way, was inspired to include a raven character because he himself owned a pet raven named Grip. After Grip's death, Dickens had him stuffed and mounted in a glass case. The connection between Dickens's raven and Poe's was strong enough that Poe collector Richard Gimbel purchased the stuffed Grip and added it to his collection (now preserved at the Philadelphia Free Library). I had the good fortune of seeing Grip, in his current form, in January and was proud to think that it was from this little guy (actually, he's quite large!) that we eventually had "Once upon a midnight dreary..."

Happy birthday, Mr. Dickens.

"The Raven" never flitting...

I can't resist writing more about "The Raven" today.

I'd like to dispel one major rumor about this amazing poem: it is not scary.

When it was featured on The Simpsons "Treehouse of Horror," Bart and Lisa conclude that people must have been more easily scared in the 19th century. Whether or not that is true, their reading of "The Raven" was absurd. Poe did not intend to write a scary poem.

As his phenomonal (and controversial) essay "The Philosophy of Composition" explains, writing "The Raven" was a step-by-step process. After thinking about length, Poe writes: "My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be conveyed: and here I may as well observe that, throughout the construction, I kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work universally appreciable." So Poe wants to write a poem that everyone would enjoy, while never dismissing his main point in his poetic theory: "the point, I mean, that Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem." Beauty, of course, is the highest form of truth. But using what tone should this beauty manifest? "Its highest manifestation... all experience has shown that this tone is one of sadness. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones."

The bold emphasis is mine. Poe sat down to write a poem that was universally beautiful because of its sadness. "The Raven," then is meant to be sad, not scary. Oddly, however, Poe's emotional tone throughout the poem changes. We can probably agree that the first line (and its whopping eight-meter trochee) — Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary — is a sad line. We feel some ominous foreboding in those first couple stanzas, and we feel that the narrator is in pain... until the raven comes in through the window.

After perching on a pallid bust of Pallas, Poe writes this line: " Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling." The narrator is smiling because of how comical the situation is! And it's pretty humorous. Here's this guy, trying to forget his lost Lenore, moping in his melancholy, and suddenly this jet-black bird flies in through the window. The narrator is so amused by it, in fact, that he asks for its name, much like you might say to a recently-found stray puppy. "Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore.'

With each repitition of the word, the narrative within the poem sinks deeper. Poe claims at one point that he thought of the word "Nevermore" first, then built a poem around it (very unlikely). But, here's his line of thinking, now that he knows he wants a sad poem: "I betook myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic piquancy which might serve me as a key-note in the construction of the poem — some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn." The most obvious pivot to Poe was some kind of refrain (or, as the term was commonly used, a "burden") that focused both on sound and thought. The refrain would not change, Poe decided, only how it was applied. But what word? "To have force, [it] must be sonorous and susceptible of protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt: and these considerations inevitably led me to the long o as the most sonorous vowel, in connection with r as the most producible consonant." With that in mind, how could Poe not use the word "Nevermore"?

Upon its first utterance, the word is supposedly the raven's name. This makes the narrator laugh a bit, as he says:

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door —
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But for this poem to really be sad, the comical elements have to slide away. And what would really make the reader feel the melancholy in this poem? Well, remember that Poe is trying to be universal — and what is more universally sad than Death? Poe says the answer is quite obvious: "When it most closely allies itself to Beauty: the death, then, of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world."

And there's Poe's poetic theory, in a nutshell — applied perfectly to "The Raven" (that is, of course, if you really want to believe his "Philosophy of Composition"). This might be a good explanation, however, to his frequent use of dead women in his stories. Sure, you can make the superficial assumption that he wrote about dead women because of all the dead women in his personal life. Or, you can throw out autobiographical readings and look at the text independently and ask yourself if Poe was right: is the death of a beautiful woman the most poetical (i.e. melancholy) topic in the world?

"The Raven" also allows me to dispel another rumor. There's a belief out there that Poe was never successful during his lifetime. I'll clear that up right now: Poe was one of the most successful poets of the 1840s. He was nationally and internationally known after "The Raven" was published (and re-published again and again), and many considered his poem the most perfect poem constructed in the English language. For its publication, however, he received only a token monetary amount. So, success can be gauged in many ways, not always financially.

Admirers of "The Raven," by the way, included Elizabeth Barrett, William Gilmore Simms, Margaret Fuller, and many, many others. Are you one of them?

Once upon a midnight dreary...

"The Raven" was likely already in print when the Evening Mirror published it on January 29, 1845. The American Review was authorized to print it in its February issue, which was likely already out by January 29. The American Review, however, did not print the poet's name, and instead attributed the poem to the curious pseudonym "Quarles." Whether the American Review or the Evening Mirror printed it first, both had permission to legitimately print it and, either way, "The Raven" was first published some time in January 1845, and one of those early editions came out today, January 29 — the first time Poe's name was attached to "The Raven."

In thinking about where I wanted to go with this blog post, I debated on several options. "The Raven" by itself merits some discussion as Poe's most famous, most popular, and most successful poem. The story of its composition (which necessitates a discussion of Poe's theme of "the death of a beautiful woman" as "the most poetical topic in the world") and its publication (supposedly after George Rex Graham turned it down!) is fascinating. Nonetheless, I'll focus more on the importance of the January 29, 1845 date and introduce Nathaniel Parker Willis to this blog.

Willis was the editor of the Evening Mirror when it printed "The Raven." He introduced the poem with his now-famous note:

We are permitted to copy (in advance of publication) from the 2d No. of the American Review, the following remarkable poem by EDGAR POE. In our opinion, it is the most effective single example of "fugitive poetry" ever published in this country; and unsurpassed in English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification, and consistent, sustaining of imaginative lift and "pokerishness." It is one of these "dainties bred in a book" which we feed on. It will stick to the memory of everybody who reads it.

Willis was a very important character in the story of Poe — not to mention the story of the development of American literature. He knew everyone, and counted among his friends Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Washington Irving, Charles Dickens, and countless other literary and public figures. He was the highest-paid magazine writer of his day (he was the success story that Poe would have envied), earning the equivalent of over $300,000 a year, though his writing was cheap, frilly, and today is (rightfully) forgotten.

To understand Willis's writing, you must understand his personality; the two were intrinsically linked. A typically Willis essay took you, the reader, into his study, where he described to you his elaborate desk, the pen he held, the view from out his window to the wooded glen in his back yard by the Hudson River. He would tell you, the reader, that his wealth was not inherited like kings and princes — he was an American, and it was democracy and capitalism that made him successful. He was, after all, a regular fellow who happened to make it big — and you, the reader, could some day have the same luck.

In reality, Willis's success came from his over-the-top personality; his arsenal included a conviviality that did not allow exceptions to his offers of friendship, a wit and humor that made all others laugh, and a handsome face with wispy, innocent curls hanging by his temples (at least as a younger man; as the beard became fashionable, Willis adopted the popular haggled, sort of unkempt look that Longfellow, James Russell Lowell, and others adopted). This personality, of course, was chosen, rather than his natural personality — chosen because Willis knew it would lead him far. It meant he made friends with publishers, writers, and politicians (including Mary Todd Lincoln), and it meant that even readers who never met him would say, "What a great guy! I should read his poetry!" Some, however, saw through this, including Longfellow, a fellow Portland-born poet who spent an evening with Willis at the Astor House in New York. After their meal, Longfellow noted how fake Willis was and admitted he suddenly liked his poetry a lot less.

But, Willis was a huge friend to Poe, and that relationship didn't seem fake. Willis had suffered nearly as much tragedy in his life as Poe — his own wife Mary Stace had died in childbirth in 1845 just as Poe's wife Virginia was in the final stages of tuberculosis. Willis published an ad in his Home Journal (the periodical he helped found for which he was editor is now known as Town & Country Magazine) asking for financial support to his friend Poe and his dying wife — unsolicited by Poe, by the way. Willis sent financial assistance, offers of work, and requests for writing to Poe throughout his life.

Willis also, of course, played an important role after Poe's death. Ultimately, it's hard to determine, however, if Willis can be labeled a "friend" of Poe. After Poe's death, Willis — in his unending battle to become everyone's friend — built up a convivial relationship with someone with whom he should have sparred over Poe: Rufus Wilmot Griswold. But, more on him later.

I'll conclude with what has likely become the most famous word ever written by Poe, in celebration of today's anniversary: "Nevermore."