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The Raven (Frontispiece).. E. H. Wehnert.
Portrait F. W. Hhlme xi
Lenore James Godwin 11
The Coliseum F. W. Hulme 16
To Helen James Godwin 19
The Bells Harrison Weir 33
Eulalte James Godwin 41
The Sleeper James Godwin 48
Dream-land James Godwin 56
Eldorado James Godwin 59
Israfel James Godwin 64
Rome F. W. Hulme 73
Lalaoe And Jacinta James Godwin 77
The Gardens Of A Palace. . F. W. Hulme 89
Woodland Rill F. W. Hulme 100
Gorgeous Columns F. W. Hulme 109
The Albatross Harrison Weir 114
The Parthenon F. W. Hulme 120
We Walked Together .... James Godwin 129
The Wild Lake F. W. Hulme 137
Engraved by Q. and E. Dalziel.
EDGAR ALLAN POE.
"..... Amabam pulchra inferiora et ibara in promndum, et dice. ham amicis raeis: Num amamus aliquid nisi pulchrum? Quid est ergo Pulchrum? et quid est pulchritudo? Quid est quod nos allicit et conciliat rebus quas amamus? Nisi enim esset in eis decus et species,
nullo modo nos ad se moverent Et ista consideratio scaturivit
in animo meo ex intimo corde meo, et scripsi libros."
y S. Augustini Episcop. Confess. lib. iv. 20.
We must all have observed, I am sure, with a great deal of pleasure how much the literature of our American kinsmen has been spreading amongst us within the last few years. Such men as Washington Irving and Cooper were familiar friends from the first. But they both founded, more or less, on our own classical models. Irving's whole tone of thought and style, for instance, is English—his sentiment is essentially English. But we are now beginning to get acquainted with writers amongst the Americans who are really national—in the sense that American apples are national. Emerson has a distinct smack of the rich and sunny West—just as the honey in Madeira tastes of violets. Lowell's humour in the "Biglow Papers," is as gloriously Yankee, as Burns's humour is gloriously Scotch. Is not the genius of Hawthorne a real native product? And from whom but an American could we have expected such a book as we had the other day in the "Whale" of Herman Melville,—such a fresh, daring book— wild, and yet true,—with its quaint, spiritual portraits looking ancient and also fresh,—Puritanism, I may say, kept fresh in the salt water over there and looking out living upon us once more! These writers one sees, at all events, have our old English virtue of Pluck. They think what they please and say what they think. And while M'Fungus is concocting philosophical histories in the style of the last century which drum on our ears, these other open-hearted men are getting into all our hearts and making themselves friends by our firesides. Small apology, let us hope, one needs for introducing an American Poet to one's countrymen. I have undertaken this office very cheerfully, with regard to Edgar Allan Poe. I owe his acquaintance—as I owe much of the happiness of my life—to the society of a few young friends devoted to art and poetry. His music has made several summers .brighter for me: and now that his reputation (the man himself died just three years ago) is appealing for recognition to the English " reading public," I feel that I ought to say a few words about him. At all events this notice may serve as a finger-post to direct the wanderer to a tumulus as worthy of honour as any that has been made on the earth lately.
Edgar Allan Poe was a native of Virginia; and as Virginia is more rich in "good families" than other American States, we learn that he was of honourable descent. The name is not a common one in England. There was a Dr. Poe, physician to Queen Elizabeth, and there is a highly respectable family of the name in Ireland who bear the same coat-armour as the doctor. The poet's great-grandfather, who married a daughter of Admiral M'Bride, was, I should think it probable, of the same stock. His son was a quartermaster-general in the American line; and his grandson, David, the poet's father, —commencing an " eccentricity" which, we shall see, ran in the blood afterwards,—married an enchanting actress of uncertain prospects. Having achieved this, David Poe (who was a younger son) took to acting himself; but both he and his wife died young, leaving three children destitute, Edgar (who was born at