too horrible to be contemplated, however artistically it might be veiled. But in all, wherever Poe gives his dreaming fancy any play, it never fails to paint vividly. Take its pictures altogether, and they belong to a new school of grotesque diablerie. They are original in their gloom, their occasional humor, their peculiar picturesqueness, their style, and their construction and machinery. Of their gloom we have just spoken. The balloon of Hans Pfaall, seen by the citizens of Rotterdam, and made of dirty newspapers, is a touch of Poe's original playfulness. So also the negro in the "Gold Bug;" the "Balloon Hoax," is the work of a born quiz; "Some words with a Mummy," "Hop Frog," "Bon Bon," "The Devil in the Belfrey," "Lionizing," and many more, show how full he naturally was of boyish feeling. They are mere trifles to please children; but then he was a child who wrote them-he never got over being a child. blood-red metal, its upper end lost, like the city of Boston, parmi les nues." In the "Rationale of Verse," a not very clear essay, but one abounding in acute suggestion, we have plenty of examples of a like pleasant sarcasm. Indeed, throughout these writings there is enough to show that their author, as is generally true of such able than to the horrible. Indeed, had life spirits, was no less sensitive to the laughgone happily with him, it is possible he might have been only known as one of the gay spirits of fashionable society. With respect to Poe's style, the extracts above given from "The Gold Bug," "the M.S. found in a bottle," &c., exhibit his affluence of musical variety in expression, and command of words. One more extract we must give, not only for its eloquence, but in illustration of our theory, that Poe was one originally so sensitive, the first breath of the world withered him; so that he was benumbed, and fancied he had outlived his heart: The fate of Mr. Toby Dammit, in the sketch "Never bet the Devil your Head," "She whom I loved in youth, and of whom is an awful warning-one which even now I now pen calmly and distinctly these rememit is impossible to contemplate without brances, was the sole daughter of the only emotion. He bet the Devil his head that sister of my mother long departed. Eleonora he could leap over a certain stile; it hap-dwelled together, beneath a tropical sun, in the was the name of my cousin. We had always pened that above the stile was a thin flat Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. No unbar of iron, which he did not perceive, and guided footstep ever came upon that vale: for which shaved his head clean off. Our author it lay far away up among a range of giant gives the conclusion: hills that hung beetling around about it, shutting out the sunlight from its sweetest recessNo path was trodden in its vicinity; and to reach our happy home, there was need of putting back with force, the foliage of many thousands of forest trees, and of crushing to death the glories of many millions of fragrant flowers. Thus it was that we lived all alone, knowing nothing of the world without the valley,-I, and my cousin, and her mother. "He did not long survive his terrible loss. The homeopathists did not give him little enough physic, and what little they did give him he hesitated to take. So in the end he grew worse, and at length died, a lesson to all riotous livers. I bedewed his grave with my tears, worked a bar sinister on his family escutcheon, and for the general expenses of his funeral, sent in my very moderate bill to the transcendentalists. The scoundrels refused to pay it, so I had Mr. Dammit dug up at once, and sold him for dog's meat." What a bold comparison we have in "The Duc de L'Omelette," where the hero is taken by Baal-Zebub into the enchanted chamber. "It was not its length nor its breadth, but its height; oh, that was appalling! There was no ceiling, certainly none; but a dense whirling mass of fiery colored clouds. His Grace's brain reeled as he glanced upwards. From above hung a chain of an unknown es. "From the dim regions beyond the mountains at the upper end of our encircled domain, there crept out a narrow and deep river, brighter than all save the eyes of Eleonora ; and winding stealthily about in mazy courses, it passed away at length, through a shadowy gorge, among hills still dimmer than those whence it had issued. We called it the "River of Silence; for there seemed to be a hushing influence in its flow. No murmur arose from its bed, and so gently it wandered along, that the pearly pebbles upon which we loved to gaze, far down within its bosom, stirred not at all, but lay in a motionless content, each in its own old station, shining on gloriously for ever. "The margin of the river, and of the many dazzling rivulets that glided through devious ways into its channel, as well as the spaces that extended from the margins away down into the depths of the streams, until they reached the bed of pebbles at the bottom,-these spots, not less than the whole surface of the valley, from the river to the mountains that girdled it in, were carpeted all by a soft green grass, thick, short, perfectly even, and vanilla-perfumed, but so besprinkled throughout with the yellow buttercup, the white daisy, the purple violet, and the ruby-red asphodel, that its exceeding beauty spoke to our hearts in loud tones, of the love and of the glory of God." Poor Poe! It was a sad day for him when he was forced from dreams like these into the real world, where there are so many "far wiser" than he. No wonder he sometimes lost heart and temper, and soon died! We have observed that Poe is original, not only in his gloom, his humor, and so forth, but also in the construction of his tales. Indeed, it is for this he has been most found fault with. It is said he wrote his things" on a plan." It is not denied that he contrives to get up an interest; but it is objected that he does it systematically, foreseeing the end from the beginning, laying out his work, and deliberately going through it. But is not this really an argument in his favor? The painter composes "on a plan;" he touches not his canvas till his whole design is sketched, or laid out perfectly, in his mind; he must do so. Still more is this true (though we are aware it is not generally thought so) with the musical composer; everything is so calculated beforehand, the composition may be said to exist in his mind, exactly in reverse order; in the freest style, the climax is the first thing conceived, and to which the rest is adjusted. And in writing plays, must not the plot be first established, and then elaborated? Does any one suppose that Shakspeare did not foreknow the action of Hamlet, when he sat himself to write it? or that he improvised Macbeth? or that he could elaborate that singular texture of plots, the Midsummer Night's Dream, by the Dumas process of accretion? Surely those who think so cannot understand any, the simplest work of art, in its entirety. For a work of art is not a heap of things built up, and to which more may be joined; it is, like the French Republic, "one and indivisible." If you take away aught from it, it is incomplete; if you add, you put on what does not belong to it. Even so simple a work of art as a house, must be built "on a plan," or it will be only a conglomeration of rooms; and whenever it is completed, whatever is added is very properly styled an "addition." The pen in our hand, we could not have made it without definite design. Why should we not have tales constructed on such plots as it will best excite a continued interest to unravel? Why-because the present day seems to abound in little writers, who make much noise, but whose minds have no strength, no connection of ideas; no dependence of thought upon thought; nothing that enchains the reader, and goes on developing, from sentence to sentence, paragraph to paragraph, and page to page. We have many among us of this stamp, whom it is impossible to read without confusion. Of course all such are the natural foes of order, prolonged interest, and grand emotion. They wish to go from thing to thing; to feel only themselves; to smatter, and dogmatize, and talk-talk-talk. O, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable is all they have to utter! Again; it has been objected to Poe's stories and poems, that they are abstract, unlike anything in real life, out of all experience, and touching no human sympathy. As to the abstractness and remoteness from experience, if these be faults, God help the wicked! for the author of Paradise Lost is surely damned; but as to their coldness and incapacity to touch human sympathy, that we utterly deny. We are unable to perceive, from these harmless little sketches and verses, a reason for all that has been said of Poe's coldheartedness, "cynicism," want of moral sense, and so on. It must be admitted, however, that if the friendship manifested in these biographical prefixes was the warmest he could inspire, he was certainly one of the most unfortunate men that ever lived. But to judge him purely as he appears in his own writing, we do not see but that he had as much "heart" as other men -as much, at least, as other literary men who have resided as long as he did in this All these objections and accusations appear to us to have arisen from two sources; first, his success in gaining, at once, what so many would give their eyes for, viz.: a reputation; and, secondly, his frankness, or want of self-respect. This leads us to speak of his poetry, and of what he has related respecting his mode of writing it. Coleridge, speaking of some of his own poems, observes: "In this idea originated the plan of the Lyrical ballads ;' in which it was agreed that my endeavors should be directed to persons and characters supernatural, or, at least, romantic; yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a human interest, and a semblance of truth, sufficient to procure for these shadows of imagination that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic "With this view I wrote the 'Ancient Mariner,' and was preparing, among other poems, the 'Dark Ladie,' and the Christobel,' in which I should have more nearly realized my ideal, than I had done in my first attempt." faith." on From this extract we learn that even that most fanciful of modern poems, the "Ancient Mariner," was written in conformity with a specific purpose, if not a plan." Doubtless, also, had it served. its author's purpose to enlighten us concerning the manner of his composition, he could have done so; for, the existence of a design argues forethought in execution. How certain words, rhymes, and similes came into his mind, he could not have told; but why he chose that peculiar metre, or, at least, that he chose a metre, he could have told, and also many other incidents of the poem's composition. Poe has done this with regard to "The Raven;" a much shorter piece, and one admitting a more regular ingenuity of construction-but still a poem full of singular beauty. His opening remarks in this analysis show the perfect frankness, or indiffer ence with which he sets to work to dispel his own conjurations: "I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written by any author who would---that is to say, who could---detail, step by step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to the world, I am much at a loss to say---but, perhaps, the autorial vanity has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. Most writers---poets in especial ---prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy---an ecstatic intuition--and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought---at the true purposes seized only at the last moment---at the innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view--at the fully matured fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable--at the cautious selections and rejections---at the painful erasures and interpolations---in a word, at the wheels and pinions---the tackle for scene-shifting---the step-ladders and demon-traps---the cock's feathers, the red paint and the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred, constitute the properties of the literary histrio." In what follows, wherein he goes minutely into his process of composition, though, in general, true, he was probably misled by the character of his mind, his love of speculation, his impatience of littleness, the perverseness" we have claimed for him, and a secret delight in mystifying the foolish-to make it appear that he wrote the whole poem, as he would have demonstrated a problem, and without experiencing any state or phase of elevated feeling. The poem itself is so sufficient an evidence to the contrary, and Poe, in his explanation, in its mode of construction, "The Philosophy of Composition," has carried his analysis to such an absurd minuteness, that it is a little suprising there should be any verdant enough not to perceive he was "chaffing." He was enough a boy in his feelings to take delight in quizzing. What are most of his stories, but harmless hoax? Horrible faces grin at us in them out of the darkness; but at the end comes the author, shews them to be nothing but pumpkin lanterns, and cries "sold!" in our faces. es Probably there is not, in all poetry or prose, an instance where language is made Perhaps Poe would tell us that, in writing these stanzas, having determined, upon good reasons, to introduce the Raven in some fantastic manner, he then considered what motions a bird of that species would be likely to make, and finally concluded to choose the most natural, as being the most fantastic; and thus, at length, after looking his dictionary, pitched upon the word flirt," which Johnson defines to mean a quick, elastic motion," as most suited to his purpose; then, finally, connected with it flutter," not so much to add to the meaning, as for the convenience of the rhyme with "shutter." And for such harmless "philosophy of composition" as this, he must be set down for a man of no heart! To our apprehension, it is quite impossible that most of the words and phrases in these two stanzas could have been chosen in any other than an elevated state of feeling-a condition when "The poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven, And, as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name." The "stately Raven," coming in with "many a flirt and flutter;" the "saintly days of yore"-what days? where? when?; the "obeisance," "mein of lord or lady, how picturesque! And in the second stanza every line is the offspring of the highest power of poetic vision; "grave and stern decorum," and Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore, Tell me what thy lordly name is ON THE NIGHT'S PLUTONIAN SHORE!" -where is this "Nightly shore," which we recognize as familiar, like the scenery of a dream that we never saw before? We seem to have heard of it and to know of it, and yet it is a perfectly new region. There is an indescribable power in the sound of these words, as also in the march of the lines which precede it. As the product of a pure vividness of fancy, and a sustained intense feeling, they are as remarkable as any similar in our passages poetic literature. The natural expression of intense or elevated feeling is music. Hence in all poetry which has this characteristic, (and all poetry has it in greater or less degree,) language is used with a power independent of its meaning to the understanding. The musical expression strives to predominate; and it is so ardent that it can even color with its fiery glow the cold and unmelodious sounds of articulate speech; under its influence the syllables of words fall into rythmic forms, and the mere confined range of the vowel sounds and the ordinary inflections of sentences, become a chant. In Shakspeare, the understanding was so alert that it rarely yields to the feeling, without evidence of a mighty conflict; generally the result is rather a thought-exciting struggle than a triumphant victory. Perhaps there is no instance in his blank verse, where the musical expression so entirely overpowers the other, that words have a sense entirely independent of their meaning. But then how beautifully both effects are sometimes blended: "The murmuring surge, That on the unnumbered idle pebbles chafes, Cannot be heard so high." Or, "let the brow overwhelm it, Or, perhaps the finest instance is from the chorus before King Henry's speech: "Suppose that you have seen The well-appointed King at Hampton Pier Embark his royalty; and his brave fleet With silken streamers the young Phoebus fanning. Play with your fancies; and in them behold, Upon the hempen tackle, ship-boys climbing: Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give To sounds confused: behold the threaden sails, Borne with the invisible and creeping wind, Draw the huge bottoms through the furrowed sea, Breasting the lofty surge. O do but think, You stand upon the rivage, and behold A city ON THE INCONSTANT BILLOWS DANCING!" It is only in his ballads, however, where he abandons himself more entirely to the emotion, that the musical element so predominates as to render its effect the primary one. Perhaps the dirge in Cymbeline, "Fear no more the heat o' the sun, &c." the serenade in the same play; “Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings," and the ballad in "Love's Labor Lost," "When daisies pied and violets blue," are the readiest examples. But even here, though the primary effect of the words is a musical one, that is, one arising from their sound, in that we read them and feel their expression, while our idea of their meaning is indistinct; yet when we come to examine them, we find that they have more than an indistinct meaning-a perfectly plain one-so plain that we wonder it does not strike us at first, (though, familiar as they are, it never does). But in Milton, and sometimes in others, we have examples where not only the primary, but the sole effect of the words is musical, the meaning being indistinct. He had a meaning, but we enjoy the effect, so far as it is purely poetic, without understanding what is said, and entirely through the sound of of the words. Thus his mere catalogues of names, of which we understand nothing definite, affect us poetically. For example, the passage in Lycidas:"Or whether thou to our moist vows deny'd, Sleeps't by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great vision of the guarded mount, Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold;" How few who have felt the sense of grandeur, vastness, and antiquity here expressed, understand "the fable of Bellerus," or have a place for Namancos and "Bayona's hold," in their geography? And again :"As when far off at sea a fleet descry'd, Hangs in the clouds, by equinoctial winds, Close sailing from Bengala, or the isles Of Ternate and Tidore, whence merchants bring Their spicy drugs." We have a distinct recollection what a thrill of pleasure it gave to learn long ago at school, where those islands really were; before that it had been sufficient for their poetic effect to know that they were islands; now, of course, we enjoy in addition to the poetry, the pride of knowledge. But passages in illustration of the musical effect are in Milton without number. Indeed, the whole poem, it is possible to conceive, might be enjoyed by that order of minds, which have only elevated feelings, without clear ideas. When the gryphon pursues the Arimaspian, few stop to inquire what a gryphon is, who is an Arimaspian, and what pursuit is alluded to; so far as the idea is concerned, it might as well read for "gryphon," tomson, and for "Arimaspian," Poliopkian. "And all who since, baptized or infidel, So not only in these sublime cadences, but |