No More Learning

And still together--together.

Lal. Now Earl of Leicester!
Thou lovest me, and in my heart of hearts
I feel thou lovest me truly.

Pol. Oh, Lalage!

(throwing himself upon his knee. )
And lovest thou me?

Lal. Hist! hush! within the gloom
Of yonder trees methought a figure passed-
A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless-
Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.

(walks across and returns. )
I was mistaken--'twas but a giant bough
Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!

Pol. My Lalage--my love! why art thou moved?
Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience' self,
Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,
Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind
Is chilly--and these melancholy boughs
Throw over all things a gloom.

Lal. Politian!
Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land
With which all tongues are busy--a land new found--
Miraculously found by one of Genoa--
A thousand leagues within the golden west?
A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,
And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,
And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds
Of Heaven untrammelled flow--which air to breathe
Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter
In days that are to come?

Pol. O, wilt thou--wilt thou
Fly to that Paradise--my Lalage, wilt thou
Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten,
And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.
And life shall then be mine, for I will live
For thee, and in thine eyes--and thou shalt be
No more a mourner--but the radiant Joys
Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope
Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee
And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,
My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,
My all;--oh, wilt thou--wilt thou, Lalage,
Fly thither with me?

Lal. A deed is to be done--
Castiglione lives!

Pol. And he shall die! (exit)

Lal. (after a pause. ) And--he--shall--die! --alas!
Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?
Where am I? --what was it he said? --Politian!
Thou art not gone--thou are not gone, Politian!
I feel thou art not gone--yet dare not look,
Lest I behold thee not; thou couldst not go
With those words upon thy lips--O, speak to me!
And let me hear thy voice--one word--one word,
To say thou art not gone,--one little sentence,
To say how thou dost scorn--how thou dost hate
My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou art not gone-
O speak to me! I knew thou wouldst not go!
I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go.
Villain, thou art not gone--thou mockest me!
And thus I clutch thee--thus! --He is gone, he is gone
Gone--gone. Where am I? --'tis well--'tis very well!
So that the blade be keen--the blow be sure,
'Tis well, 'tis very well--alas! alas!

V.

The suburbs. Politian alone.

Politian. This weakness grows upon me. I am faint,
And much I fear me ill--it will not do
To die ere I have lived! --Stay, stay thy hand,
O Azrael, yet awhile! --Prince of the Powers
Of Darkness and the Tomb, O pity me!
O pity me! let me not perish now,
In the budding of my Paradisal Hope!
Give me to live yet--yet a little while:
'Tis I who pray for life--I who so late
Demanded but to die! --what sayeth the Count?

Enter Baldazzar.

Baldazzar. That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud
Between the Earl Politian and himself.
He doth decline your cartel.

Pol. What didst thou say?
What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?
With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
Laden from yonder bowers! --a fairer day,
Or one more worthy Italy, methinks
No mortal eyes have seen! --what said the Count?

Bal. That he, Castiglione' not being aware
Of any feud existing, or any cause
Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,
Cannot accept the challenge.

Pol. It is most true--
All this is very true. When saw you, sir,
When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid
Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
A heaven so calm as this--so utterly free
From the evil taint of clouds? --and he did say?

Bal. No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir:
The Count Castiglione will not fight,
Having no cause for quarrel.

Pol. Now this is true-
All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
And I have not forgotten it--thou'lt do me
A piece of service; wilt thou go back and say
Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
Hold him a villain? --thus much, I prythee, say
Unto the Count--it is exceeding just
He should have cause for quarrel.

Bal. My lord! --my friend! -

Pol. (aside. ) 'Tis he! --he comes himself? (aloud) Thou reasonest
well.
I know what thou wouldst say--not send the message-
Well! --I will think of it--I will not send it.
Now prythee, leave me--hither doth come a person
With whom affairs of a most private nature
I would adjust.

Bal. I go--to-morrow we meet,
Do we not? --at the Vatican.

Pol. At the Vatican. (exit
Bal. )

Enter Castigilone.

Cas. The Earl of Leicester here!

Pol. I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
Dost thou not? that I am here.

Cas. My lord, some strange,
Some singular mistake--misunderstanding--
Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged
Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
To me, Castiglione; the bearer being
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
Having given thee no offence. Ha! --am I right?
'Twas a mistake? --undoubtedly--we all
Do err at times.

Pol. Draw, villain, and prate no more!

Cas. Ha! --draw? --and villain? have at thee then at once,
Proud Earl! (draws. )

Pol. (drawing. ) Thus to the expiatory tomb,
Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
In the name of Lalage!

Cas. (letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the
stage)

Of Lalage!
Hold off--thy sacred hand! --avaunt, I say!
Avaunt--I will not fight thee--indeed I dare not.

Pol. Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?
Shall I be baffled thus? --now this is well;
Didst say thou darest not? Ha!

Cas. I dare not--dare not--
Hold off thy hand--with that beloved name
So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee--
I cannot--dare not.

Pol. Now by my halidom
I do believe thee! --coward, I do believe thee!

Cas. Ha! --coward! --this may not be!

(clutches his sword and staggers towards POLITIAN, but his purpose
is changed before reaching him, and he falls upon his knee at the feet of
the Earl)

Alas! my lord,
It is--it is--most true. In such a cause
I am the veriest coward. O pity me!

Pol. (greatly softened. ) Alas! --I do--indeed I pity thee.

Cas. And Lalage-

Pol. Scoundrel! --arise and die!

Cas. It needeth not be--thus--thus--O let me die
Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting
That in this deep humiliation I perish.
For in the fight I will not raise a hand
Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home--

(baring his bosom. )
Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon-
Strike home. I will not fight thee.

Pol. Now, s' Death and Hell!
Am I not--am I not sorely--grievously tempted
To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir,
Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare
For public insult in the streets--before
The eyes of the citizens. I'll follow thee
Like an avenging spirit I'll follow thee
Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest-
Before all Rome I'll taunt thee, villain,--I'll taunt thee,
Dost hear? with cowardice--thou wilt not fight me?
Thou liest! thou shalt! (exit. )

Cas. Now this indeed is just!
Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!

{In the book there is a gap in numbering the notes between 12 and 29.
--ED}

NOTE

29. Such portions of "Politian" as are known to the public first saw the
light of publicity in the "Southern Literary Messenger" for December,
1835, and January, 1836, being styled "Scenes from Politian: an
unpublished drama. " These scenes were included, unaltered, in the 1845
collection of Poems, by Poe. The larger portion of the original draft
subsequently became the property of the present editor, but it is not
considered just to the poet's memory to publish it. The work is a hasty
and unrevised production of its author's earlier days of literary labor;
and, beyond the scenes already known, scarcely calculated to enhance
his reputation. As a specimen, however, of the parts unpublished, the
following fragment from the first scene of Act II. may be offered.
The Duke, it should be premised, is uncle to Alessandra, and father of
Castiglione her betrothed.

Duke. Why do you laugh?

Castiglione. Indeed

I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not
On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl?
Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday.
Alessandra, you and 1, you must remember!
We were walking in the garden.

Duke, Perfectly.
I do remember it-what of it-what then?

Cas. 0 nothing-nothing at all.

Duke. Nothing at all!
It is most singular that you should laugh
'At nothing at all!

Cas. Most singular-singular!

Duke. Look you, Castiglione, be so kind
As tell me, sir, at once what 'tis you mean.
What are you talking of?

Cas. Was it not so?
We differed in opinion touching him.

Duke. Him! --Whom?

Cas. Why, sir, the Earl Politian.

Duke. The Earl of Leicester! Yes! --is it he you mean?
We differed, indeed. If I now recollect
The words you used were that the Earl you knew
Was neither learned nor mirthful.

Cas. Ha! ha! --now did I?

Duke. That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time
You were wrong, it being not the character
Of the Earl-whom all the world allows to be
A most hilarious man. Be not, my son,
Too positive again.

Cas. 'Tis singular!
Most singular! I could not think it possible
So little time could so much alter one!
To say the truth about an hour ago,
As I was walking with the Count San Ozzo,
All arm in arm, we met this very man
The Earl-he, with his friend Baldazzar,
Having just arrived in Rome. Hal ha! he is altered!
Such an account he gave me of his journey!
'Twould have made you die with laughter-such tales he told
Of his caprices and his merry freaks
Along the road-such oddity-such humor--
Such wit-such whim-such flashes of wild merriment
Set off too in such full relief by the grave
Demeanor of his friend-who, to speak the truth,
Was gravity itself--

Duke. Did I not tell you?

Cas. You did-and yet 'tis strange! but true as strange,
How much I was mistaken! I always thought
The Earl a gloomy man.

Duke. So, so, you see! Be not too positive. Whom have we here?
It can not be the Earl?

Cas. The Earl! Oh, no! 'Tis not the Earl-but yet it is-and leaning
Upon his friend Baldazzar. AM welcome, sir!

(Enter Politian and Baldazzar. )
My lord, a second welcome let me give you
To Rome-his Grace the Duke of Broglio.
Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl
Of Leicester in Great Britain. [Politian bows haughtily. ]
That, his friend
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has letters,
So please you, for Your Grace.

Duke. Hal ha! Most welcome
To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian!
And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you!
I knew your father well, my Lord Politian.
Castiglione! call your cousin hither,
And let me make the noble Earl acquainted
With your betrothed. You come, sir, at a time
Most seasonable. The wedding--

Politian. Touching those letters, sir,
Your son made mention of--your son, is he not?
Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them.
If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here--
Baldazzar! ah! --my friend Baldazzar here
Will hand them to Your Grace. I would retire.

Duke. Retire! --So soon?

Came What ho! Benito! Rupert!
His lordship's chambers-show his lordship to them!
His lordship is unwell. (Enter Benito. )

Ben. This way, my lord! (Exit, followed by Politian. )

Duke. Retire! Unwell!

Bal. So please you, sir. I fear me
'Tis as you say--his lordship is unwell.
The damp air of the evening-the fatigue
Of a long journey--the--indeed I had better
Follow his lordship. He must be unwell.
I will return anon.

Duke. Return anon!
Now this is very strange! Castiglione!
This way, my son, I wish to speak with thee.
You surely were mistaken in what you said
Of the Earl, mirthful, indeed! --which of us said
Politian was a melancholy man? (Exeunt. )




POEMS OF YOUTH




INTRODUCTION TO POEMS--1831




_LETTER TO MR. B--. _

"WEST POINT, 1831.

"DEAR B. . . . . . . . . Believing only a portion of my former volume to be
worthy a second edition-that small portion I thought it as well to
include in the present book as to republish by itself. I have therefore
herein combined 'Al Aaraaf' and 'Tamerlane' with other poems hitherto
unprinted. Nor have I hesitated to insert from the 'Minor Poems,' now
omitted, whole lines, and even passages, to the end that being placed
in a fairer light, and the trash shaken from them in which they were
imbedded, they may have some chance of being seen by posterity.

"It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by
one who is no poet himself. This, according to your idea and _mine _of
poetry, I feel to be false-the less poetical the critic, the less just
the critique, and the converse. On this account, and because there are
but few B-'s in the world, I would be as much ashamed of the world's
good opinion as proud of your own. Another than yourself might here
observe, 'Shakespeare is in possession of the world's good opinion, and
yet Shakespeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then that the world
judge correctly, why should you be ashamed of their favorable judgment? '
The difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word 'judgment' or
'opinion. ' The opinion is the world's, truly, but it may be called
theirs as a man would call a book his, having bought it; he did not
write the book, but it is his; they did not originate the opinion, but
it is theirs. A fool, for example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet-yet
the fool has never read Shakespeare. But the fool's neighbor, who is a
step higher on the Andes of the mind, whose head (that is to say,
his more exalted thought) is too far above the fool to be seen or
understood, but whose feet (by which I mean his everyday actions)
are sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means of which that
superiority is ascertained, which but for them would never have been
discovered-this neighbor asserts that Shakespeare is a great poet--the
fool believes him, and it is henceforward his _opinion. _This neighbor's
own opinion has, in like manner, been adopted from one above him,
and so, ascendingly, to a few gifted individuals who kneel around the
summit, beholding, face to face, the master spirit who stands upon the
pinnacle.

"You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer.
He is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established wit
of the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with law
or empire-an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in
possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors,
improve by travel-their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a
distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fops
glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where the
mystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so
many letters of recommendation.

"I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think the
notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings is
another. I remarked before that in proportion to the poetical talent
would be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore a bad
poet would, I grant, make a false critique, and his self-love would
infallibly bias his little judgment in his favor; but a poet, who is
indeed a poet, could not, I think, fail of making-a just critique;
whatever should be deducted on the score of self-love might be replaced
on account of his intimate acquaintance with the subject; in short,
we have more instances of false criticism than of just where one's own
writings are the test, simply because we have more bad poets than good.
There are, of course, many objections to what I say: Milton is a great
example of the contrary; but his opinion with respect to the
'Paradise Regained' is by no means fairly ascertained. By what trivial
circumstances men are often led to assert what they do not really
believe! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended to posterity. But,
in fact, the 'Paradise Regained' is little, if at all, inferior to the
'Paradise Lost,' and is only supposed so to be because men do not like
epics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and, reading those of
Milton in their natural order, are too much wearied with the first to
derive any pleasure from the second.

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

"As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly upon
the most singular heresy in its modern history-the heresy of what is
called, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might have
been induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal
refutation of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of
supererogation. The wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge
and Southey, but, being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so
prosaically exemplifled.

"Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most
philosophical of all writings*-but it required a Wordsworth to pronounce
it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetry
is, or should be, instruction; yet it is a truism that the end of our
existence is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part of our
existence, everything connected with our existence, should be still
happiness. Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness; and
happiness is another name for pleasure;-therefore the end of instruction
should be pleasure: yet we see the above-mentioned opinion implies
precisely the reverse.

"To proceed: _ceteris paribus,_ he who pleases is of more importance to
his fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and
pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely the
means of obtaining.

"I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume
themselves so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they
refer to instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere
respect for their piety would not allow me to express my contempt for
their judgment; contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, since
their writings are professedly to be understood by the few, and it is
the many who stand in need of salvation. In such case I should no doubt
be tempted to think of the devil in 'Melmoth. ' who labors indefatigably,
through three octavo volumes, to accomplish the destruction of one
or two souls, while any common devil would have demolished one or two
thousand.

"Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study-not a passion-it
becomes the metaphysician to reason-but the poet to protest.
Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued in
contemplation from his childhood; the other a giant in intellect and
learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute their
authority would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom of my
heart, that learning has little to do with the imagination-intellect
with the passions-or age with poetry.

"'Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow;
He who would search for pearls must dive below,'

are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths,
men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; Truth
lies in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought-not in the palpable
palaces where she is found. The ancients were not always right in
hiding--the goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon has thrown
upon philosophy; witness the principles of our divine faith--that moral
mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdom
of a man.

"We see an instance of Coleridge's liability to err, in his 'Biographia
Literaria'--professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact, a
treatise _de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis. _He goes wrong by reason
of his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in the
contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely sees,
it is true, the star, but it is the star without a ray-while he who
surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star is
useful to us below-its brilliancy and its beauty.

"As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth the
feelings of a poet I believe-for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy
in his writings-(and delicacy is the poet's own kingdom-his _El
Dorado)-but they _have the appearance of a better day recollected; and
glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present poetic fire; we know
that a few straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of the
glacier.

"He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the end
of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the light
which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequently
is too correct. This may not be understood-but the old Goths of Germany
would have understood it, who used to debate matters of importance to
their State twice, once when drunk, and once when sober-sober that they
might not be deficient in formality--drunk lest they should be destitute
of vigor.

"The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into
admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they are
full of such assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at
random)--'Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is
worthy to be done, and what was never done before;'-indeed? then it
follows that in doing what is unworthy to be done, or what _has _been
done before, no genius can be evinced; yet the picking of pockets is an
unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington,
the pickpocket, in point of genius, would have thought hard of a
comparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.

"Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be
Ossian's or Macpherson's can surely be of little consequence, yet, in
order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in
the controversy. _Tantaene animis? _Can great minds descend to such
absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in
favor of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his
abomination with which he expects the reader to sympathize. It is the
beginning of the epic poem 'Temora. ' 'The blue waves of Ullin roll in
light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusty
heads in the breeze. ' And this this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where
all is alive and panting with immortality-this, William Wordsworth, the
author of 'Peter Bell,' has _selected _for his contempt. We shall see
what better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:

"'And now she's at the pony's tail,
And now she's at the pony's head,
On that side now, and now on this;
And, almost stifled with her bliss,

A few sad tears does Betty shed. . . .
She pats the pony, where or when
She knows not. . . . happy Betty Foy!
Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!