By JAMES HUNEKER. For the sentimental no greater foe exists than the iconoclast who dissipates literary legends. And he is abroad nowadays. Those golden times when they gossiped of De Quincey senormous opium consumption, of the gin absorbed by gentle Charles Lamb, of Coleridge sdark ways, Byron sescapades, and Shelley satheism alas! into what faded limbo have they vanished. Poe, too, whom we saw in fancy reeling from Eichmond to Baltimore, Baltimore to Philadelphia, Philadelphia to New York. Those familiar fascinating anecdotes have gone the way of all such jerry-built spooks. We now know Poe to have been a man suffering at the time of his death from cerebral lesion, a man who drank at intervals and little. Dr. Guerrier of Paris has exploded a darling superstition about De Quincey sopium-eating.
(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don’t occur in the book.)
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