the works of edgar allan poe-1-第4节

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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