EDGAR A. POE.* BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL THE situation of American literature is anomalous. It has no centre, or, If it have, it is like that of the sphere of Hermes. It is divided into many systems, each revolving round its several sun, and often presenting to the rest only the faint glimmer of a milk-and water way. Our capital city, unlike London or Paris, is not a great central heart, from which life and vigor radiate to the extremities, but resembles more an isolated umbilicus, stuck down as near as may be to the centre of the land, and seeming rather to tell a legend of former usefulness than to serve any present need. Boston, New York, Philadelphia, each has its literature almost more distinct than those of the different dialects of Germany; and the Young Queen of the West has also one of her own, of which some articulate rumor barely has reached us dwellers by the Atlantic. Perhaps there is no task more difficult than the just criticism of cotemporary literature. It is even more grateful to give praise where it is needed than where it is deserved, and friendship so often seduces the iron stylus of justice into a vague flourish, that she writes what seems rather like an epitaph than a criticism. Yet if praise be given as an alms, we could not drop so poisonous a one into any man's hat. The critic's ink may suffer equally from too large an infusion of nutgalls or of sugar. But it is easier to be generous than to be just, and we might readily put faith in that fabulous direction to the hiding-place of truth, did we judge from the amount of wa ter which we usually find mixed with it. Remarkable experiences are usually confined to the inner life of imaginative men, but Mr. Poe's biography displays a vicissitude and peculiarity of interest such as is rarely met with. The offspring of a romantic marriage, and eft an orphan at an early age, he was adopted by Mr. Allan, a wealthy Vir The following notice of Mr. Poe's life and works was written at his own request, and accompanied a portrait of him published in Graham's Magazine for February, 1845. It is here given with a few alterations and omissions. ginian, whose parren marriage-bed seemed the warranty of a large estate to the young poet. Having received a classical education in England, he returned home and entered the University of Virginia, where, after an extravagant course, followed by reformation at the last extremity, he was graduated with the highest honors of his class. Then came a boyish attempt to joi the fortunes of the insurgent Greeks, which ended at St. Petersburg, where he got into difficulties through want of a passport, from which he was rescued by the American consul, and sent home. He now entered the military academy at West Point, from which he obtained a dismissal on hearing of the birth of a son to his adopted father, by a second marriage, an event which cut off his expectations as an heir. The death of Mr. Allan, in whose will his name was not mentioned, soon after relieved him of all doubt in this regard, and he committed himself at once to authorship for a support. Previously to this, however, he had published (in 1827) a small volume of poems, which soon ran through three editions, and excited high expectations of its author's future distinction in the minds of many competent judges. That no certain augury can be drawn from a poet's earliest li-pings there are instances enough to prove. Shakspeare's first poems, though brimful of vigor and youth and picturesqueness, give but a very faint promise of the directness, condensation and overflowing moral of his maturer works. Perhaps, however, Shakspeare is hardly a case in point, his " Venus and Adonis" having been published, we believe, in his twenty sixth year. Milton's Latin verses show tenderness, a fine eye for nature, and a delicate appreciation of classic models, but give no hint of the author of a new style in poetry Pope's youthful pieces have all the sing-song, wholly unrelieved by the glit tering malignity and eloquent irreligion of his later productions. Collins' callow namby-pamby died and gave no sign of the vigorous and original genius which he afterwards displayed. We have never thought that the world lost more in the "marvellous boy," Chatterton, than a very ingenious imitator of obscure and antiquated dulness. Where he becomes original (as it is called) the interest of ingenuity ceases and he becomes stupid. Kirke White's promises were endorsed by the respectable name of Mr. Southey, but surely with no authority from Apollo. They have the merit of a traditional piety, which, to our mind, if uttered at all, had been less objectionable in the retired closet of a diary, and in the sober raiment of prose. They do not clutch hold of the memory with the drowning pertinacity of Watts; neither have they the interest of his occasional simple, lucky beauty. Burns, having fortunately been rescued by his humble station from the contaminating society of the "best models" wrote well and naturally from the first. Had he been unfortunate enough to have had an educated taste, we should have had a series of poems from which, as from his letters, we could sift here and there a kernel from the mass of chaff. Coleridge's youthful efforts give no promise whatever of that poetical genius which produced at once the wildest, tenderest, most original and most purely imaginative poems of modern times. Byrou's "Hours of Idleness" would never find a reader except from an intrepid and indefatigable curiosity. In Wordsworth's first preludings there is but a dim foreboding of the creator of an era. From Southey's early poems, a safer augury might have been drawn. They show the patient investigator, the close student of history, and the unwearied explorer of the beauties of predecessors, but they give no assurances of a man who should add aught to stock of household words, or to the rarer and more sacred delights of the fire-side or the arbor. The earliest specimens of Shelley's poetic mind already, also, give tokens of that ethereal sublimation in which the spirit seems to soar above the regions of words, but leaves its body, the verse, to be entombed, without hope of resurrection, in a mass of them. Cowley is generally instanced as a wonder of precocity. But his early insipidities show only a capacity for rhyming and for the metrical arrangement of certain conventional combinations of words, a capacity wholly dependent on a delicate physical organization, and an unhappy memory. An early poem is only remarkable when it displays an effort of reason, and the rudest verses in which we can trace some conception of the ends of poetry, are worth all the miracles of smooth juvenile versification. A school-boy, one would say, might acquire the regular see-saw of Pope merely by an association with the motion of the play-ground tilt. Mr. Poe's early productions show that he could see through the verse to the spirit beneath, and that he already had a feeling that all the life and grace of the one must depend on and be modulated by the will of the other. We call them the most remarkable boyish poems that we have ever read. We know of none that can compare with them for maturity of purpose, and a nice understanding of the effects of language and metre. Such pieces are only valuable when they display what we can only express by the contradictory phrase of innate experience. We copy one of the shorter poems, written when the author was only fourteen. There is a little dimness in the filling up, but the grace and symmetry of the outline are such as few poets ever attain. There is a smack of ambrosia about it. TO HELEN. Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore, On desperate seas long wont to roam, Lo! in yon brilliant window niche It is the tendency of the young poet that impresses us. Here is no "with ering scorn," no heart "blighted" ere it has safely got into its teens, none of the drawing-room sansculotism which Byron had brought into vogue. All is lympid and serene, with a pleasant dash of the Greek Helicon in it. The melody of the whole, too, is remarkable. It is not of that kind which can be demonstrated arithmetically upon the tips of the fingers. It is of that finer sort which the inner ear alone can estimate. It seems simple, like a Greek column, because of its perfection. In a poem named "Ligeia," under which title he intended to personify the music of nature, our boy-poet gives us the following exquisite picture: Ligeia Ligeia! My beautiful one, On the breezes to toss, Or, capriciously still, Like the lone albatross, As she on the air, To keep watch with delight John Neal, himself a man of genius, and whose lyre has been too long capriciously silent, appreciated the high merit of these and similar passages, and drew a proud horoscope for their author. Mr. Poe had that indescribable something which men have agreed to call enius. No man could ever tell us precisely what it is, and yet there is none who is not inevitably aware of its presence and its power. Let talent writhe and contort itself as it may, it has no such magnetism. Larger of bone and sinew it may be, but the wings are wanting. Talent sticks fast to earth, and its most perfect works have still one foot of clay. Genius claims kindred with the very workings of Nature herself, so that a sunset shall seem like a quotation from Dante or Milton, and if Shakspeare be read in the very presence of the sea itself, his verses shall but seem nobler for the sublime criticism of ocean. Talent may make friends for itself, but only genius can give to its creations the divine power of winning love and veneration. Enthusiasm cannot cling to what itself is unenthusiastic, nor will be ever have disciples who has not himself impulsive zeal enough to be a disciple. Great wits are allied to madness only inasmuch as they are possessed and carried away by their demon, while talent keeps him, as Paracelsus did, securely prisoned in the pommel of its sword. To the eye of genius, the veil of the spiritual world is ever rent asunder, that it may perceive the ministers of good and evil who throng continually around it. No man of mere talent ever flung his inkstand at the devil. When we say that Mr. Poe had genius, we do not mean to say that he has produced vidence of the highest. But to say that he possesses it at all is say that he needs only zeal, industry, and a reverence for the trust reposed him, to achieve the proudest triumphs and the greenest laurels. If we ay believe the Longinuses and Aristotles of our newspapers, we have ite too many geniuses of the loftiest order to render a place among them at desirable, whether for its hardness of attainment or its seclusion. The Highest peak of our Parnassus is, according to these gentlemen, by far the mo-t thickly settled portion of the country, a circumstance which must make t an uncomfortable residence for individuals of a poetical temperament. if love solitude be, as immemorial tradition asserts, a necessary part of their o yncray. Mr. Poe has two of the prime qualities of genius, a faculty of vigorous yet ante analysis, and a wonderful fecundity of imagination. The first of these ties is as needful to the artist in words, as a knowledge of anatomy is to e artist in colors or in stone. This enables him to conceive truly, to maintain a proper relation of parts, and to draw a correct outline, while the second oup fills up, and colors. Both of these Mr. Poe has displayed with sinlar distinctness in his prose works, the last predominating in his earlier es, and the first in his later ones. In judging of the merit of an author, and signing him his niche among our household gods, we have a right to regard in from our own point of view, and to measure him by our own standard. t, in estimating the amount of power displayed in his works, we must be werned by his own design, and, placing them by the side of his own ideal, ad now much is wanting. We differ from Mr. Foe in his opinions of the pers of art. He esteems that object to be the creation of Beauty, and naps it is only in the definition of that word that we disagree with him. 'nt in what we shall say of his writings, we shall take his own standard as ir guide. The temple of the god of song is equally accessible from every de, and there is room enough in it for all who bring offerings, or seek an cle. In his tales, Mr. Poe has chosen to exhibit his power chiefly in that dim region which stretches from the very utmost limits of the probable into the eird confines of superstition and unreality. He combines in a very remarkle manner two faculties which are seldom found united; a power of ineueing the mind of the reader by the impalpable shadows of mystery, and areness of detail which does not leave a pin or a button unnoticed. oth are, in truth, the natural results of the predominating quality of his saind, to which we have before alluded, analysis. It is this which distin uishes the artist. His mind at once reaches forward to the effect to be roluced. Having resolved to bring about certain emotions in the reader, Le makes all subordinate parts tend strictly to the common centre. Even bis mystery is mathematical to his own mind. To him a is a known quanity 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 |