Complete Tales & Poems

by Edgar Allan Poe

  Many prophecies, it should be remembered, are in a state of gradual fulfilment—a chain of evidence being thus made to extend throughout a long series of ages, for the benefit of man at large, without being confined to one epoch or generation, which would be the case in a fulfilment suddenly coming to pass. Thus, some portion of the prophecies concerning Edom has reference to the year of recompense for the controversy of Sion.

  One word in regard to the work of Keith. Since penning this article we have been grieved to see, in a New York daily paper, some strictures on this well-known treatise, which we think unnecessary, if not positively unjust; and which, indeed, are little more than a revival of the old story trumped up for purposes of its own, and in the most bitter spirit of unfairness, by the London Quarterly Review. We allude especially to the charge of plagiarism from the work of Bishop Newton. It would be quite as reasonable to accuse Dr. Webster of having stolen his Dictionary from Dr. Johnson, or any other compiler of having plundered any other. But the work of Keith, as we learn from himself, was written hastily, for the immediate service, and at the urgent solicitation, of a friend, whose faith wavered in regard to the evidences of prophecy, and who applied to the author to aid his unbelief with a condensed view of these evidences. In the preface of the book thus composed, with no view to any merits of authorship, and, indeed, with none except that of immediate utility, there is found the fullest disclaimer of all pretension to originality—surely motives and circumstances such as these should have sufficed to secure Dr. Keith from the unmeaning charges of plagiarism, which have been so pertinaciously adduced! We do not mean to deny that, in the blindness of his zeal, and in the firm conviction entertained by him of the general truth of his assumptions, he frequently adopted surmises as facts, and did essential injury to his cause by carrying out his positions to an unwarrantable length. With all its inaccuracies, however, his work must still be regarded as one of the most important triumphs of faith, and, beyond doubt, as a most lucid and conclusive train of argument.

  3 Of course it will be understood that a proper allowance must be made for the usual hyperbolical tendency of the language of the East.

  MAGAZINE-WRITING—PETER SNOOK

  IN A late number of the Democratic Review, there appeared a very excellent paper (by Mr. Duyckinck) on the subject of Magazine Literature—a subject much less thoroughly comprehended here than either in France or in England. In America, we compose, now and then, agreeable essays and other matters of that character, but we have not yet caught the true Magazine spirit—a thing neither to be defined nor described. Mr. Duyckinck’s article, although piquant, is not altogether to our mind. We think he places too low an estimate on the capability of the Magazine paper. He is inclined to undervalue its power, to limit unnecessarily its province—which is illimitable. In fact, it is in the extent of subject, and not less in the extent or variety of tone, that the French and English surpass us, to so good a purpose. How very rarely are we struck with an American Magazine article, as with an absolute novelty, how frequently the foreign articles so affect us! We are so circumstanced as to be unable to pay for elaborate compositions—and, after all, the true invention is elaborate. There is no greater mistake than the supposition that a true originality is a mere matter of impulse or inspiration. To originate is carefully, patiently, and understandingly to combine. The few American Magazinists who ever think of this elaboration at all cannot afford to carry it into practice for the paltry prices offered them by our periodical publishers. For this and other glaring reasons, we are behind the age in a very important branch of literature—a branch which, moreover, is daily growing in importance, and which, in the end (not far distant), will be the most influential of all the departments of Letters.

  We are lamentably deficient, not only in invention proper, but in that which is, more strictly, art. What American, for instance, in penning a criticism, ever supposes himself called upon to present his readers with more than the exact stipulation of his title—to present them with a criticism and something beyond? Who thinks of making his critique a work of art itself—independently of its critical opinions?—a work of art, such as are all the more elaborate, and most effective reviews of Macaulay? Yet, these reviews we have evinced no incapacity to appreciate, when presented. The best American review ever penned is miserably ineffective when compared with the notice of Montagu’s Bacon—and yet this latter is, in general, a piece of tawdry sophistry, owing every thing to a consummate, to an exquisite arrangement—to a thorough and just sufficiently comprehensive diffuseness—to a masterly climaxing of points—to a style which dazzles the understanding with its brilliancy, but not more than it misleads it by its perspicuity,—causing us so distinctly to comprehend that we fancy we coincide,—in a word, to the perfection of art—of all the art which a Macaulay can wield, or which is applicable to any criticism that a Macaulay could write.

  It is, however, in the composition of that class of Magazine papers which come, properly, under the head of Tales, that we evince the most remarkable deficiency in skill. If we except, first, Mr. Hawthorne—secondly, Mr. Simms—thirdly, Mr. Willis—and fourthly, one or two others, whom we may as well put mentally together without naming them—there is not even a respectably skilful writer on this side of the Atlantic. We have seen, to be sure, many very well-constructed stories—individual specimens—the work of American Magazinists; but these specimens have invariably appeared to be happy accidents of construction; their authors, in subsequent tales, having always evinced an incapacity to construct.

  We have been led to a comparison of the American with the British ability in tale-writing, by a perusal of some Magazine papers, the composition of the author of “Chartley,” and “The Invisible Gentleman.” He is one of the best of the English journalists, and has some of the happiest peculiarities of Dickens, whom he preceded in the popular favor. The longest and best of his tales, properly so called, is “Peter Snook,” and this presents so many striking points for the consideration of the Magazinist, that we feel disposed to give an account of it in full.

  Peter Snook, the hero, and the beau idéal of a Cockney, is a retail linen-draper in Bishopgate Street. He is, of course, a stupid and conceited, although, at bottom, a very good little fellow, and “always looks as if he was frightened.” Matters go on very thrivingly with him, until he becomes acquainted with Miss Clarinda Bodkin, “a young lady owning to almost thirty, and withal a great proficient in the mysteries of millinery and mantua-making.” Love and ambition, however, set the little gentleman somewhat beside himself. “If Miss Clarinda would but have me,” says he, “we might divide the shop, and have a linen-drapery side, and a haberdashery and millinery side, and one would help the other. There’d be only one rent to pay, and a double business—and it would be so comfortable too!” Thinking thus, Peter commences a flirtation, to which Miss Clarinda but doubtfully responds. He escorts the lady to White Conduit House, Bagnigge Wells, and other genteel places of public resort—and, finally, is so rash as to accede to the proposition, on her part, of a trip to Margate. At this epoch of the narrative, the writer observes that the subsequent proceedings of the hero are gathered from accounts rendered by himself, when called upon, after the trip, for explanation.

  It is agreed that Miss Clarinda shall set out alone for Margate—Mr. Snook following her, after some indispensable arrangements. These occupy him until the middle of July, at which period, taking passage in the “Rose in June,” he safely reaches his destination. But various misfortunes here await him,—misfortunes admirably adapted to the meridian of Cockney feeling, and the capacity of Cockney endurance. His umbrella, for example, and a large brown paper parcel, containing a new peagreen coat and flower-patterned embroidered silk waistcoat, are tumbled into the water at the landing-place, and Miss Bodkin forbids him her presence in his old clothes. By a tumble of his own, too, the skin is rubbed from both his shins for several inches, and the surgeon, having no regard to the lover’s cotillion engagements, enjoins on him a
total abstinence from dancing. A cock-chafer, moreover, is at the trouble of flying into one of his eyes, and (worse than all) a tall military-looking shoemaker, Mr. Last, has taken advantage of the linen-draper’s delay in reaching Margate, to ingratiate himself with his mistress. Finally, he is cut by Last, and rejected by the lady, and has nothing left for it, but to secure a homeward passage in the “Rose in June.”

  In the evening of the second day after his departure, the vessel drops anchor off Greenwich. Most of the passengers go ashore, with the view of taking the stage to the city. Peter, however, who considers that he has already spent money enough to no purpose, prefers remaining on board. “We shall get to Billingsgate,” says he, “while I am sleeping, and I shall have plenty of time to go home and dress, and go into the city and borrow the trifle I may want for Pester & Co.’s bill, that comes due the day after to-morrow.” This determination is a source of much trouble to our hero, as will be seen in the sequel. Some shopmen who remain with him in the packet, tempt him to unusual indulgences, in the way, first, of brown stout, and, secondly, of positive French brandy. The consequence is that Mr. Snook falls, thirdly, asleep, and, fourthly, overboard.

  About dawn on the morning after this event, Ephraim Hobson, the confidential clerk and factotum of Mr. Peter Snook, is disturbed from a sound sleep by the sudden appearance of his master. That gentleman seems to be quite in a bustle, and delights Ephraim with an account of a whacking wholesale order for exportation just received. “Not a word to any body about the matter!” exclaims Peter, with unusual emphasis. “It’s such an opportunity as don’t come often in a man’s life-time. There’s a captain of a ship—he’s the owner of her too; but never mind! there an’t time to enter into particulars now, but you’ll know all by and by—all you have to do is to do as I tell you—so, come along!”

  Setting Ephraim to work, with directions to pack up immediately all the goods in the shop, with the exception of a few trifling articles, the master avows his intention of going into the city, “to borrow enough money to make up Pester’s bill, due to-morrow.” “I don’t think you’ll want much, sir,” replied Mr. Hobson, with a self-complacent air. “I’ve been looking about long-winded ’uns, you see, since you’ve been gone, and I’ve got Shy’s money and Slack’s account, which we’d pretty well given up for a bad job, and one or two more. There—there’s the list—and there’s the key to the strong box, where you’ll find the money, besides what I’ve took at the counter.” Peter, at this, seems well pleased, and shortly afterward goes out, saying he cannot tell when he’ll be back, and, giving directions that whatever goods may be sent in during his absence shall be left untouched till his return.

  It appears that, after leaving his shop, Mr. Snook proceeded to that of Jobb, Flashbill, & Co. (one of whose clerks, on board the “Rose in June,” had been very liberal in supplying our hero with brandy on the night of his ducking), looked over a large quantity of ducks and other goods, and finally made purchase of “a choice assortment,” to be delivered the same day. His next visit was to Mr. Bluff, the managing partner in the banking-house where he usually kept his cash. His business now was to request permission to overdraw a hundred pounds for a few days.

  “Humph!” said Mr. Bluff, “money is very scarce; but—bless me!—yes—it’s he! Excuse me a minute, Mr. Snook, there’s a gentleman at the front counter whom I want particularly to speak to—I’ll be back with you directly.” As he uttered these words, he rushed out, and in passing one of the clerks on his way forward, he whispered: “Tell Scribe to look at Snook’s account, and let me know directly.” He then went to the front counter, where several people were waiting to pay and receive money. “Fine weather this, Mr. Butt. What! you’re not out of town like the rest of them?”

  “No,” replied Mr. Butt, who kept a thriving gin-shop, “no, I sticks to my business—make hay while the sun shines—that’s my maxim. Wife up at night—I up early in the morning.”

  The banker chatted and listened with great apparent interest, till the closing of a huge book, on which he kept his eye, told him that his whispered order had been attended to. He then took a gracious leave of Mr. Butt, and returned back to the counting-house with a slip of paper, adroitly put in his hand while passing, on which was written: “Peter Snook, Linen Draper, Bishopgate Street—old account—increasing gradually—balance: £153 15s. 6d.—very regular.” “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Snook,” said he, “but we must catch people when we can. Well, what is it you were saying you wanted us to do?”

  “I should like to be able to overdraw just for a few days,” said Peter.

  “How much?”

  “A hundred.”

  “Won’t fifty do?”

  “No, not quite, sir.”

  “Well, you’re an honest fellow, and don’t come bothering us often; so, I suppose we must not be too particular with you for this once.”

  Leaving Bluff, Mr. Snook hurries to overtake Mr. Butt, the dealer in spirits, who had just left the banking-house before himself, and to give that gentleman an order for a hogshead of the best gin. As he is personally unknown to Mr. Butt, he hands him a card, on which is written: “Peter Snook, linen and muslin warehouse, No.—, Bishopgate Street within,” etc., etc., and takes occasion to mention that he purchases at the recommendation of Mr. Bluff. The gin is to be at Queenhithe the same evening. The spirit-dealer, as soon as his new customer has taken leave, revolves in his mind the oddity of a linen-draper’s buying a hogshead of gin, and determines to satisfy himself of Mr. Snook’s responsibility by a personal application to Mr. Bluff. On reaching the bank, however, he is told by the clerks that Mr. Bluff, being in attendance upon a committee of the House of Commons, will not be home in any reasonable time—but also that Peter Snook is a perfectly safe man. The gin is accordingly sent, and several other large orders for different goods, upon other houses, are promptly fulfilled in the same manner. Meantime, Ephraim is busily engaged at home in receiving and inspecting the invoices of the various purchases as they arrive, at which employment he is occupied until dusk, when his master makes his appearance in unusually high spirits. We must here be pardoned for copying some passages:

  “Well, Ephraim,” he exclaimed, “this looks something like business. You haven’t had such a job this many a day! Shop looks well now, eh?”

  “You know best, sir,” replied Hobson. “But hang me if I an’t frightened. When we shall sell all these goods, I’m sure I can’t think. You talked of having a haberdashery side to the shop; but if we go on at this rate we shall want another side for ourselves. I’m sure I don’t know where Miss Bodkin is to be put.”

  “She go to Jericho!” said Peter, contemptuously. “As for the goods, my boy, they’ll be gone before to-morrow morning. All you and I have got to do, is to pack ’em up; so, let us turn to, and strap at it.”

  Packing was Ephraim’s favorite employment, but, on the present occasion, he set to work with a heavy heart. His master, on the contrary, appeared full of life and spirits, and corded boxes, sewed up trusses, and packed huge paper parcels with a celerity and an adroitness truly wonderful.

  “Why don’t you get on, Hobson,” he exclaimed; “see what I’ve done! Where’s the ink-pot?—oh, here it is!” and he proceeded to mark his packages with his initials, and the letter G below. “There,” he resumed, “P. S. G.; that’s for me, at Gravesend. I’m to meet the captain and owner there, show the goods—if there’s any he don’t like, shall bring ’em back with me; get bills—banker’s acceptances for the rest; see ’em safe on board; then—but not before, mind that, Master Ephraim! No, no, keep my weather eye open, as the men say on board the ‘Rose in June.’ By the by, I haven’t told you yet about my falling overboard, whap into the river.”

  “Falling overboard!” exclaimed the astonished shopman, quitting nis occupation to stand erect to listen.

  “Ay, ay,” continued Peter—“see it won’t do to tell you long stories now. There—mark that truss, will you? Know all about it some day. Lu
cky job, though—tell you that: got this thundering order by it. Had one tumble, first, going off, at Margate. Spoilt my peagreen—never mind—that was a lucky tumble, too. Hadn’t been for that, shouldn’t so soon have found out the game a certain person was playing with me. She go to Jericho!”

  But for the frequent repetition of his favorite expression, Ephraim Hobson has since declared he should have doubted his master’s identity during the whole of that evening, as there was something very singular about him, and his strength and activity in moving the bales, boxes, and trusses, were such as he had never previously exhibited. The phrase condemning this, that, or the other thing or person to “go to Jericho,” was the only expression that he uttered, as the shopman said, “naturally,” and Peter repeated that whimsical anathema as often as usual.

  The goods being all packed up, carts arrive to carry them away; and, by half-past ten o’clock, the shop is entirely cleared, with the exception of some trifling articles, to make show on the shelves and counters. Two hackney coaches are called. Mr. Peter Snook gets into one with a variety of loose articles, which would require too much time to pack, and his shopman into another with some more. Arriving at Queenhithe, they find all the goods previously sent already embarked in the hold of a long-decked barge, which lies near the shore. Mr. Snook now insists upon Ephraim’s going on board, and taking supper and some hot rum and water. This advice he follows to so good purpose, that he is, at length, completely bewildered, when his master, taking him up in his arms, carries him on shore, and there, setting him down, leaves him to make the best of his way home as he can.