Text: William O'Leary Curtis, “Edgar Allan Poe,” American Catholic Quarterly Review (Philadelphia, PA), vol. XVI, October 1891, pp. 818-833

[page 818:]

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

EDGAR ALLAN POE was born in Boston on 19th February, 1809. His family was a very old Norman one, which settled in Ireland in the reign of the second Henry, so that the poet was certainly of Irish descent. The name originally was La Poer, its founder in Ireland being Sir Roger La Poer, marshal to Prince John, in the memorable reign referred to. Like many old Irish names, it lost its original form and became as we find it at present. The poet's great-grandfather emigrated from Ireland to America some time in the middle of the last century, bringing with him his wife and a son, David, who was then a mere child. As this boy David ripened into manhood, he acquired a taste for the profession of arms, and served with great distinction during the Revolution, attaining the high rank of General, and becoming an intimate friend of Lafayette. General Poe married a Pennsylvania lady of great beauty, by whom he had several children; one of these children, David, became the father of the poet.

Young David was sent to study law in Baltimore. He does not seem to have been a very attentive student, however, for at the age of eighteen, being sent to Norfolk on business, he fell in love with a young and pretty actress, named Elizabeth Arnold, whom he persuaded to marry him, to the great chagrin of his parents, who, naturally enough, could not countenance such an indiscreet proceeding on the part of their eldest son. But, nothing daunted, he joined the company of which his wife was a distinguished member, and contented himself with playing in very minor parts; as time went on he improved in his new profession, taking leading parts in Shakespearian drama, and it was while playing an engagement of this kind, at the Boston Theatre, that the poet was born, his birth being followed by two others.

In 1811 Mrs. Poe died, and very soon afterward occurred the death of her husband. The three children were thus left to the mercy of the world, and it is satisfactory to know that they all found respectable and kind protectors, Edgar being adopted by Mr. Allan, of Richmond, which was the place of his mother's death.

Mr. Allan was a wealthy merchant, and the kindness shown by him and his wife to the destitute child was remarkable; they were too kind to him, in fact. It was a mistaken good-heartedness to allow him his own wild will in every particular, and as he grew up to boyhood he manifested in many ways the forwardness of his [page 819:] disposition, which they admired as a high spirit which no one should venture to break. It would have been much better, for the happiness of his future career, had they put even a slight curb on the high-spiritedness, which they admired so much and so erroneously.

The future poet received the rudiments of education in one of the first seminaries of Richmond, presided over by a widow lady, who found young Edgar rather difficult of management, and with a positive disinclination to be bound by any formal code of rules, though administered by the most respectable of widow ladies; and in this, as in everything else, he was warmly supported by his adopted father.

When the boy had completed his seventh year, he was taken from the seminary to accompany his foster-parents to England, who placed him at school at Stoke-Newington, where he remained until he had attained the age of thirteen. This school and its master are described by Poe in one of the most curious of his tales, “William Wilson.” At this school he made fair progress in classical and mathematical subjects, but not very extraordinary for a boy of his superior intelligence and mental power. He was, however, noted for his extreme love and proficiency in all physical recreations, whether of the field or the gymnasium.

Arrived at his thirteenth year, he returned to the Allans in Richmond; at this time he was an extremely handsome boy, gracefully formed, with a remarkably intellectual face and wonderful, large, beaming eyes. The love of his protectors was, if anything, stronger on his return from England, and they humored him in every particular, Mr. Allan taking especial delight in the doggerel verses which about this time he began to produce, the source of inspiration generally being some individual who had given him offense, real or imaginary, more often, indeed, the latter. All his time, however, was not given to idleness and scathing doggerel. He still pursued his studies under the first masters in Richmond, told extraordinary stories, extempore, and declaimed poetry with remarkable vigor and elocutionary effect.

If the young poet was sensitive to insult or neglect, he was equally so with regard to kindness or any slight attention paid him; and one of his deepest friendships was formed at this time, and in the following manner: Visiting one day a schoolmate to whom he was attached, the lady of the house, on entering the room where he was, took his hand and spoke some kindly words of welcome, which touched the boy's heart so much that for some minutes he was unable to reply. For this lady he had the deepest and most ideal affection, confiding to her all his boyish troubles and sorrows; she seems to have understood his delicate temperament [page 820:] better than any of his acquaintances, and whilst she lived, exerted a gentle and charming influence over his impressionable nature. Death soon deprived him of this most valuable friend, for whom his grief was unbounded, and for months after her interment, he went, night after night, to mourn in the darkness by her silent tomb. She it was who suggested the ideal “Helen” of his most beautiful youthful poem.

When just seventeen years old he was sent to the University of Virginia, which, we learn, was then a most dissolute place, and some of his biographers have stated that Poe entered so thoroughly into the practices of dissipation rampant there, as to entirely neglect his studies, and finally was expelled. Now all this is not by any means true. He gambled a good deal, certainly, but was not by any means a drunkard, although his champagne bills were pretty heavy. He was fond of entertaining his companions, and we daresay they did not object to drinking champagne at his expense, or to speak more correctly, at the expense of his guardian. A fellow-student, who was afterwards Secretary of the Faculty of the University, states, “that Poe was tolerably regular in his attendance at class, and that at the final examination he obtained the very highest honors; also, that never at any period did he fall under the censure of the Faculty.”

On leaving the University, Poe returned to the Allans, and did not find Mr. Allan ready to praise the liberal manner in which he had spent his money. However, he settled down and prepared a small volume of poems for publication, which Mr. Allan paid for. This volume, published in Baltimore in 1829, contained “Al Aaraaf, “ ”Tamerlane,” and some minor poems; it did not attract much attention at the time, yet, notwithstanding many crudities, it undoubtedly gave promise of future excellence.

Asked to choose a profession, he, like his distinguished grandfather, chose that of arms, and a cadetship was procured for him at West Point Military Academy. He did not find the study of tactics agreeable; well, he had an easy remedy at hand, and he availed himself of it, namely, not to study tactics. The time which should have been employed in reading up the science of war was devoted to idleness, writing local squibs, which were much relished by his comrades, and, unfortunately, drinking, not champagne, but what was far more ruinous to him, brandy. It is a melancholy fact that at this time he began to manifest an unfortunate inclination for over-indulgence in stimulants.

This would not do in a Military Academy, and in January, 1831, he was brought before a court-martial on two charges, “Neglect of Duty” and “Disobedience of Orders”; he pleaded guilty and was dismissed from the service of the United States. Things now [page 821:] looked bad for Poe; Mrs. Allan was dead, Mr. Allen had married again, and a son and heir had been born unto him, so that the poet would have been an intruder in his former home. He determined to publish a volume of poems by subscription; the price was two and a half dollars a copy, which every one of his former comrades paid in advance. They were greatly disappointed in the book on its appearance, as it contained none of the squibs and satires which they evidently expected; they showed a lack of poetic taste in this, as the volume contained the germs of some of his best pieces.

The profits of this work did not last very long, and the unfortunate poet, soon found himself in decidedly straitened circumstances. He called at Mr. Allan's house, one day, learned from Mrs. Allan that her husband was ill; and naturally enough expressed a wish to see him — to this wish the lady would not accede, and positively denied him admission to her husband's room. We can picture both, each fancying the other an intruder, undoubtedly; and poor Poe mentally contrasting the present, with the former Mrs. Allan. Can we wonder that a scene ensued? That the poet left the house in a rage? That Mrs. Allan complained to her husband of Poe's insolence? with the result that he was forbidden the house.

For two years after this, Poe's doings are involved in considerable obscurity; how he managed to live is a mystery which all his biographers have vainly tried to solve. The most probable solution is, that he went to Baltimore where his brother was, and lived the life of a literary hack; certain it is, that in 1833, he was a successful competitor for two prizes, offered for the best tale and poem by the Saturday Visitor, published in that city. The proprietors of this journal showed especial kindness to Poe, and recommended him to the Southern Literary Messenger, for which he wrote some of his best tales; becoming editor in 1835. It was at this period of his career that he married his beautiful cousin, Virginia Clemm — she was a delicate, extremely amiable girl, and if anything poorer than himself.

His connection with the Messenger terminated in 1837, and it is to be regretted owing greatly to his own weakness; like our own Mangan, he could not shake off the thraldom of the Drink Fiend, although he made many efforts to do so. After breaking off with the Messenger, he and his wife went to Baltimore, where they staid but a very short time, going from thence to Philadelphia, and on to New York, where he published his longest story, “Arthur Gordon Pym,” which attained a greater success in England than in America. It is an extraordinary story, written with such attention to the minutest details and completest vraisemblance, that [page 822:] many English papers accepted it in real good faith, and vied with each other in copying and setting forth the marvellous discoveries of the imaginary Pym; which was just the effect Poe intended and gloried in.

Soon after this Poe returned to Philadelphia where he accepted the editorship of The Gentleman's Magazine, in which appeared numerous criticisms from his pen, some poems and several of his, very best stories. His connection with this journal lasted exactly a year, and its severance was partly due to his old failing-though not altogether, for he had several disputes with its proprietor, relating to the scathing nature of his criticisms. This journal lived but a few months after Poe's departure; its proprietor evidently regretted him, for on starting a new magazine he offered him its editorship, which he accepted. “

This was Graham's Magazine, with which he was connected for over a year and a half. He strove hard to obtain an appointment. from the Government, and being unsuccessful, went to New York, where he became sub- editor and general critic for the Mirror, a paper of which N. P. Willis was part proprietor, and who records his experience of Poe in the following manner : With his pale, beautiful, and intellectual face as a reminder of what genius was in him, it was impossible, of course, not to treat him always with deferential courtesy; and to an occasional request that he would not probe too deep in a criticism, or that he would erase a passage colored too highly with his resentments against society and mankind, he readily and courteously assented, far more yielding than most men, we thought, on points so excusably sensitive. With a prospect of taking the lead in another periodical he at last voluntarily gave up his employment with us.”

It is a pity poor Poe did not always meet with men like Willis, who being a distinguished poet himself, and a thoroughly sensible man-was well qualified to manage the restless spirit of his greater brother-poet. Before entering the editorial duties for the Broadway Journal, which is the periodical referred to by Willis, Poe published “ The Raven “ in the American Review, and for this splendid poem, which immediately caused an unparalleled sensation over the literary world, he received the munificent sum of ten dollars. After a short time he became sole proprietor of the Broadway Journal, a fact which ought to have made American versifiers tremble; and with good reason, for never before was such criticising heard of it was the genuine tomahawk and vitriol style, often unfair; but it undoubtedly annihilated whole hosts of literary pretenders.

The turbulent existence of the Broadway Journal lasted but a year, and Poe betook himself to writing critical articles for a magazine [page 823:] called the Ladies’ Book. His society at this time was much sought after in high-class literary circles, and many have recorded their recollections of his refined manner and brilliant conversational powers. He was always accompanied by his wife, who at times was extremely delicate. Her gentle manner and almost ethereal beauty made friends for her everywhere. We cannot help selecting a few passages from a letter written by Mrs. Frances Osgood, the graceful poetess, in which she describes Poe and his wife in their own home.” It was in his own simple, yet poetical home, that the character of Edgar Poe appeared in its most beautiful light. Playful, affectionate, witty — alternately docile and wayward as a petted child — for his young, gentle, idolized wife and for all who came, he had, even in the midst of his most harassing literary duties, a kind word, a pleasant smile, a graceful and courteous attention. At his desk, beneath the romantic picture of his loved and lost Lenore, he would sit hour after hour, patient, assiduous, and uncomplaining, tracing in an exquisitely clear chirography, and with almost superhuman swiftness, the lightning thoughts, the ‘rare and radiant’ fancies, as they flashed through his wonderful and ever-wakeful brain.”

His wife's health becoming still more frail, the poet took her to a charming cottage, delightfully situated in Fordham, near New York. Here he was surrounded by all that he loved most passionately in Nature, birds, flowers and waving trees; and he was often to be seen strolling meditatively amongst the tall pines, or seated on some rocky ledge gazing in silent rapture on the peaceful landscape which surrounded his cottage.

But amidst all this beauty and tranquillity, a dread shadow stalked ominously; for his adored wife was dying fast, and all the power in Nature could not save her. Her mother came and watched with the poet by her bedside-watched the young life ebbing slowly but surely away-he became ill and they were reduced to a pitiful state of poverty. Willis called attention to this in the Home Journal and a sum of money was raised, which at least afforded the family temporary relief. He recovered, but in a few weeks the spirit of his loved Virginia passed away.

Some months after her death, he settled down to the composition of his prose poem “Eureka,” in which he aimed at solving the great problem of the Universe, and, as Mr. Stoddard remarks, “solved it to his own satisfaction, not like a man of science, which he was not, but like a poet.” About this time he published “Ulahume,” a requiem for his wife, and in 1848, “Eureka “ was published, but without making the great sensation its author expected. After its publication he delivered several lectures, and kept on writing for the magazine. It was a fruitful literary time with him; [page 824:] the beautiful blank verse poem, “To Helen,” “The Bell,” “For Annie,” and “Annabel Lee,” being amongst his productions at this period.

In the summer of 1849, he started from his cottage at Fordham for Richmond. On reaching Philadelphia he met with some old companions, and the result was, that he spent every cent in his possession in their company; having to borrow what was sufficient to take him on to Richmond. What he did with himself on his first arrival at Richmond is a question on which many speculations have been based; he certainly was very short of money, and we think it must have been at this time that the following peculiar incident took place. We copy it verbatim from a slip which we extracted from the Evening Telegraph, but the date of which we have lost : “ A correspondent in the New York Critic has lately called attention to the poem published some years ago in the Despatch, of Kokomo, a little town in the State of Indiana. The poem is or was in the possession of an inhabitant of Kokomo, whose grandfather kept an inn in Chesterfield, a little village near Richmond, Virginia. One night, a young man who showed plainly the marks of dissipation, appeared at the door and requested a room, if one could be given him. He retired, and the inn saw no more of him; for when they went to call him the following morning he had disappeared, leaving only a book, on the fly-leaf of which was the following poem, written in Roman characters and almost as legible as print itself. The manuscript contains not a single erasure, nor a single interlineated word, and is The peculiarity of the writing, the description and the characteristics of the poem, point to The poem is entitled “Leonainie” and is as signed “ E. A. P.” of the young man, Poe as the author. follows:

This beautiful poem is not to be found in any of the editions of Poe's works; and our opinion is that no edition should claim completeness without it. His poems are too few to allow the loss even of the most inconsiderable or least valuable; and certainly the above poem does not enter into that category; it has all the characteristics of Poe at his very best and we do not believe any other American poet could have written it.

After several days he turned up at the office of his old paper, The Messenger, which a friend of his, a Mr. Thompson, was then editing. This gentleman treated Poe with considerable kindness and gave him a desk in The Messenger office, at which to carry on his literary work, which he did zealously for some time. He made desperate efforts to reform, and at last joined a temperance society-renewed his acquaintance with one of his youthful loves to whom he became engaged and all went merry as a wedding-bell — until business unfortunately called him to Philadelphia.

He started from Richmond in the first days of October, 1849. At some of the stations on the way he met some friends, and all his good resolutions dissolved into thin air. On arriving at Baltimore he was in a semi-delirious condition. An exciting election was taking place; some political agents who were on the lookout for voters perceived him, and in a spirit of thorough ruffianism seized and drugged the unfortunate poet. They then made him record his vote in several different pollingbooths, treating him with such violence that he died from its effects in a hospital, to which he had been removed, on the 7th of October, 1849. So died he who has been well-termed the “ Prince of American Poets .”

It is very difficult to write anything new about the poetry of Edgar Poe. It has been lauded, perhaps excessively, and certainly criticized illiberally, and in both fashions by many whose [page 826:] opinions on other subjects have been deemed worthy of serious consideration. No amount of praise can make a mediocre work permanently popular, nor can unjust criticism keep a really good work in the background. Admitting (as we must from hosts of examples in literature) the truth of both these propositions, we arrive at the conclusion that if a work outlives its critics and retains its hold on the popular taste, its excellence must, of necessity, be of a superior kind.

The merits of Poe's poetry were never so intellectually appreciated as they are at the present day-and this, notwithstanding the ephemeral sensation caused by poets of the strictly philosophic order, as we understand them, didactic versifiers and metaphysical, which latter is of all schools ofpoetry, the most absurd. A lesson may occasionally be taught in verse, we will not say in poetry, but prose is undoubtedly the only medium by which to impart metaphysics; being a science, it is in direct opposition to poetry.

In his poems Poe seeks neither to instruct nor to be metaphysical. He believed in “ the poem which is a poem and nothing more; the poem written solely for the poem's sake,” and he was undoubtedly correct. Nothing but the poem written for its own sake, written to give a lasting though imperfect embodiment to those glimpses of the loveliness which is not of the earth and which none but the true poet in his moods of inspiration, perceives, possesses the power of elevating other souls in the faintest degree; and the extent to which a poem possesses this power should form the principal basis of poetic criticism. Form, in its various details, although a secondary consideration, is nevertheless of very great importance. Still Hegel's assertion that “Metre is the first and only condition absolutely demanded by poetry,” is not wholly correct. Metre is a condition absolutely demanded by poetry, but it is by no means the first and only condition essential to “the rhythmical creation of beauty,” which is Poe's own definition of poetry. To this definition he adheres in all his poems. Even in those few which we cannot peruse without a shuddering sensation, we find elements of beauty in a true but almost indefinite form.

The range of ideal perception in his poetry is proportional to the domain in which he reigned and revelled —

Of this “ultimate dim Thule,” and of the mysteries which lie beyond the tomb he loved to sing of love vanished from earth and the hope of its renewal after death. [page 827:]

The “Raven” is undoubtedly his best-known poem. We read somewhere that it is the best-known poem in the English language, and we are inclined to think it is. It is certainly the most unique, and it is certainly more than a triumph of mechanism,” as Mr. Nicholls (believing implicitly no doubt Poe's philosophy of composition) calls it.(1) It is, in our opinion, a masterpiece of seriogrotesque poetry; the grotesque element being introduced with the most consummate artistic judgment in such a manner as not to clash with the spirit of profound melancholy which pervades the poem; the “ sorrow for the lost Lenore,” of which the bird of ill-omen is made allegorical; the sorrow which is ever present, as we read in the last verse : “And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted-nevermore! “ The peculiarity of the versification of this poem and its remarkable suitability to the subject has impressed all readers. The stanzas to Helen, written at a very early age, have elicited the admiration of even his severest critics, and it would be difficult to find a more graceful lyric. We quote it in its entirety : “ Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicaen barks of yore, That gently o’er a perfumed sea The weary way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore. “ On desperate seas long wont to roam Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome. Lo! in yon brilliant window niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand. Ah!

The last two lines of the second stanza have always been especial favorites of ours. The whole tone of the poem is richly ideal.

Al Aaraaf, his longest poem, and written in youth, although somewhat unequal, contains, nevertheless, some extremely beautiful [page 828:] passages, and is decidedly worthy of a careful reading. The following passage contains much unearthly beauty:

In a note he says: “I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of the darkness as it stole over the horizon.” It may seem an absurd fancy to ordinary mortals, but we must remember that poets are not ordinary mortals, seeing and hearing with other eyes and ears, sights and sounds not perceptible to the mere physical organs.

Tamerlane, another youthful poem, is a vivid portrayal ofburning ambition, in a heart which also loves deeply; the ambition is not wholly selfish, as the following passage tells:

This poem has many other fine passages which shine out redeemingly amidst the occasional crudities of the, as yet, undeveloped poetic artist.

Three poems and the fragment of a drama are the only attempts made by Poe in blank verse. The three poems are “The Coliseum,” “To Helen,” and the lines beginning “Not long ago.” The “Coliseum” is a lofty inspiration, and it maybe interesting to know that its author was never near Rome at any time. We can only give the opening lines:

This lofty tone, so thoroughly in keeping with the subject of the poem, is maintained with great vigor throughout.

The poem, “To Helen,” is one of the most beautiful ever written in blank verse, which is such a dangerous style for mediocre writers to attempt, and in which even great writers have failed. Cunning devices of rhyme and rhythm often clothe and beautify ideas, which in blank verse would seem the merest platitudes. Poe could not write dramatic blank verse (which he found out for himself), but he could write it in its most purely poetic style — as Shelly has written it in “Prometheus Unbound,” and it is a thing to be regretted that he wrote so little of it. Such passages as the following are unsurpassable:

And further on we meet the following exquisite lines:

This last idea is, indeed, the very essence of true poetry. His other blank verse poem is scarcely less beautiful. The “Bells” is almost as well known as the “Raven,” and holds an equally unique place in our language; it is more than a masterpiece of verbal melody-it is as near an attempt at harmony as language will ever allow.

Annabel Lee is one of the poems inspired by the deep sorrow with which the death of his wife affected him. It is in his most musical style and not too long to quote entire:

“It was many and many a year ago In a kingdom by the sea That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden, she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. [page 830:]

“Malume [[Ulalume]]” was also written as a requiem for his dead wife; the supreme sorrow which is its theme, can best be understood by one who has strayed abstractedly near to the burial-place of some loved one, and suddenly recognizes his whereabouts. The sonorousness of the words in this poem; the peculiar rhythmic flow and constant use of repetend, combine in making it one of the weirdest poems in the language. It has been said that even if read to a person who did not in the least understand the English tongue, its mere rhythmic and verbal effects would cause a sensation of weird sorrow.”

“The City in the Sea,” “The Conqueror Worm,” “The Sleeper,” “For Annie[[“]] and [[“]]Lenore,” are about his weirdest poems, but can only receive passing mention, although each has particular charms of its own to recommend it. “The Haunted Palace,” which is introduced into “The Fall of the House of Usher,” is a very beautiful [page 831:] and delicate piece of imagination subtly embodying the conception of a rare and superior intellect overthrown. We cannot help quoting it in full:

Only the most consummate poetic genius could produce a poem [page 832:] like this on such a theme. For its full appreciation, however, it is necessary to read the fascinating story with which it is connected. Even standing apart from the story, and on its own merits, solely, its delightfully imaginative spirit possesses an almost indefinable charm.

The last of his poems which we will quote is one of the tenderest and most charming lyrics he ever penned. It is inscribed — “To One in Paradise.”

The above selection contains much of what we think his most beautiful and unfamiliar work — unfamiliar certainly to ordinary readers, the majority of whom only know “The Raven “ and “ The Bells. “ This certainly ought not to be the case with any person who has the least pretension to poetic taste. Poe can be read with pleasure and delight at times, when the works of greater but heavier poets would be almost intolerable. Shelley, in “The Skylark,” says, “Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought,” and the poems of Poe are the most sweetly sad in our language, though he mourns for love and beauty passed from earth, he ever looks hopefully to a more lasting and more beautiful restoration beyond the tomb. He certainly ranks as America's greatest lyric poet — no other American lyrist even remotely approaching him.

It would be impossible within the limits of this paper to do [page 833:] even scant justice to his fascinating and beautifully-written tales, many of which possess much of that weird and magical spirit which animates his poetry. His tales of this class are masterpieces, as it was undoubtedly his natural style of writing. To this class belong “Lisica [[Ligeia]],” “The Fall of the House of Usher,” “The Assignation,” and “The Masque of the Red Death.” There are many others, but these four are the best. Then there are tales such as “The Mystery of Marie Roget,” “The Murders in the Rue Morgue,” “The Gold Bug,” and “The Purloined Letter,” which display a marvellous deductive power. An individual would possess a most unusual nervous organization who could read such tales as “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdeman [[Valdemar]],” “The Black Cat,” and others of this class, without experiencing a thrill of genuine terror. His humorous tales are not so good, by any means, this style of writing always appearing forced in him.

Most of his critiques and essays are well worth reading and will be appreciated by persons of a logical turn of mind. His “Philosophy of Composition “ is interesting and ingenious, but all its assertions are not, by any means, to be implicitly believed. Of more value is his essay on “ The Poetic Principle,” which contains the following remarkable estimate of the present Poet Laureate; remarkable when we consider that Poe's critical genius leaned more to the depreciatory than to the laudatory side. “From Alfred Tennyson — although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the noblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite only a very brief specimen. I call him and think him the noblest of poets, not because the impressions he produces are at all times the most profound, not because the poetical excitement which he induces is at all times the most intense, but because it is, at all times, the most ethereal; in other words, the most elevating and the most pure. No poet is so little of the earth, earthy.”

With this extract we are compelled to bring this paper to a close. We have merely tried to bring before our readers in the plainest manner, the most salient features of the poet's life, and to point out some beauties in his poems, which have not hitherto been specially referred to.

From a careful study of his life and character we say, and honestly believe, that no other poet has been so grossly maligned. He had faults — he were not human otherwise-but they were such as pass unnoticed in thousands of other men, or at most arouse but our sympathy. He wandered amongst the thronging millions, Dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before,” and the dull realities of earthly existence weighed heavily upon him. In our judgment of him, we must consider all these things in “ the spirit not alone of Charity, but also of Justice.

[[Footnotes]]

[The following footnote appears at the bottom of page 827:]

1 Nicholls’ American Literature.