smiles. Not the urbane smile that fascinates and undoes even Radical
journalists--quite another smile. Never could this private smile have been
more subtle than on the night of the day when he permitted himself to be
elected a member of the British Academy. Further, let it not be said that
our Academy excludes novelists and journalists. We novelists are ably
represented by Mr. Andrew Lang, author of "Prince Prigio" and part-author
of "The World's Desire." And we journalists have surely an adequate
spokesman in the person of the author of "Lost Leaders." Mr. Lang has also
dabbled in history.

POE AND THE SHORT STORY

[_28 Jan. '09_]

The great Edgar Allen Poe celebration has passed off, and no one has been
seriously hurt by the terrific display of fireworks. Some of the set
pieces were pretty fair; for example, Mr. G.B. Shaw's in the _Nation_ and
Prof. C.H. Herford's in the _Manchester Guardian_. On the whole, however,
the enthusiasm was too much in the nature of mere good form. If only we
could have a celebration of Omar Khayyam, Tennyson, Gilbert White, or the
inventor of Bridge, the difference between new and manufactured enthusiasm
would be apparent. We have spent several happy weeks in conceitedly
explaining to that barbaric race, the Americans, that in Poe they have
never appreciated their luck. Yet we ourselves have never understood Poe.
And we never shall understand Poe. It is immensely to our credit that,
owing to the admirable obstinacy of Mr. J.H. Ingram, we now admit that Poe
was neither a drunkard, a debauchee, nor a cynical eremite. This is about
as far as we shall get. Poe's philosophy of art, as discovered in his
essays and his creative work, is purely Latin and, as such,
incomprehensible and even naughty to the Saxon mind. To the average
bookish Englishman Poe means "The Pit and the Pendulum," and his finest
poetry means nothing at all. Tell that Englishman that Poe wrote more
beautiful lyrics than Tennyson, and he will blankly put you down as mad.
(So shall I.)

* * * * *

Once, and not many years since, I contemplated editing a complete edition
of Poe, with a brilliant introduction in which I was to show that the
appearance of a temperament like his in the United States in the early
years of the nineteenth century was the most puzzling miracle that can be
found in the whole history of literature. Then, naturally, I intended to
explain the miracle. My plans we