Edgar Allan Poe: The Importance of the Single Effect in a Prose Tale by Edgar Allan Poe
[These paragraphs are from a review of Hawthorne's Twice-Told Tales, which originally appeared in Graham's Magazine, published in Philadelphia, in May, 1842.]
Word Count: 3539
WE HAVE always regarded the Tale (using this word in its popular acceptation) as affording the best prose opportunity for display of the highest talent. It has peculiar advantages which the novel does not admit. It is, of course, a far finer field than the essay. It has even points of superiority over the poem. An accident has deprived us, this month, of our customary space for review, and thus nipped in the bud a design long cherished of treating this subject in detail; taking Mr. Hawthorne's volumes as a text. In May we shall endeavor to carry out our intention. At present we are forced to be brief.
With rare exception- in the case of
Mr. Irving's "Tales of a Traveller" and a few other works of a like
cast- we have had no American tales of high merit. We have had no skilful
compositions- nothing which could bear examination as works of art. Of twaddle
called tale- writing we have had, perhaps more than enough. We have had a
superabundance of the Rosa-Matilda effusions- gilt-edged paper all couleur de
rose: a full allowance of cut-and-thrust blue-blazing melodramaticisms; a
nauseating surfeit of low miniature copying of low life, much in the manner,
and with about half the merit, of the Dutch herrings and decayed cheeses of Van
Tuyssel- of all this, eheu jam satis!
Mr. Hawthorne's volumes appear
misnamed to us in two respects. In the first place they should not have been
called "Twice-Told Tales"- for this is a title which will not bear
repetition. If in the first collected edition they were twice-told, of course
now they are thrice-told.- May we live to hear them told a hundred times. In
the second place, these compositions are by no means all "Tales." The
most of them are essays properly so called. It would have been wise in their
author to have modified his title, so as to have had reference to all included.
This point could have been easily arranged.
But under whatever titular blunders
we receive this book, it is most cordially welcome. We have seen no prose
composition by any American which can compare with some of these articles in
the higher merits, or indeed in the lower; while there is not single piece
which would do dishonor to the best of the British essayists.
"The Rill from the Town
Pump" which, through the ad captandum nature of its title, has attracted
more of the public notice than any other of Mr. Hawthorne's compositions, is
perhaps, the least meritorious. Among his best we may briefly mention "The
Hollow of the Three Hills" "The Minister's Black Veil"; "Wakefield";
"Mr. Higginbotham's Catastrophe"; "Fancy's Show-Box";
"Dr. Heidegger's Experiment"; "David Swan"; "The
Wedding Knell"; and "The White Old Maid." It is remarkable that
all of these, with one exception, are from the first volume.
The style of Mr. Hawthorne is purity
itself. His tone is singularly effective- wild, plaintive, thoughtful, and in
full accordance with his themes. We have only to object that there is
insufficient diversity in these themes themselves, or rather in their
character. His originality both of incident and reflection is very remarkable;
and this trait alone would insure him at least our warmest regard and
commendation. We speak here chiefly of the tales; the essays are not so
markedly novel. Upon the whole we look upon him as one of the few men of
indisputable genius to whom our country has as yet given birth. As such, it
will be our delight to do him honor; and lest, in these undigested and cursory
remarks, without proof and without explanation, we should appear to do him more
honor than is his due, we postpone all farther comment until a more favorable
opportunity.
We said a few hurried words about
Mr. Hawthorne in our last number, with the design of speaking more fully in the
present. We are still, however, pressed for room, and must necessarily discuss
his volumes more briefly and more at random than their high merits deserve.
The book professes to be a
collection of tales, yet is, in two respects, misnamed. These pieces are now in
their third republication, and, of course, are thrice-told. Moreover, they are
by no means all tales, either in the ordinary or in the legitimate
understanding of the term. Many of them are pure essays; for example,
"Sights from a Steeple," "Sunday at Home," "Little
Annies Ramble," "A Rill from the Town Pump," "The
Toll-Gatherer's Day," "The Haunted Mind," "The Sister
Sister Years," "Snow-Flakes," "Night Sketches," and
"Foot-Prints on the Sea-Shore." We mention these matters chiefly on
account of their discrepancy with that marked precision and finish by which the
body of the work is distinguished.
Of the Essays just named, we must be
content to speak in brief. They are each and all beautiful, without being
characterized by the polish and adaptation so visible in the tales proper. A
painter would at once note their leading or predominant feature, and style it
repose. There is no attempt at effect. All is quiet, thoughtful, subdued. Yet
this respose may exist simultaneously with high originality of thought; and Mr.
Hawthorne has demonstrated the fact. At every turn we meet with novel
combinations; yet these combinations never surpass the limits of the quiet. We
are soothed as we read; and withal is a calm astonishment that ideas so
apparently obvious have never occurred or been presented to us before. Herein
our author differs materially from Lamb or Hunt or Hazlitt- who, with vivid
originality of manner and expression, have less of the true novelty of thought
than is generally supposed, and whose originality, at best, has an uneasy and
meretricious quaintness, replete with startling effects unfounded in nature,
and inducing trains of reflection which lead to no satisfactory result. The
Essays of Hawthorne have much of the character of Irving, with more of
originality, and less of finish; while, compared with the Spectator, they have
a vast superiority at all points. The Spectator, Mr. Irving, and Mr. Hawthorne
have in common that tranquil and subdued manner which we have chosen to
denominate repose; but in the case of the two former, this repose is attained
rather by the absence of novel combination, or of originality, than otherwise,
and consists chiefly in the calm, quiet, unostentatious expression of
commonplace thoughts, in an unambitious unadulterated Saxon. In them, by strong
effort, we are made to conceive the absence of all. In the essays before us the
absence of effort is too obvious to be mistaken, and a strong under-current of
suggestion runs continuously beneath the upper stream of the tranquil thesis.
In short, these effusions of Mr. Hawthorne are the product of a truly
imaginative intellect, restrained, and in some measure repressed, by
fastidiousness of taste, by constitutional melancholy and by indolence.
But it is of his tales that we
desire principally to speak. The tale proper, in our opinion, affords
unquestionably the fairest field for the exercise of the loftiest talent, which
can be afforded by the wide domains of mere prose. Were we bidden to say how
the highest genius could be most advantageously employed for the best display
of its own powers, we should answer, without hesitation- in the composition of
a rhymed poem, not to exceed in length what might be perused in an hour. Within
this limit alone can the highest order of true poetry exist. We need only here
say, upon this topic, that, in almost all classes of composition, the unity of
effect or impression is a point of the greatest importance. It is clear,
moreover, that this unity cannot be thoroughly preserved in productions whose
perusal cannot be completed at one sitting. We may continue the reading of a
prose composition, from the very nature of prose itself, much longer than we
can persevere, to any good purpose, in the perusal of a poem. This latter, if
truly fulfilling the demands of the poetic sentiment, induces an exaltation of
the soul which cannot be long sustained. All high excitements are necessarily
transient. Thus a long poem is a paradox And, without unity of impression, the
deepest effects cannot be brought about. Epics were the offspring of an
imperfect sense of Art, and their reign is no more. A poem too brief may
produce a vivid, but never an intense or enduring impression. Without a certain
continuity of effort- without a certain duration or repetition of purpose- the
soul is never deeply moved. There must be the dropping of the water upon the
rock. De Beranger has wrought brilliant things- pungent and spirit-stirring-
but, like all immassive bodies, they lack momentum, and thus fail to satisfy
the Poetic Sentiment. They sparkle and excite, but, from want of continuity,
fail deeply to impress. Extreme brevity will degenerate into epigrammatism; but
the sin of extreme length is even more unpardonable. In medio tutissimus ibis.
Were we called upon, however, to
designate that class of composition which, next to such a poem as we have
suggested, should best fulfil the demands of high genius- should offer it the
most advantageous field of exertion- we should unhesitatingly speak of the
prose tale, as Mr. Hawthorne has here exemplified it. We allude to the short
prose narrative, requiring from a half-hour to one or two hours in its perusal.
The ordinary novel is objectionable, from its length, for reasons already
stated in substance. As it cannot be read at one sitting, it deprives itself,
of course, of the immense force derivable from totality. Worldly interests
intervening during the pauses of perusal, modify, annul, or counteract, in a
greater or less degree, the impressions of the book. But simple cessation in
reading, would, of itself, be sufficient to destroy the true unity. In the
brief tale, however, the author is enabled to carry out the fulness of his
intention, be it what it may. During the hour of perusal the soul of the reader
is at the writer's control. There are no external or extrinsic influences-
resulting from weariness or interruption.
A skilful literary artist has
constructed a tale. If wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to accommodate
his incidents; but having conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or
single effect to be wrought out, he then invents such incidents- he then
combines such events as may best aid him in establishing this preconceived
effect. If his very initial sentence tend not to the out-bringing of this
effect, then he has failed in his first step. In the whole composition there should
be no word written, of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to the
one pre-established design. And by such means, with such care and skill, a
picture is at length painted which leaves in the mind of him who contemplates
it with a kindred art, a sense of the fullest satisfaction. The idea of the
tale has been presented unblemished, because undisturbed; and this is an end
unattainable by the novel. Undue brevity is just as exceptionable here as in
the poem; but undue length is yet more to be avoided.
We have said that the tale has a
point of superiority even over the poem. In fact, while the rhythm of this
latter is an essential aid in the development of the poem's highest idea- the
idea of the Beautiful- the artificialities of this rhythm are an inseparable
bar to the development of all points of thought or expression which have their
basis in Truth. But Truth is often, and in very great degree, the aim of the
tale. Some of the finest tales are tales of ratiocination. Thus the field of
this species of composition, if not in so elevated a region on the mountain of
Mind, is a table- land of far vaster extent than the domain of the mere poem.
Its products are never so rich, but infinitely more numerous, and more
appreciable by the mass of mankind. The writer of the prose tale, in short, may
bring to his theme a vast variety of modes or inflections of thought and
expression- (the ratiocinative, for example, the sarcastic or the humorous)
which are not only antagonistical to the nature of the poem, but absolutely
forbidden by one of its most peculiar and indispensable adjuncts; we allude, of
course, to rhythm. It may be added, here, par parenthese, that the author who
aims at the purely beautiful in a prose tale is laboring at great disadvantage.
For Beauty can be better treated in the poem. Not so with terror, or passion,
or horror, or a multitude of such other points. And here it will be seen how
full of prejudice are the usual animadversions against those tales of effect,
many fine examples of which were found in the earlier numbers of Blackwood. The
impressions produced were wrought in a legitimate sphere of action, and
constituted a legitimate although sometimes an exaggerated interest. They were
relished by every man of genius: although there were found many men of genius
who condemned them without just ground. The true critic will but demand that
that the design intended be accomplished, to the fullest extent, by the means
most advantageously applicable.
We have very few American tales of
real merit- we may say, indeed, none, with the exception of "The Tales of
a Traveller" of Washington Irving, and these "Twice-Told Tales"
of Mr. Hawthorne. Some of the pieces of Mr. John Neal abound in vigor and
originality; but in general his compositions of this class are excessively
diffuse, extravagant, and indicative of an imperfect sentiment of Art. Articles
at random are, now and then, met with in our periodicals which might be
advantageously compared with the best effusions of the British Magazines; but, upon
the whole, we are far behind our progenitors in this department of literature.
Of Mr. Hawthorne's Tales we would
say, emphatically, that they belong to the highest region of Art- and Art
subservient to genius of a very lofty order. We had supposed, with good reason
for so supposing, that he had been thrust into his present position by one of
the impudent cliques which beset our literature, and whose pretensions it is
our full purpose to expose at the earliest opportunity, but we have been most
agreeably mistaken. We know of few compositions which the critic can more
honestly commend than these "Twice-Told Tales." As Americans, we feel
proud of the book.
Mr. Hawthornes distinctive trait is
invention, creation, imagination, originality- a trait which, in the literature
of fiction, is positively worth all the rest. But the nature of originality, so
far as regards its manifestation in letters, is but imperfectly understood. The
inventive or original mind as frequently displays itself in novelty of tone as
in novelty of matter. Mr. Hawthorne is original at all points.
It would be a matter of some
difficulty to designate the best of these tales; we repeat that, without
exception, they are beautiful. "Wakefield" is remarkable for the
skill with which an old idea- a well-known incident- is worked up or discussed.
A man of whims conceives the purpose of quitting his wife and residing
incognito, for twenty years, in her immediate neighborhood. Something of this
kind actually happened in London. The force of Mr. Hawthornes tale lies in the
analysis of the motives which must or might have impelled the husband to such
folly, in the first instance, with the possible causes of his perseverance.
Upon this thesis a sketch of singular power has been constructed.
"The Wedding Knell" is
full of the boldest imagination- an imagination fully controlled by taste. The
most captious critic could find no flaw in this production.
"The Minister's Black
Veil" is a masterly composition of which the sole defect is that to the
rabble its exquisite skill will be caviare. The obvious meaning of this article
will be found to smother its insinuated one. The moral put into the mouth of
the dying minister will be supposed to convey the true import of the narrative,
and that a crime of dark dye, (having reference to the "young lady")
has been committed, is a point which only minds congenial with that of the
author will perceive.
"Mr. Higginbotham's
Catastrophe" is vividly original and managed most dexterously.
"Dr. Heidegger's
Experiment" is exceedingly well imagined, and executed, with surpassing
ability. The artist breathes in every line of it.
"The White Old Maid" is
objectionable, even more than the "Minister's Black Veil," on the
score of its mysticism. Even with the thoughtful and analytic, there will be
much trouble in penetrating its entire import.
"The Hollow of the Three
Hills" we would quote in full, had we space;- not as evincing higher
talent than any of the other pieces, but as affording an excellent example of
the author's peculiar ability. The subject is commonplace. A witch, subjects
the Distant and the Past to the view of a mourner. It has been the fashion to
describe, in such cases, a mirror in which the images of the absent appear, or
a cloud of smoke is made to arise, and thence the figures are gradually
unfolded. Mr. Hawthorne has wonderfully heightened his effect by making the
ear, in place of the eye, the medium by which the fantasy is conveyed. The head
of the mourner is enveloped in the cloak of the witch, and within its magic, folds
there arise sounds which have an all-sufficient intelligence. Throughout this
article also, the artist is conspicuous- not more in positive than in negative
merits. Not only is all done that should be done, but (what perhaps is an end
with more difficulty attained) there is nothing done which should not be. Every
word tells, and there is not a word which does not tell.
In "Howes Masquerade" we
observe something which resembles a plagiarism- but which may be a very
flattering coincidence of thought. We quote the passage in question.
"With a dark flush of wrath
upon his brow they saw the general draw his sword and advance to meet the
figure in the cloak before the latter had stepped one pace upon the floor.
"'Villain, unmuffle yourself,'
cried he, 'you pass no further!"
"The figure without blanching a
hair's breadth from the sword which was pointed at his breast, made a solemn
pause, and lowered the cape of the cloak from his face, yet not sufficiently
for the spectators to catch a glimpse of it. But Sir William Howe had evidently
seen enough. The sternness of his countenance gave place to a look of wild
amazement, if not horror, while he recoiled several steps from the figure, and
let fall his sword upon the floor."
The idea here is, that the figure in
the cloak is the phantom or reduplication of Sir William Howe, but in an
article called "William Wilson," one of the "Tales of the
Grotesque and Arabesque," we have not only the same idea, but the same
idea similarly presented in several respects. We quote two paragraphs, which
our readers may compare with what has been already given.
"The brief moment in which I
averted my eyes had been sufficient to produce, apparently, a material change
in the arrangement at the upper or farther end of the room. A large mirror, it
appeared to me, now stood where none had been perceptible before: and as I
stepped up to it in extremity of terror, mine own image, but with features all
pale and dabbled in blood, advanced with a feeble and tottering gait to meet
me.
"Thus it appeared I say, but
was not. It was Wilson, who then stood before me in the agonies of dissolution.
Not a line in all the marked and singular lineaments of that face which was not
even identically mine own. His mask and cloak lay where he had thrown them, upon
the floor."
Here it will be observed, not only
are the two general conceptions identical but there are various points of
similarity. In each case the figure seen is the wraith or duplication of the
beholder. In each case the scene is a masquerade. In each case the figure is
cloaked. In each, there is a quarrel- that is to say, angry words pass between
the parties. In each the beholder is enraged. In each the cloak and sword fall
upon the floor. The "villain, unmuffle yourself," of Mr. H. is precisely
paralleled by a passage of "William Wilson."
In the way of objection we have
scarcely a word to say of these tales. There is, perhaps, a somewhat too
general or prevalent tone- a tone of melancholy and mysticism. The subjects are
insufficiently varied. There is not so much of versatility evinced as we might
well be warranted in expecting from the high powers of Mr. Hawthorne. But
beyond these trivial exceptions we have really none to make. The style is
purity itself. Force abounds. High imagination gleams from every page. Mr.
Hawthorne is a man of the truest genius. We only regret that the limits of our
Magazine will not permit us to pay him that full tribute of commendation,
which, under other circumstances, we should be so eager to pay.
