Poe was a tireless critic of his own work, and both his standards
of workmanship and his critical precepts have been of great
service to his careless countrymen. He turned out between four
and five short stories a year, was poorly paid for them, and
indeed found difficulty in selling them at all. Yet he was
constantly correcting them for the better. His best poems were
likewise his latest. He was tantalized with the desire for
artistic perfection. He became the pathbreaker for a long file of
men in France, Italy, England, and America. He found the way and
they brought back the glory and the cash.
I have sometimes imagined Poe, with four other men and one woman,
seated at a dinner-table laid for six, and talking of their art
and of themselves. What would the others think of Poe? I fancy
that Thackeray would chat with him courteously, but would not
greatly care for him. George Eliot, woman-like, would pity him.
Hawthorne would watch him with those inscrutable eyes and
understand him better than the rest. But Stevenson would be
immensely interested; he would begin an essay on Poe before he
went to sleep.
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