In my oldest book of Poe (Poe's Works, Vol. III (Poems &c.), published by Adam and Charles Black in 1875, edited by John H. Ingram), there is a section called "Marginalia", which is basically everything that Poe wrote down in the margins of his books. This is not to be confused with the essay found in many books called "Marginalia", which contains some of the longer marginal bits. Since I do not wish to ruin the spine of my old book, I have taken to retyping the shorter marginal bits for the pleasure of all, as opposed to scanning them which would be easier.
Here is Marginalia (or at least some of the shorter and more interesting ones), as quoted in Poe's Works, Vol III, edited by John H. Ingram, published in Edinburgh by Adam and Charles Black in 1875 (printed by R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh).
The Romans worshipped their standards; and the Roman standard happened to be an eagle. Our standard is only one-tenth of an Eagle a Dollar but we make all even by adoring it with tenfold devotion.
It is a thousand pities that the puny witticisms of a few professional objectors should have the power to prevent, even for a year, the adoption of a name for our country. At present we have clearly none. There should be no hesitation about "Appalachia." In the first place, it is distinctive. "America"* is not and can never be made so. We may legislate as much as we please, and assume for our country whatever name we think right but to us it will be no name, to any purpose for which a name is needed, unless we can take it away from the regions which employ it at present. South America is "America," and will insist upon remaining so. In the second place, "Appalachia" is indigenous, springing from one of the most magnificent and distinctive features of the country itself. Thirdly, in employing this word we do honour to the Aborigines, whom, hitherto, we have at all points unmercifully despoiled, assassinated, and dishonoured. Fourthly, the name is the suggestion of, perhaps, the most deservedly eminent among all the pioneers of American literature. It is but just that Mr. Irving should name the land for which, in letters, he first established a name. The last, and by far the most truly important consideration of all, however, is the music of "Appalachia" itself; nothing could be more sonorous, more liquid, or of fuller volume, while its length is just sufficient for dignity. How the gutteral "Alleghania" could ever have been preferred for a moment is difficult to conceive. I yet hope to find "Appalachia" assumed.
*Mr. Field, in a meeting of "The New York Historical Society," proposed that we take the name of "America," and bestow "Columbia" upon the Continent.
Had John Bernouilli lived to have the experience of Fuller's occiput and sinciput, he would have abandoned in dismay his theory of the non-existance of hard bodies.
Our "blues" are increasing in number at a great rate, and should be decimated at the very least. Have we no critic with nerve enough to hang a dozen or two of them, in terrorem? He must use a silk-cord of course as they do in Spain with all the grandees of the blue blood of the "sangre azula."
That sweet smile and serene that smile never seen but upon the face of the dying and the dead. Earnest Maltravers.
Bulwer is not the man to look a stern fact in the face. He would rather sentimentalise upon a vulgar although picturesque error. Who ever really saw anything but horror in the smile of the dead? We so earnestly desire to fancy it "sweet" that is the source of the mistake, if, indeed there ever was a mistake in the question.
It would have been becoming, I think, in Bulwer to have made at least a running acknowledgement of that extensive indebtness to Arnay's "Private Life of the Romans," [1764] which he had so little scruple about incurring during the composition of "The Last Days of Pompeii." He acknowledges, I believe, what he owes to Sir William Gell's "Pompeiana." Why this? why not that?
The style is so involute that one cannot help fancying it must be falsely constructed. If the use of the language is to convey ideas, then it is nearly as much a demerit that our words seem to be, as they are, indefensible. A man's grammar, like C&ae;sar's wife, must not only be pure, but above suspicion of impurity.
That man is not truly brave who is afraid either to seem or to be, a coward.
The Rev. Arthur Coxe's "Saul, a Mystery," having been condemnedin no measured terms by Poe of "The Broadway Journal," and Green of "The Emporium," a writer in the "Hartford Columbian" retortsas follows:
An entertaining history,
Entitled "Saul, a Mystery,"
Has recently been published by the Reverend Arthur Coxe.
The poem is dramatic,
And the wit of it is Attic,
And its teachings are emphatic of the doctrines orthodox.
But Mr. Poe, the poet,
Declares he cannot go it
That the book is very stupid, or something of that sort:
And Green, of "The Empori-
Um," tells a kindred story
And swears like any tory, that it is'nt worth a groat.
But maugre all the croaking
Of the Raven, and the joking
Of the verdant little fellow of the used-to-be Review,
The People, in derision
Of their impudent decision,
Have declared, without division, that the Mystery will do.
The truth, of course, rather injures an epigram than otherwise; and nobody will think the worse of the one above when I say that, at thedate of its first appearance, I had expressed no opinion whateverof the poem to which it refers. "Give a dog a bad name," etc.Whenever a book is abused, people take it for granted that it is Iwho have been abusing it.
Latterly I have read "Saul," and agree with the epigrammatist that it "will do" whoever attempts to wade through it. It will do, also, for trunk-paper. The author is right in calling it "A Mystery" fora most unfathomable mystery it is. And when I got to the end of it, I found it more mysterious than ever and it was really a mystery how I ever did get to the end which I half fancied that somebody had cut off, in a fit of ill-will to the critics. I have not heard a syllable about the "Mystery"of late days. "The People" seem to have forgotten it; and Mr.Coxe's friends should advertise it under the head of "Mysterious
Disappearance" that is to say, the disappearance of a Mystery.
M , as a matter of course, would rather be abused by the critics than not noticed by them at all, but he is hardly to be blamed for growling a little now and then over their criticisms, just as a dog might do if pelted with bones.
There is an old German chronicle about Reynard the Fox when crossed in love, about how he desired to turn hermit, but could find no spot in which he could be "thoroughly alone," until he came upon the desolate fortress of Malspart. He should have taken to reading the "American Drama" of "Witchcraft." I fancy he would have found himself "thoroughly alone" in that.
How overpowering a style is that of Curran! I use "overpowering" in the sense of the english exquisite. I can imagine nothing more distressing than the extent of his eloquence.
L is busy in attempting to prove that his play was not fairly d d; that it is only "scotched, not killed;" but if the poor play could speak from the tomb, I fancy it would sing with the opera heroine:
"The flattering error cease to prove!
Oh, let me be deceased!"
To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little amn can himself attain greatness. The Crab might never have become a Constellation but for the courage it evinced in nibbling Hercules on the heel.
With the aid of a lantern, I have been looking again at "Niagara and other poems" (Lord knows if that be the true title) but "there's nothing in it" at least nothing of Mr. Lord's* own nothig which is not stolen or (more delicately) transfused transmitted. By the way, Newton says a great deal about "fits of easy transmission and reflection,"** and I have no doubt that "Niagara" was put together in one of these identical fits.
* Wm. W. Lord, a native of Western New York, rector of an Episcopal church at Vicksburg.
** Of the solar rays in the "Optics."