Such portions of “Politian” as are known to the public first saw the
      light of publicity in the “Southern Literary Messenger” for December,
      1835, and January, 1836, being styled “Scenes from Politian: an
      unpublished drama.” These scenes were included, unaltered, in the 1845
      collection of Poems, by Poe. The larger portion of the original draft
      subsequently became the property of the present editor, but it is not
      considered just to the poet’s memory to publish it. The work is a hasty
      and unrevised production of its author’s earlier days of literary labor;
      and, beyond the scenes already known, scarcely calculated to enhance his
      reputation. As a specimen, however, of the parts unpublished, the
      following fragment from the first scene of Act II. may be offered. The
      Duke, it should be premised, is uncle to Alessandra, and father of
      Castiglione her betrothed. Duke. Why do you laugh? Castiglione. Indeed
  I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not
  On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl? Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday. Alessandra, you and 1, you must remember! We were walking in the garden. Duke, Perfectly. I do remember it-what of it-what then? Cas. O nothing-nothing at all. Duke. Nothing at all! It is most singular that you should laugh
  ‘At nothing at all! Cas. Most singular-singular! Duke. Look you, Castiglione, be so kind
  As tell me, sir, at once what ’tis you mean. What are you talking of? Cas. Was it not so? We differed in opinion touching him. Duke. Him!—Whom? Cas. Why, sir, the Earl Politian. Duke. The Earl of Leicester! Yes!—is it he you mean? We differed, indeed. If I now recollect
  The words you used were that the Earl you knew
  Was neither learned nor mirthful. Cas. Ha! ha!—now did I? Duke. That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time
  You were wrong, it being not the character
  Of the Earl-whom all the world allows to be
  A most hilarious man. Be not, my son,
  Too positive again. Cas. ’Tis singular! Most singular! I could not think it possible
  So little time could so much alter one! To say the truth about an hour ago,
  As I was walking with the Count San Ozzo,
  All arm in arm, we met this very man
  The Earl-he, with his friend Baldazzar,
  Having just arrived in Rome. Hal ha! he is altered! Such an account he gave me of his journey! ’Twould have made you die with laughter-such tales he told
  Of his caprices and his merry freaks
  Along the road-such oddity-such humor—
  Such wit-such whim-such flashes of wild merriment
  Set off too in such full relief by the grave
  Demeanor of his friend-who, to speak the truth,
  Was gravity itself—
      Duke. Did I not tell you? Cas. You did-and yet ’tis strange! but true as strange,
  How much I was mistaken! I always thought
  The Earl a gloomy man. Duke. So, so, you see! Be not too positive. Whom have we here? It can not be the Earl? Cas. The Earl! Oh, no! ’Tis not the Earl-but yet it is-and leaning
  Upon his friend Baldazzar. AM welcome, sir! (Enter Politian and Baldazzar.) My lord, a second welcome let me give you
  To Rome-his Grace the Duke of Broglio. Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl
  Of Leicester in Great Britain. [Politian bows haughtily.] That, his friend
  Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has letters,
  So please you, for Your Grace. Duke. Hal ha! Most welcome
  To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian! And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you! I knew your father well, my Lord Politian. Castiglione! call your cousin hither,
  And let me make the noble Earl acquainted
  With your betrothed. You come, sir, at a time
  Most seasonable. The wedding—
      Politian. Touching those letters, sir,
  Your son made mention of—your son, is he not? Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them. If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here—
  Baldazzar! ah!—my friend Baldazzar here
  Will hand them to Your Grace. I would retire. Duke. Retire!—So soon? Came What ho! Benito! Rupert! His lordship’s chambers-show his lordship to them! His lordship is unwell. (Enter Benito.) Ben. This way, my lord! (Exit, followed by Politian.) Duke. Retire! Unwell! Bal. So please you, sir. I fear me
  ’Tis as you say—his lordship is unwell. The damp air of the evening-the fatigue
  Of a long journey—the—indeed I had better
  Follow his lordship. He must be unwell. I will return anon. Duke. Return anon! Now this is very strange! Castiglione! This way, my son, I wish to speak with thee. You surely were mistaken in what you said
  Of the Earl, mirthful, indeed!—which of us said
  Politian was a melancholy man? (Exeunt.) POEMS OF YOUTH




INTRODUCTION TO POEMS—1831




_LETTER TO MR. B—._


                                  “WEST POINT, 1831. “Dear B...... Believing only a portion of my former volume to be worthy
      a second edition-that small portion I thought it as well to include in the
      present book as to republish by itself. I have therefore herein combined
      ‘Al Aaraaf’ and ‘Tamerlane’ with other poems hitherto unprinted. Nor have
      I hesitated to insert from the ‘Minor Poems,’ now omitted, whole lines,
      and even passages, to the end that being placed in a fairer light, and the
      trash shaken from them in which they were imbedded, they may have some
      chance of being seen by posterity. “It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by one who
      is no poet himself. This, according to your idea and _mine _of
      poetry, I feel to be false-the less poetical the critic, the less just the
      critique, and the converse. On this account, and because there are but few
      B-’s in the world, I would be as much ashamed of the world’s good opinion
      as proud of your own. Another than yourself might here observe,
      ‘Shakespeare is in possession of the world’s good opinion, and yet
      Shakespeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then that the world judge
      correctly, why should you be ashamed of their favorable judgment?’ The
      difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word ‘judgment’ or ‘opinion.’
      The opinion is the world’s, truly, but it may be called theirs as a man
      would call a book his, having bought it; he did not write the book, but it
      is his; they did not originate the opinion, but it is theirs. A fool, for
      example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet-yet the fool has never read
      Shakespeare. But the fool’s neighbor, who is a step higher on the Andes of
      the mind, whose head (that is to say, his more exalted thought) is too far
      above the fool to be seen or understood, but whose feet (by which I mean
      his everyday actions) are sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means
      of which that superiority is ascertained, which but for them would never
      have been discovered-this neighbor asserts that Shakespeare is a great
      poet—the fool believes him, and it is henceforward his _opinion.