In truth, it was the Beautiful that he loved with his entire nature. In sorrowful forms-sombre or grotesque forms-brilliant and musical, or scientific forms, he sought the Beautiful; and in all these forms his writings have embodied it. In his life, too, he loved the emotions which the Beautiful produces; but we know from the Phædrus,-old wisdom yet new,"that though the beautiful be the dearest and most lovable of all things," yet that "he who hath not been lately initiated in the mysteries, ór rather has become depraved, he is not easily excited to the true beauty itself, but only to a certain likeness of it which goes by its name; and so he does not venerate it, but after the manner of animals striveth after pleasure." And thus Edgar Poe drew a sensual veil across the vision of his soul, and in that blinded way sinned; and sinning, suffered.

Other men have been as reckless as he in their youth, yet have escaped out of it, and risen into clear day. But he did not, he made strong efforts, -he fell, however, finally.

From the period of his marriage, as I have said, he made literature his profession, and was connected at different periods with leading American journals. Occasionally he produced one of the few poems which compose his collection; "The Raven" in particular excited immense attention. He wrote Tales and Essays, and Reviews of all that was noticeable in

American literature; the latter, in his work the Literati, I have read, and admire their sharp cutting vividness of analysis. They show a man of large and various literary attainments (he always passed for one of the best scholars in America), with a spice of that bitterness which sprang from his misanthropy; for poor Edgar, as Griswold dryly and solidly informs us, "considered society as principally composed of villains!" He hated and despised the blockheads who, perhaps from no virtue of their own, were exempt from his failings and consequent sufferings; but, unhappily, the blockheads, in their condemnation of Edgar, were but too often in the right. Yet let not such, there or elsewhere, be too harsh on the failings of a fine nature, and the degradation of a noble mind. Who shall explain the mysteries of temperament? who calculate the force of circumstances? The spiritual part of this man, of which a specimen remains with us, was highly beautiful, and allied to the perennial beauty! Let solid excellence of the epitaph-description remember, that perhaps all its parlour virtues are not worth one hour of Coleridge's remorse.

I have hinted above that it is difficult to get such details of the better part of Edgar's life as would enable me to give some little picture of him. WILLIS has written a fine graceful sketch, both manly and tender, of him, and describes him as "a winning,

sad-mannered gentleman." But Willis never visited his home, and cannot be said to have been intimate with him. Yet we hear of the air of simplicity and elegance which pervaded the poet's house, we have a glimpse of it from the pen of Frances Osgood,-we see the poet industrious, playful, with his beautiful and affectionate Virginia with him, and her mother, whose name is never to be mentioned in the history of Poe's life without signal honour. Maria Clemm, his mother-in-law, was truly a mother to him, faithful to him through all the strange fortune which he underwent with true womanly constancy.

His portrait, prefixed to the American edition, is a very interesting-a very characteristic one. A fine thoughtful face you see at once, with lineaments of delicacy, such as belong only to genius or high blood. The forehead is grand and pale, the eyes dark, gleaming with sensibility and the light of soul. A face of passion it is, and in the lower part wants firmness, a face that would inspire women with sentiment, men with interest and curiosity.

His wife died, they had had no children. His "Annabel Lee" records his recollection of her with

something more than tenderness. I suppose his wayward ways caused her much sorrow; but they loved each other truly. She seems to have been a simple affectionate creature, contented on very easy terms, rich with a heart that could bear much,

and, most likely, placed its highest hopes elsewhere. She, at all events, did her duty in all purity and

goodness, and is gone where these virtues are better understood than here.

Poe had been lecturing on the “Universe” in 1848, and producing his strange great book Eureka, on which I shall not attempt to speak critically. In the autumn of 1849 he had, after a sad fit of insane debauchery, made one vigorous effort to emerge. He joined a Temperance Society, he led a quiet life, and his marriage was talked of. But on the evening of the 6th October 1849-a Saturday evening-passing through Baltimore on his way to New York, accident threw him among some old acquaintances. He plunged into intoxication; and on the Sunday morning he was carried to an hospital, where he died that same evening, at the age thirty-eight years. No details have been given of

of

this last scene: let us be thankful that we bear not that pain in our memory!

It remains that I should say something of his genius, and the fruits of it which remain with us. Of his character what is there to say? Theory" of it, or how to "explain" this and that about such a problem, so as to pronounce what his life meant, -only the presumption of pedants ventures on decisions about these matters now-a-days. There is

a man.

something about the "mystery of a Person"* which we should be very cautious in explaining, though there are some who think that from a post-mortem examination of the body you can learn the soul of The conditions of a man's life, complex as they are, make the real understanding of his character very difficult. Too often, particularly in artificial ages like ours, a man's whole career has to be run, like a race at a fair, in a sack. Many a man never gets fair play-sometimes is born with a constitution that won't permit it—sometimes is born into circumstances that will not. Let us be charitable. Southey's "Doctor," when he heard of a Toper, was wont to say compassionately, "Bibulous clay, sir-bibulous clay!" I would not put forward this compendious excuse for Poe; but we must allow for infirmity in the man. He was indulged early; he was seduced by example. Because he left traces of something high and beautiful in him in spite of this, don't let us make that a reason for being harsher on him than on the frail mortals of his race. One pious scribbler told us-very soon after his death[have they not in America, as here, a rule at all cemeteries that " no dogs are admitted ?"] that

His faults were many, his virtues few!

But I learn from those who knew him-men like friend BUCHANAN READ, himself a fine, graceful,

my

* CARLYLE.