The first of these faculties is as needful to the
      artist in words, as a knowledge of anatomy is to the 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 groups, fills up and colors. Both of
      these Mr. Poe has displayed with singular distinctness in his
      prose works, the last predominating in his earlier tales, and the
      first in his later ones. In judging of the merit of an author,
      and assigning him his niche among our household gods, we have a
      right to regard him from our own point of view, and to measure
      him by our own standard. But, in estimating the amount of power
      displayed in his works, we must be governed by his own design,
      and placing them by the side of his own ideal, find how much is
      wanting. We differ from Mr. Poe in his opinions of the objects of
      art. He esteems that object to be the creation of Beauty, and
      perhaps it is only in the definition of that word that we
      disagree with him. But in what we shall say of his writings, we
      shall take his own standard as our guide. The temple of the god
      of song is equally accessible from every side, and there is room
      enough in it for all who bring offerings, or seek in oracle. 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 weird confines of superstition and
      unreality. He combines in a very remarkable manner two faculties
      which are seldom found united; a power of influencing the mind of
      the reader by the impalpable shadows of mystery, and a minuteness
      of detail which does not leave a pin or a button unnoticed. Both
      are, in truth, the natural results of the predominating quality
      of his mind, to which we have before alluded, analysis. It is
      this which distinguishes the artist. His mind at once reaches
      forward to the effect to be produced. Having resolved to bring
      about certain emotions in the reader, he makes all subordinate
      parts tend strictly to the common centre. Even his mystery is
      mathematical to his own mind. To him X is a known quantity 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 with Mysticism. The Mystic dwells
      in the mystery, is enveloped with it; it colors all his thoughts;
      it affects his optic nerve especially, and the commonest things
      get a rainbow edging from it. Mr. Poe, on the other hand, is a
      spectator _ab extra_. He analyzes, he dissects, he watches

    “with an eye serene,
     The very pulse of the machine,”

      for such it practically is to him, with wheels and cogs and
      piston-rods, all working to produce a certain end. This analyzing tendency of his mind balances the poetical, and by
      giving him the patience to be minute, enables him to throw a
      wonderful reality into his most unreal fancies. A monomania he
      paints with great power. He loves to dissect one of these cancers
      of the mind, and to trace all the subtle ramifications of its
      roots. In raising images of horror, also, he has strange success,
      conveying to us sometimes by a dusky hint some terrible _doubt_
      which is the secret of all horror. He leaves to imagination the
      task of finishing the picture, a task to which only she is
      competent. “For much imaginary work was there;
     Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,
     That for Achilles’ image stood his spear
     Grasped in an armed hand; himself behind
     Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind.”

      Besides the merit of conception, Mr. Poe’s writings have also
      that of form. His style is highly finished, graceful and truly classical. It
      would be hard to find a living author who had displayed such
      varied powers. As an example of his style we would refer to one
      of his tales, “The House of Usher,” in the first volume of his
      “Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque.” It has a singular charm
      for us, and we think that no one could read it without being
      strongly moved by its serene and sombre beauty. Had its author
      written nothing else, it would alone have been enough to stamp
      him as a man of genius, and the master of a classic style. In
      this tale occurs, perhaps, the most beautiful of his poems. The great masters of imagination have seldom resorted to the
      vague and the unreal as sources of effect. They have not used
      dread and horror alone, but only in combination with other
      qualities, as means of subjugating the fancies of their readers. The loftiest muse has ever a household and fireside charm about
      her. Mr. Poe’s secret lies mainly in the skill with which he has
      employed the strange fascination of mystery and terror. In this
      his success is so great and striking as to deserve the name of
      art, not artifice. We cannot call his materials the noblest or
      purest, but we must concede to him the highest merit of
      construction. As a critic, Mr. Poe was aesthetically deficient. Unerring in his
      analysis of dictions, metres and plots, he seemed wanting in the
      faculty of perceiving the profounder ethics of art. His
      criticisms are, however, distinguished for scientific precision
      and coherence of logic. They have the exactness, and at the same
      time, the coldness of mathematical demonstrations. Yet they stand
      in strikingly refreshing contrast with the vague generalisms and
      sharp personalities of the day. If deficient in warmth, they are
      also without the heat of partisanship. They are especially
      valuable as illustrating the great truth, too generally
      overlooked, that analytic power is a subordinate quality of the
      critic. On the whole, it may be considered certain that Mr. Poe has
      attained an individual eminence in our literature which he will
      keep. He has given proof of power and originality. He has done
      that which could only be done once with success or safety, and
      the imitation or repetition of which would produce weariness. DEATH OF EDGAR A. POE


By N. P. Willis

      The ancient fable of two antagonistic spirits imprisoned in one
      body, equally powerful and having the complete mastery by
      turns-of one man, that is to say, inhabited by both a devil and
      an angel seems to have been realized, if all we hear is true, in
      the character of the extraordinary man whose name we have written
      above.