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probable into the weird confines of superstition and unreality。 He
combines in a very remarkable manner two faculties which are seldom
found united； a power of influencing the mind of the reader by the
impalpable shadows of mystery； and a minuteness of detail which does
not leave a pin or a button unnoticed。 Both are； in truth； the
natural results of the predominating quality of his mind； to which we
have before alluded； analysis。 It is this which distinguishes the
artist。 His mind at once reaches forward to the effect to be
produced。 Having resolved to bring about certain emotions in the
reader； he makes all subordinate parts tend strictly to the common
centre。 Even his mystery is mathematical to his own mind。 To him X is
a known quantity all along。 In any picture that he paints he
understands the chemical properties of all his colors。 However vague
some of his figures may seem； however formless the shadows； to him
the outline is as clear and distinct as that of a geometrical
diagram。 For this reason Mr。 Poe has no sympathy with Mysticism。 The
Mystic dwells in the mystery； is enveloped with it； it colors all his
thoughts； it affects his optic nerve especially； and the commonest
things get a rainbow edging from it。 Mr。 Poe； on the other hand； is a
spectator _ab extra。 _He analyzes； he dissects； he watches
〃with an eye serene；
The very pulse of the machine；〃
for such it practically is to him； with wheels and cogs and
piston…rods； all working to produce a certain end。
This analyzing tendency of his mind balances the poetical； and by
giving him the patience to be minute； enables him to throw a
wonderful reality into his most unreal fancies。 A monomania he paints
with great power。 He loves to dissect one of these cancers of the
mind； and to trace all the subtle ramifications of its roots。 In
raising images of horror； also； he has strange success； conveying to
us sometimes by a dusky hint some terrible _doubt _which is the
secret of all horror。 He leaves to imagination the task of finishing
the picture； a task to which only she is competent。
〃For much imaginary work was there；
Conceit deceitful； so compact； so kind；
That for Achilles' image stood his spear
Grasped in an armed hand； himself behind
Was left unseen； save to the eye of mind。〃
Besides the merit of conception； Mr。 Poe's writings have also that of
form。
His style is highly finished； graceful and truly classical。 It would
be hard to find a living author who had displayed such varied powers。
As an example of his style we would refer to one of his tales； 〃The
House of Usher；〃 in the first volume of his 〃Tales of the Grotesque
and Arabesque。〃 It has a singular charm for us； and we think that no
one could read it without being strongly moved by its serene and
sombre beauty。 Had its author written nothing else； it would alone
have been enough to stamp him as a man of genius； and the master of a
classic style。 In this tale occurs； perhaps； the most beautiful of
his poems。
The great masters of imagination have seldom resorted to the vague
and the unreal as sources of effect。 They have not used dread and
horror alone； but only in combination with other qualities； as means
of subjugating the fancies of their readers。 The loftiest muse has
ever a household and fireside charm about her。 Mr。 Poe's secret lies
mainly in the skill with which lie has employed the strange
fascination of mystery and terror。 In this his success is so great
and striking as to deserve the name of art； not artifice。 We cannot
call his materials the noblest or purest； but we must concede to him
the highest merit of construction。
As a critic； Mr。 Poe was aesthetically deficient。 Unerring in his
analysis of dictions； metres and plots； he seemed wanting in the
faculty of perceiving the profounder ethics of art。 His criticisms
are； however； distinguished for scientific precision and coherence of
logic。 They have the exactness； and at the same time； the coldness of
mathematical demonstrations。 Yet they stand in strikingly refreshing
contrast with the vague generalisms and sharp personalities of the
day。 If deficient in warmth； they are also without the heat of
partisanship。 They are especially valuable as illustrating the great
truth； too generally overlooked； that analytic power is a subordinate
quality of the critic。
On the whole； it may be considered certain that Mr。 Poe has attained
an individual eminence in our literature which he will keep。 He has
given proof of power and originality。 He has done that which could
only be done once with success or safety； and the imitation or
repetition of which would produce weariness。
~~~~~~ End of Text ~~~~~~
DEATH OF EDGAR A。 POE
BY N。 P。 WILLIS
THE ancient fable of two antagonistic spirits imprisoned in one body；
equally powerful and having the complete mastery by turns…of one man；
that is to say； inhabited by both a devil and an angel seems to have
been realized； if all we hear is true； in the character of the
extraordinary man whose name we have written above。 Our own
impression of the nature of Edgar A。 Poe； differs in some important
degree； however； from that which has been generally conveyed in the
notices of his death。 Let us； before telling what we personally know
of him； copy a graphic and highly finished portraiture； from the pen
of Dr。 Rufus W。 Griswold； which appeared in a recent number of the
〃Tribune：〃｛*1｝
〃Edgar Allen Poe is dead。 He died in Baltimore on Sunday； October
7th。 This announcement will startle many； but few will be grieved by
it。 The poet was known； personally or by reputation； in all this
country； he bad readers in England and in several of the states of
Continental Europe； but he had few or no friends； and the regrets for
his death will be suggested principally by the consideration that in
him literary art has lost one of its most brilliant but erratic stars。
〃His conversation was at times almost supramortal in its eloquence。
His voice was modulated with astonishing skill； and his large and
variably expressive eyes looked repose or shot fiery tumult into
theirs who listened； while his own face glowed； or was changeless in
pallor； as his imagination quickened his blood or drew it back frozen
to his heart。 His imagery was from the worlds which no mortals can
see but with the vision of genius。 Suddenly starting from a
proposition； exactly and sharply defined； in terms of utmost
simplicity and clearness； he rejected the forms of customary logic；
and by a crystalline process of accretion； built up his ocular
demonstrations in forms of gloomiest and ghastliest grandeur； or in
those of the most airy and delicious beauty； so minutely and
distinctly； yet so rapidly； that the attention which was yielded to
him was chained till it stood among his wonderful creations； till he
himself dissolved the spell； and brought his hearers back to common
and base existence； by vulgar fancies or exhibitions of the ignoblest
passion。
〃He was at all times a dreamer…dwelling in ideal realms…in heaven or
hell…peopled with the creatures and the accidents of his brain。 He
walked…the streets； in madness or melancholy； with lips moving in
indistinct curses； or with eyes upturned in passionate prayer （never
for himself； for he felt； or professed to feel； that he was already
damned； but） for their happiness who at the moment were objects of
his idolatry； or with his glances introverted to a heart gnawed with
anguish； and with a face shrouded in gloom； he would brave the
wildest storms； and all night； with drenched garments and arms
beating the winds and rains； would speak as if the spirits that at
such times only could be evoked by him from the Aidenn； close by
whose portals his disturbed soul sought to forget the ills to which
his constitution subjected him…close by the Aidenn where were those
he loved…the Aidenn which he might never see； but in fitful glimpses；
as its gates opened to receive the less fiery and more happy natures
whose destiny to sin did not involve the doom of death。
〃He seemed； except when some fitful pursuit subjugated his will and
engrossed his faculties； always to bear the memory of some
controlling sorrow。 The remarkable poem of 'The Raven' was probably
much more nearly than has been supposed； even by those who were very
intimate with him； a reflection and an echo of his own history。 _He
_was that bird's
〃 ' unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never…never more。'
〃Every genuine author in a greater or less degree leaves in his
works； whatever their design； traces of his personal character：
elements of his immortal being； in which the individual survives the
person。 While we read the pages of the 'Fall of the House of Usher；'
or of 'Mesmeric Revelations；' we see in the solemn and stately gloom
which invests one； and in the subtle metaphysical analysis of both；
indications of the idiosyncrasies of w