Text: Anonymous, “Halleck and Poe,” Round Table (New York, NY), February 13, 1869, pp. 101-102

[page 102, column 2, continued:]

HALLECK AND POE.

THE New-York of two generations ago — that rare old Knickerbocker town so famed for its doughty literati, whether in prose or poetry — is lost or merged in the gigantic commercial city of to-day. No longer is “the Broad Way” of good John Adams the same popular promenade our worthy ancestors frequented of an afternoon, to air their ancient fashions and flirt and match-make with an honesty of purpose infrequent in Fifth Avenue — where the sight of epauletted naval officers from the seventy four-gun-ship off the Battery made the hearts of fresh Manhattan beauties throb with delight, and where a noted editor or city official or well-known lawyer was a marked object of interest to passing youth. No longer do one-horse cabs bear kidded dandy and musk-scented belle to evening parties, beginning at eight o’clock and devoted to elegant quadrille and love-inspiring waltz. No longer do dim oil-lamps “make darkness visible” along the lonely highways, or sperm candles lend their adhesive droppings to coat and dress at theatre, ball, or concert. No more are shop-goods cheap, salaries sufficient, people easily pleased, business slow and sure, and taxes a laughing matter, as in the happy days of forty or fifty years ago. The days are gone when the old City Hotel was the Fifth Avenue of its time, the Park the only theatre of resort, and Bowling Green a spot of attraction and reverence by reason of Revolutionary associations. No longer does the Evening Mirror, that sheet of interest to the idler even to-day, entertain the citizen at his early supper with tidbits of local news or stories by pens now still, or songs whose singers are silent in the tomb, although their memory is yet green and warm in the hearts of a new generation of cultivated readers. But a commemorative tribute to Fitz-Greene Halleck, lately pronounced before the Historical Society by the venerable William Cullen Bryant, recalls, as by a magician's spell, the memory of the days thus past away.

In those halcyon days two poets lived and wrote whose fame will perhaps last as long as the language they enriched. Nature endowed both with the rare gift of genius. By one the germ was cherished and encouraged to maturity, and bore ripe and wholesome fruitage; by the other the priceless boon was more than neglected, even squandered and abused, and at length sprang up exquisite in itself, but mingled with frightful tares and nettles that sullied the beauty and poisoned the fragrance of the flowers. Halleck and Poe we mean, pet songsters of the new-old city, twin-brothers in letters, men who played very different parts upon the stage of life, poets who won high places in the temple of Fame, and whose works are now familiar in our mouths as household words. Perhaps the true test of poetic genius is that the world cannot, if it would, permanently ignore or belittle it. It will not allow itself to be let alone or go unnoticed, but insensibly forces its way into the world's eye, aided, perchance, by its very opponents or traducers. So it was with the poetry of Poe and Halleck. They had their day — their first flush of success — their verses were written, read, and laid upon the shelf, their songs were sung and their poems recited until they even palled upon the public qar. But the world brought them forth every now and then, sang and read them time and time again, and finally made up its slow- moving, massive mind, “frosty but kindly,” to sing and speak and read them always. To-day those poets of nature are as intimately known and generally read as when, in the first flush of young success, they delighted Manhattan by the sparkle, the sweetness, and the fancy their glowing and thoroughly American genius taught them to incorporate in rhyme.

There is now in press a biography of Fitz-Greene Halleck which has reached the hands, and received the favorable notice, of that surviving poet of the same past age and warm personal friend of the subject of the memoir whose recent eulogy we have just mentioned. In a recent publication, too. a sketch of Edgar Allan Poe by a popular writer constituted the leading article. As public attention is thus newly attracted to these two poets it may be profitable to trace the resemblance or dissimilarity to be found in their lives and writings. Halleck was a man of industrious habits, who earned his daily bread and paid his debts — like Charles Lamb, a book- keeper by necessity, a poet by nature and choice. Until middle life a counting-room was the scene of his daily toil. At night he wrote verses for amusement. Popularity followed these occasional efforts, and society claimed the rising poet and made a lion of him. In return he graced society and celebrated the beauty of her belles in poetry not unknown to Scott and familiar to Campbell, to Hunt, and to Rogers, whose own career at the desk (inclined him to sympathize more fully than the others with a fellow-bondsman. A literary club, composed of a galaxy of writers, had for its centre this bright, particular star. Social gatherings, which encouraged intellectual intercourse and did not altogether forbid the inspirations of Bacchus to aid the play of wit and fancy, were habitual and frequent. The best talent of (the day, professional, editorial, and poetical, met about the jovial board and gave full swing to humor and every hospitable [page 102:] and fashionable drawing room was open to the writer of Fanny and Marco Bozzaris, and happy the fair whose eyes or form inspired that gifted pen to perpetuate their charms. From all this social success Halleck emerged unharmed; and in the height of his fame he modestly withdrew from the gay world and sought retirement in rural scenes, amid which to grow grey and finally to fall asleep at a ripe old age.* His writings to this hour have the flavor of a rich glass of Burgundy — full, fragrant, satisfying, and leaving the fine smack of the grape behind. No morbid, unhealthy fancies burden the reader with their weight. True, touching, natural, humorous, melody flows, brook like, through his meadow-land of imagination. The sum total of Halleck's life and poems is as it should be — as clear, unequivocal, and complete as the pages of the business books he was wont to keep so correctly.

Edgar Poe was, unhappily, the direct opposite of this. Regular work had no place in his vocabulary. However numerous his friends during life, but few remain to him now; and it seems quite the fashion to censure without stint his wild career in talk or written criticism. Erratic, reckless, impulsive, “with passions wild and strong,” like Burns he early fell a victim to uncurbed propensities to evil. He passed a miserable hand-to-mouth existence on earth, lived in a fancy-moulded world of his own, broke the heart of the wife he dearly loved, failed in everything but acquiring fame, and died of excess in early manhood. Upon his poor wrecked life society might be more ready than it is to drop a tear of pity and forgiveness. Admiration, we must all admit, is due to his great genius. Chambers’ s Encyclopedia ranks Poe among the rarest poets of any land or time. The dirge for his lost love, weird and supernatural in its perfect frenzy of grief, is a bitter wail from a remorseful conscience. It has scarcely a rival in the language to dispute its intense expression of devotion and sorrow. There is nothing in Poe that rings of the wild-wood and flowery heather. All is cloud, storm, shipwreck. He seems the incarnate demon of destruction and desolation.

Natural disposition probably moulded, quite as much as circumstances, the course of these two men. It appears hardly possible that they ever could have been warm friends. Their fields were different, and so were their moral natures. Health and morbidness cannot assimilate. If long life, pleasant social intercourse, well-won repute, and a peaceful end are the best things we know of, then Halleck was thrice blessed. The brilliant and original Poe, as if to balance his more palpable and fiery genius, had little of these to mitigate his wretched lot, yet left a fame behind that will shine like a melancholy star when many a better man, if not more genuine poet, is hidden in the clouds or distant ether of time. Diverse as were their earthly careers and various their characteristics, Halleck and Poe leave to their country a legacy of poetry such as no American, and assuredly no New Yorker, can ever regard with feelings other than those of pride and satisfaction.

[[Footnotes]]

[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 102, col. 1:]

* Halleck wrote very little for the press in his later years, and of the many reasons suggested for this, that of Mr. Bryant, as set forth in his interesting lecture before the Historical Society, seems to us the most probable. The poet, however, was fond of corresponding with his friends on favorite topics, and perhaps the last letter on a literary subject he ever wrote — we shall be forgiven for alluding to the circumstance — was one in which he warmly eulogized the Round Table, commending its purpose and spirit and the manner in which they had been carried out, invoking for it the support of the educated public and prophesying its certain success.