Text: Anonymous, “The Works of Edgar A. Poe,” Page Monthly: Devoted to General Literature (Lancaster County Normal School, Millersville, PA), vol. 1, no. 10, March 1, 1850, pp. 259-262

[page 259, continued:]

THE WORKS OF EDGAR A. POE.

A CELEBATED [[CELEBRATED]] writer has said, “ Perhaps no man can be a poet or even enjoy poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind, if anything which gives so much pleasure ought to be called unsoundness.” If we should seek among noted poets for an example to sustain this assertion — among those who have possessed the brightest and best cultivated talents — the poet chosen would be Edgar A. Poe. There appears a want of all the ennobling influences of Christianity on every page of his weird writings and in every impulse that characterized his eventful life. His mind was intensely imaginative and analytical. Proofs of this glare in almost every line of his bizarre poetry; it ever breathes of mysteries dark and grand like those which beshroud the crumbling, blood-stained altar of some Druidic temple. Were we unacquainted with the life of our poet we would from his “Raven” alone, surmise that he was the victim of some controlling sorrow — that his “soul with sorrow laden,” never sought to unburthen itself in humble prayer at the feet of Him who alone could give it rest. [page 260:]

Poe's poetry was not merely the result of an “ecstatic intuition,” he discloses in his “ Philosophy of Composition” the thoughtful processes by which it was constructed. The “Raven” is the best known of Poe's poems and is generally considered the finest of his poetical productions. The plot of the poem is ingeniously made and consummately executed. The denouement is elaborately conceived and although the whole poem is highly imaginative all the circumstances are within the limits of possibility. But this is not the case with his tales, it is in investing the unreal — the improbable and mysterious, with the attributes of reality that renders them so fascinating. The author of the “ Raven” claims for it no originality as regards rhyme or meter, but the same manner of combining the lines into stanzas he thinks was never before attempted.

There always appears to us on perusing the “ Raven,” an admirable correspondence of sound to sense. The wierd versification suggests sombre shadows — such shadows only that could be cast by midnight lamp “ gloating o’er” a crimson surface. On the whole the “Raven” is but an embodiment of Poe's definition of poetry — it is a “rhythmical creation of beauty.” It bears the stamp of genius and to say nothing of his fascinating stories; nothing of his numerous critiques; nothing of his other poems the “ Raven” alone would have rendered him immortal.

In one of his best and purest poems entitled “To Helen “ occurs the following beautiful passage: —

There is something truly poetical in the above lines — they speak to the heart with unaffected tenderness. They remind us of some of Byron's ablest passages. None of Poe's poems ring out more clearly sentiment with sound than “ The Bells;” this production is by some estimated but little inferior to the “ Raven.” It possesses those peculiarities which at once denote its author and proclaims it the work of no ordinary mind. — Among the principal of his other poems are “The Coliseum,” “Annabel Lee,” “Al Aaraaf,” “The Haunted Palace” and “Ulalume.” These are all fine poems as regards artistic arrangement, but some passages in them are too distempered creations — too morbid, to be read with safety or with profit.

Poe's stories are all more or less characterized by their unearthly beauty and sublimity. There is an indiscribable something about them (“je ne sais quoi,”) like that we feel sometimes in dreams. He ever introduces the reader into Italian dungeons, haunted crypts and ancient mansions over [page 261:] which hang “a shadow and a fear.” We have never read one of his tales that was not complete in itself, while each circumstance however improbable, under his masterly power of analysis assumes the guise of truth. Poe's lively imagination and peculiar temperament often led him far into the regions of the supernatural — yet he appears to make every step of the way known to the reader, and in such a manner, too, that he is unconscious of being led astray until the journey is completed. There are mysterious and thrilling incidents in real life which become disgusting when the theme of a story, unless they are treated by a great artist. Such incidents were chosen by Poe as his material and by his artistic mind were woven into stories which charm us by their mysticism and by the concise, clear and classic style in which they are written.

We feel when reading some of Poe's productions that we are gratifying a morbid taste, yet so completely do they fascinate us that we cannot resist perusing them. It is by taking circumstances of the most frightful character and by converting them into dark and bloody, yet fascinating mysteries that Poe displays a talent unequalled by any other writer with whom we are acquainted. The “ Fall of the House of Usher,” one of the best of Poe's tales has been pronounced “the most admirable thing of its kind in the whole range of English literature.” His “Ligeia,” “The mystery of Marie Roget” and the “Gold Bug,” are among the best of his other tales. In his “Eureka, a Prose Poem,” he displays a subtle and analytical mind with many evidences of varied and extensive scholastic attainments.

Of Poe as a critic we have but little to say. It has been said, however, that he examined the construction of sentences too closely to have a just conception of a literary production as a whole. Many of his critiques, nevertheless, show a fine appreciation of the sentiment contained in the articles under consideration and evince a thorough knowledge of those beauties of thought and style which must characterize every great literary effort.

The peculiar class of literature to which Poe's writings belong is unhealthy — it is infected with misanthropy and hopelessness. That reliance on the goodness and mercy of a Supreme Being which makes life a way of light, not darkness, is shown in none of his characters — their frailties and their despair is a melancholy echo of Poe's own wayward life.

The object of true literature is to make mankind happier and better. When it fails to do this — when it leagues itself with the dark and supernatural it is untrue and pernicious, and as a whole the works of Poe must he classed under the last head.

The life of Edgar A. Poe is familiar to all. He passed away from earth as the storm cloud at night upon whose dark surface appeared no bow of [page 262:] promise painted by the sunshine of Religion to lead us to hope for a bright futurity. He was intelligent, yet ignorant of the true end of human existence.

T. M. C.