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.