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Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name

Lenore,
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name

Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked,

upstarting Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian

shore: Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath

spoken. Leave my loneliness unbroken, quit the bust above my door: Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from

off my door!”
Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is

dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on

the floor: And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the

floor
Shall be lifted -- NEVERMORE!

2. – THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION.

I HAVE often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written by any author who would — that is to say, who could — detail, step by step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to the world, I am much at a loss to say; but perhaps the authorial vanity has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. Most writers — poets in especial — prefer having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy, an ecstatic intuition; and would positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought, at the true purposes seized only at the last moment, at the innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view, at the fully matured fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable, at the cautious selections and rejections, at the painful erasures and interpolations, — in a word, at the wheels and pinions, the tackle for scene-shifting, the step-ladders and demontraps, the cock's feathers, the red paint and the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred, constitute the properties of the literary histrio.

I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in a similar

manner.

For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to, nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the progressive steps of any of my compositions; and since the interest of an analysis, or reconstruction, such as I have considered a desideratum, is quite independent of any real or fancied interest in the thing analyzed, it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on my part to show the modus operandi by which some one of my own works was put together. I select “The Raven," as most generally known. It is my design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is referable either to accident or intuition, — that the work proceeded step by step to its completion, with the precision and rigid consequence of a mathematical problem.

The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to dispense with the immensely important effect derivable from unity of impression; for, if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and every thing like totality is at once destroyed. But since, ceteris paribus, no poet can afford to dispense with any thing that may advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends it. Here I say No, at once.

What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely a succession of brief ones; that is to say, of brief poetical effects. It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such, only inasmuch as it intensely excites, by elevating, the soul; and all intense excitements are, through a psychal necessity,

brief. For this reason, at least one-half of the Paradise Lost is essentially prose, — a succession of poetical excitements interspersed, inevitably, with corresponding depressions; the whole being deprived, through the extremeness of its length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality or unity of effect.

It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards length, to all works of literary art, — the limit of a single sitting; and that although in certain classes of prose composition, such as Robinson Crusoe (demanding no unity), this limit may be advantageously overpassed, it can never properly be overpassed in a poem. Within this limit, the extent of a poem may be made to bear mathematical relation to its merit; in other words, to the excitement or elevation — again, in other words, to the degree of the true poetical effect — which it is capable of inducing: for it is clear that the brevity must be in direct ratio of the intensity of the intended effect. This, with one proviso, — that a certain degree of duration is absolutely requisite for the production of any effect at all.

Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of excitement which I deemed not above the popular while not below the critical taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper length for my intended poem, -- a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in fact, a hundred and eight.

My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be conveyed; and here I may as well observe, that, throughout the construction, I kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work

universally appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my immediate topic, were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the slightest need of demonstration,- the point, I mean, that beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem. A few words, however, in elucidation of my real meaning, which some of my friends have evinced a disposition to misrepresent.

That pleasure which is at once the most intense, the most elevating, and the most pure, is, I believe, found in the contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of beauty, they mean precisely not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect; they refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of soul not of intellect, or of heart - upon which I have commented, and which is experienced in consequence of contemplating“the beautiful.” Now, I designate beauty as the province of the poem, merely because it is an obvious rule of art, that effects should be made to spring from direct causes, - that objects should be attained through means best adapted for their attainment; no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation alluded to is most readily attained in the poem. Now the object truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the object passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable to a certain extent in poetry, far more readily attainable in prose. Truth, in fact, demands a. precision, and Passion a homeliness (the truly passionate. will comprehend me), which are absolutely antagonistic to that beauty which I maintain is the excitement, or

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