The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe - Edgar Allan Poe [1007]
What do you mean, then, Mr. Mathews, by
A sudden silence like a tempest fell?
What do you mean by “a quivered stream;” “a shapeless gloom;” a “habitable wish;” “natural blood;” “oak-shadowed air;” “customary peers” and “thunderous noises?”
What do you mean by
A sorrow mightier than the midnight skies?
What do you mean by
A bulk that swallows up the sea-blue sky?
Are you not aware that calling the sky as blue as the sea, is like saying of the snow that it is as white as a sheet of paper?
What do you mean, in short, by
Its feathers darker than a thousand fears?
Is not this something like “blacker than a dozen and a half of chimney-sweeps and a stack of black cats,” and are not the whole of these illustrative observations of yours somewhat upon the plan of that of the witness who described a certain article stolen as being of the size and shape of a bit of chalk? What do you mean by them we say?
And here, notwithstanding our earnest wish to satisfy the author of Wakondah, it is indispensable that we bring our notice of the poem to a close. We feel grieved that our observations have been so much at random; — but at random, after all, is it alone possible to convey either the letter or the spirit of that, which, a mere jumble of incongruous nonsense, has neither beginning, middle, nor end. We should be delighted to proceed — but how? to applaud — but what? Surely not this trumpery declamation, this maudlin sentiment, this metaphor run-mad, this twaddling verbiage, this halting and doggrel rhythm, this unintelligible rant and cant! “Slid, if these be your passados and montantes, we’ll have none of them.” Mr. Mathews, you have clearly mistaken your vocation, and your effusion as little deserves the title of poem, (oh sacred name!) as did the rocks of the royal forest of Fontainebleau that of “mes déserts “ bestowed upon them by Francis the First. In bidding you adieu we commend to your careful consideration the remark of M. Timon, “que le Ministre de l’Instruction Publique doit lui-même savoir parler Francais.”
WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.
MR. SIMMS, we believe, made his first, or nearly his first, appearance before an American audience with a small volume entitled “Martin Faber,” an amplification of a much shorter fiction. He had some difficulty in getting it published, but the Harpers finally undertook it, and it did credit to their judgment. It was well received both by the public and the more discriminative few, although some of the critics objected that the story was an imitation of “Miserrimus,” a very powerful fiction by the author of “Pickwick Abroad.” The original tale, however — the germ of “Martin Faber” — was written long before the publication of “Miserrimus.” But independently of this fact, there is not the slightest ground for the charge of imitation. The thesis and incidents of the two works are totally dissimilar; — the idea of resemblance arises only from the absolute identity of effect wrought by both.
“Martin Faber” was succeeded, at short intervals, by a great number and variety of fictions, some brief, but many of the ordinary novel size. Among these we may notice “Guy Rivers,” “The Partisan,” “The Yemassee,” “Mellichampe,” “Beauchampe,” and “Richard Hurdis.” The last two were issued anonymously, the author wishing to ascertain whether the success of his books (which was great) had anything to do with his mere name as the writer of previous works. The result proved that popularity, in Mr. Simms’ case, arose solely from intrinsic merit, for “Beauchampe” and “Richard Hurdis” were the most popular of his fictions, and excited very general attention and curiosity. “Border Beagles” was another of his anonymous novels, published with the same end in view, and, although disfigured by some instances of bad taste, was even more successful than “Richard Hurdis.”
The “bad taste” of the “Border Beagles” was more