Text: John S. Hart, “[Review of Poe's Works],” Sartain's Union Magazine (Philadelphia, PA), vol. VI, no. 4, April 1850, pp. 311-312

[page 311, column 2, continued:]

WORKS OF EDGAR A. POE. New York: J. S. Redfield. Two volumes of greater interest than these have not in a long time appeared. One is surprised, however, in looking over them, to see how little Poe wrote. Considering the impression which he has made upon the public mind, it is difficult to believe that it was all achieved by the contents of these two small duodecimos. But so it is. For one so long before the public, he really published very little. The secret of his success was, that to whatever he did publish, he gave the full force of his genius and the utmost finish of which it was capable. He possessed extraordinary and highly original genius, and whenever he attempted authorship, made no half-way work of it, but threw into it his utmost strength. Hence, everything that he published, small or great, produced a decided impression. His poem of “The Raven,” for instance, contains only about a hundred lines; — and yet it cost no doubt more labour, and produced an infinitely greater effect, than many of the entire volumes of highly respectable verse annually sent forth from the press. So with his “Lenore,” so with “The Bells,” so with “The Fall of the House of Usher” and his other stories, so with his essays. His essay on the “Rationale of Verse” is unsurpassed as a model of critical analysis. We have read not a few volumes, ancient and modern, and by scholars of world-wide reputation, on the vexed topic of prosody, and must say that this brief essay, which one may read in an hour, does more to clear up the whole subject, than all the volumes about it we have ever read.

Mr. Willis's letter, prefixed to the volumes, does him infinite credit. We feel constrained, much as we are pressed for room, to insert a small portion of it. We would remark also, in conclusion, that if any of our readers want an additional reason for the purchase of these volumes, beyond the fact of their intrinsic value, it will gratify them to know that the proceeds of the sale are for the benefit of the estimable lady mentioned in Mr. Willis's sketch.

“Our first knowledge of Mr. Poe's removal to this city, [page 312:] says Mr. Willis, “was by a call which we received from a lady who introduced herself to us as the mother of his wife. She was in search of employment for him, and she excused her errand by mentioning that he was ill, that her daughter was a confirmed invalid, and that their circumstances were such as compelled her taking it upon herself. The countenance of this lady, made beautiful and saintly with an evidently complete giving up of her life to privation and sorrowful tenderness, her gentle and mournful voice urging its plea, her long-forgotten but habitually and unconsciously refined manners, and her appealing and yet appreciative mention of the claims and abilities of her son, disclosed at once the presence of one of those angels upon earth that women in adversity can be. It was a hard fate that she was watching over. Mr. Poe wrote with fastidious difficulty, and in a style too much above the popular level to be well paid. He was always in pecuniary difficulty, and, with his sick wife, frequently in want of the merest necessaries of life. Winter after winter, for years, the most touching sight to us, in this whole city, has been that tireless minister to genius, thinly and insufficiently clad, going from office to office with a poem, or an article on some literary subject, to sell — sometimes simply pleading in a broken voice that he was ill, and begging for him — mentioning nothing but that he was ill,’ whatever might be the reason for his writing nothing — and never, amid all her tears and recitals of distress, suffering one syllable to escape her lips that could convey a doubt of him, or a complaint, or a lessening of pride in his genius and good intentions. Her daughter died, a year and a half since, but she did not desert him. She continued his ministering angel — living with him — caring for him — guarding him against exposure, and, when he was carried away by temptation, amid grief and the loneliness of feelings unreplied to, and awoke from his self-abandonment prostrated in destitution and suffering, begging for him still. If woman's devotion, born with a first love, and fed with human passion, hallow its object, as it is allowed to do, what does not a devotion like this — pure, disinterested and holy as the watch of an invisible spirit — say for him who inspired it? “To hedge round a grave with respect, what choice is there, between the relinquished wealth and honours of the world, and the story of such a woman's unrewarded devotion! Risking what we do, in delicacy, by making it public, we feel — other reasons aside — that it betters the world to make known that there are such ministrations to its erring and gifted. What we have said will speak to some hearts. There are those who will be glad to know how the lamp, whose light of poetry has beamed on their far-away recognition, was watched over with care and pain — that they may send to her, who is more darkened than they by its extinction, some token of their sympathy. She is destitute, and alone. If any, far or near, will send to us what may aid and cheer her through the remainder of her life, we will joyfully place it in her hands.” It was this estimable lady, the mother of his deceased wife, to whom Poe, not long before his death, addressed the beautiful Sonnet published in the Leaflets for 1850. We quoted it once before, but cannot more pleasantly close the present somewhat disjointed notice than by quoting it again.

TO MY MOTHER.