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the phrase "a long poem" "is simply a flat contradiction in terms." His strong artistic sense gave him a firm mastery over form. He constantly uses alliteration, repetition, and refrain. These artifices form an essential part of "The Raven," "Lenore," and "The Bells." In his poems, as in his tales, Poe was less anxious to set forth an experience or a truth than to make an impression. His poetry aims at beauty in a purely artistic sense, unassociated with truth or morals. It is singularly vague, unsubstantial, and melodious. Some of his poems -and precisely those in which his genius finds its highest expression-defy complete analysis. They cannot be taken apart so that each thought and sentiment stands out clear to the understanding. "Ulalume," for instance, remains obscure after the twentieth perusal—its meaning lost in a haze of mist and music. Yet these poems, when read in a sympathetic mood, never fail of their effect. They are genuine creations; and, as fitting expressions of certain mental states, they possess an indescribable charm, something like the spell of instrumental music. There is no mistaking his poetic genius. Though not the greatest, he is still the most original, of our poets, and has fairly earned the high esteem in which his gifts are held in America and Europe.

358. Social Gifts.-During his stay in New York, Poe was often present in the literary gatherings of the metropolis. He was sometimes accompanied by his sweet, affectionate, invalid wife, whom in her fourteenth year he had married in Richmond. According to Griswold, "His conversation was at times almost supra-mortal 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." He exercised a strong fascination over women. "To a sensitive and delicately

nurtured woman, wrote Mrs. Osgood, "there was a peculiar and irresistible charm in the chivalric, graceful, and almost tender reverence with which he invariably approached all women who won his respect." His writings are unstained by a single immoral sentiment.

359. Devotion and Poverty.-Toward the latter part of his sojourn in New York, the hand of poverty and want pressed upon him sorely. The failing health of his wife, to whom his tender devotion is beyond all praise, was a source of deep and constant anxiety. For a time he became an object of charity -a humiliation that was exceedingly galling to his delicately sensitive nature. To a sympathetic friend, who lent her kindly aid in this time of need, we owe a graphic but pathetic picture of Poe's home shortly before the death of his almost angelic wife. "There was no clothing on the bed, which was only straw, but a snow-white counterpane and sheets. The weather was cold, and the sick lady had the dreadful chills that accompany the hectic fever of consumption. She lay on the straw bed, wrapped in her husband's great-coat, with a large tortoiseshell cat in her bosom. The wonderful cat seemed conscious of her great usefulness. The coat and the cat were the sufferer's only means of warmth, except as her husband held her hands, and her mother her feet." She died Jan. 30, 1847.

360. Sorrow and Death.--After this event Poe was never entirely himself again. The immediate effect of his bereavement was complete physical and mental prostration, from which he recovered only with difficulty. His subsequent literary work deserves scarcely more than mere mention. His " Eureka," an ambitious treatise, the immortality of which he confidently predicted, was a disappointment and failure. He tried lecturing, but with only moderate success. His correspondence at this time reveals a broken, hysterical, hopeless man. In his weakness, loneliness, and sorrow, he resorted to stimulants with increasing frequency. Their terrible work was soon done. his return from a visit to Richmond, he stopped in Baltimore,

where he died from the effects of drinking, Oct. 7, 1849.

On

361. A Life Tragedy.

Thus ended the tragedy of his life. It is as depressing as one of his own morbid, fantastic tales. His career leaves a painful sense of incompleteness and loss. With greater self-discipline, how much more he might have accomplished for himself and for others! Gifted, self-willed, proud, passionate, with meagre moral sense, he forfeited success by his perversity and his vices. From his own character and experience he drew the unhealthy and pessimistic views to which he has given expression in the maddening poem, "The Conqueror Worm." And if there were not happier and nobler lives, we might well say with him, as we stand by his grave :—

"Out-out are the lights-out all!

And over each quivering form,

The curtain, a funeral pall,

Comes down with the rush of a storm,

And the angels, all pallid and wan,

Uprising, unveiling affirm,

That the play is the tragedy Man,'

And its hero the Conqueror Worm."

FOR FURTHER READING AND STUDY.

The annotated selections from Poe, pages 451-465, include "The Raven" and " The Masque of the Red Death."

In addition the student should read "Lenore," "To Helen," "Ulalume," "The Bells," "Annabel Lee," "The Haunted Palace," "The Conqueror Worm," "The City in the Sea," "Eulalie," and "Israfel," among his poems, and among his tales "The Fall of the House of Usher," "Ligeia," "The Descent into the Maelstrom," "The Murders of the Rue Morgue," and "The Mystery of Marie Roget.'

Geo. E. Woodbury's "Edgar Allan Poe " (Am. Men of Letters Series); J. H. Ingram's "Memoir of Poe "; Wm. A. Harrison's "Life of Poe."

For critical estimates, consult the general bibliography and Poole's "Index." E. C. Stedman's “Poets of America."

1

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

362. A Record of Thought.—In literature the historian records less of action than of thinking. Literature is a product of thought. The biography of many great writers is a story of "plain living and high thinking." This is pre-eminently true of Ralph Waldo Emerson. His outward life was uneventful.

He filled no high civic or political station; he led no great reformatory movement that changed the character of society. His quiet, unostentatious life was devoted to the discovery and the proclamation of truth. As he said of Plato, his biography is interior. From time to time, as he felt called upon, he gave forth, in essays, lectures, and poems, the choice treasures he had carefully stored up in retirement and silence.

363. Relative Originality.-He deserves to rank as one of our greatest thinkers. It should not be forgotten, however, that absolute originality is far less frequent than is sometimes supposed. As some writer has wittily said, the ancients have stolen our best thoughts. Other ages, no less than the present age, have had earnest, reflective souls. The same problems that press on us-nature, life, society, freedom, death, destiny—— pressed on them for solution. In large measure the profound thinkers of the past have exhausted the field of speculative philosophy. "Out of Plato," says Emerson, "come all things that are still written and debated among men of thought. Great havoc makes he among our originalities." Only small advances can be made now and then, even by the children of genius. Emerson had a deep affinity for the imperial thinkers of our race. He made them his intimate friends, and assimilated their choicest thoughts. He settled the matter of plagiarism very simply. "All minds quote," he said. "Old and new make the warp and woof of every moment. There is no thread that