Works of Edgar Allan Poe

A richer tint of crimson diffused itself over the pictured horrors of blood. I panted! I gasped for breath! There could be no doubt of the design of my tormentors -- oh! most unrelenting! oh! most demoniac of men! I shrank from the glowing metal to the centre of the cell. Amid the thought of the fiery destruction that impended, the idea of the coolness of the well came over my soul like balm. I rushed to its deadly brink. I threw my straining vision below. The glare from the enkindled roof illumined its inmost recesses. Yet, for a wild moment, did my spirit refuse to comprehend the meaning of what I saw. At length it forced -- it wrestled its way into my soul -- it burned itself in upon my shuddering reason. -- Oh! for a voice to speak! -- oh! horror! -- oh! any horror but this! With a shriek, I rushed from the margin, and buried my face in my hands -- weeping bitterly.

The heat rapidly increased, and once again I looked up, shuddering as with a fit of the ague. There had been a second change in the cell -- and now the change was obviously in the form. As before, it was in vain that I, at first, endeavoured to appreciate or understand what was taking place. But not long was I left in doubt. The Inquisitorial vengeance had been hurried by my two-fold escape, and there was to be no more dallying with the King of Terrors. The room had been square. I saw that two of its iron angles were now acute -- two, consequently, obtuse. The fearful difference quickly increased with a low rumbling or moaning sound. In an instant the apartment had shifted its form into that of a lozenge. But the alteration stopped not here-I neither hoped nor desired it to stop. I could have clasped the red walls to my bosom as a garment of eternal peace. 'Death,' I said, 'any death but that of the pit!' Fool! might I have not known that into the pit it was the object of the burning iron to urge me? Could I resist its glow? or, if even that, could I withstand its pressure And now, flatter and flatter grew the lozenge, with a rapidity that left me no time for contemplation. Its centre, and of course, its greatest width, came just over the yawning gulf. I shrank back -- but the closing walls pressed me resistlessly onward. At length for my seared and writhing body there was no longer an inch of foothold on the firm floor of the prison. I struggled no more, but the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long, and final scream of despair. I felt that I tottered upon the brink -- I averted my eyes --

There was a discordant hum of human voices! There was a loud blast as of many trumpets! There was a harsh grating as of a thousand thunders! The fiery walls rushed back! An outstretched arm caught my own as I fell, fainting, into the abyss. It was that of General Lasalle. The French army had entered Toledo. The Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies.

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The Poetic Principle

In speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be eitherthorough or profound. While discussing, very much at random, theessentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to citefor consideration, some few of those minor English or American poems whichbest suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the mostdefinite impression. By 'minor poems' I mean, of course, poems of littlelength. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words in regardto a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or wrongfully,has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of the poem. Ihold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, 'a longpoem,' is simply a flat contradiction in terms.

I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuchas it excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in theratio of this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through apsychal necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which wouldentitle a poem to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout acomposition of any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at thevery utmost, it flags -- fails -- a revulsion ensues -- and then the poemis, in effect, and in fact, no longer such.

There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling thecritical dictum that the 'Paradise Lost' is to be devoutly admiredthroughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it, duringperusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum would demand. This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical, only when, losingsight of that vital requisite in all works of Art, Unity, we view itmerely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its Unity -- itstotality of effect or impression -- we read it (as would be necessary) ata single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation of excitementand depression. After a passage of what we feel to be true poetry, therefollows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no critical prejudgmentcan force us to admire; but if, upon completing the work, we read itagain, omitting the first book -- that is to say, commencing with thesecond -- we shall be surprised at now finding that admirable which webefore condemned -- that damnable which we had previously so much admired.It follows from all this that the ultimate, aggregate, or absolute effectof even the best epic under the sun, is a nullity: -- and this isprecisely the fact.

In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least verygood reason for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but, grantingthe epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an imperfectsense of art. The modem epic is, of the supposititious ancient model, butan inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day of these artisticanomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem were popular inreality, which I doubt, it is at least clear that no very long poem willever be popular again. That the extent of a poetical work is, ceteris paribus, the measureof its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a propositionsufficiently absurd -- yet we are indebted for it to the QuarterlyReviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere size, abstractly considered-- there can be nothing in mere bulk, so far as a volume is concerned,which has so continuously elicited admiration from these saturninepamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment of physicalmagnitude which it conveys, does impress us with a sense of the sublime-- but no man is impressed after this fashion by the material grandeurof even 'The Columbiad.' Even the Quarterlies have not instructed us to beso impressed by it. As yet, they have not insisted on our estimatingLamar' tine by the cubic foot, or Pollock by the pound -- but what elseare we to infer from their continual plating about 'sustained effort'?If, by 'sustained effort,' any little gentleman has accomplished an epic,1* us frankly commend him for the effort -- if this indeed be a thing conkmendable--but let us forbear praising the epic on the effort's account. Itis to be hoped that common sense, in the time to come, will preferdeciding upon a work of Art rather by the impression it makes -- by theeffect it produces -- than by the time it took to impress the effect, orby the amount of 'sustained effort' which had been found necessary ineffecting the impression. The fact is, that perseverance is one thing andgenius quite another -- nor can all the Quarterlies in Christendomconfound them. By and by, this proposition, with many which I have beenjust urging, will be received as self-evident. In the meantime, by beinggenerally condemned as falsities, they will not be essentially damaged astruths.

On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief.Undue brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very short poem,while now and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces aprofound or enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of thestamp upon the wax. De Beranger has wrought innumerable things, pungentand spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too imponderous tostamp themselves deeply into the public attention, and thus, as so manyfeathers of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be whistled down thewind.

A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a poem, in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the following exquisite little Serenade:

I arise from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night

When the winds are breathing low,

And the stars are shining bright.

I arise from dreams of thee,

And a spirit in my feet

Has led me--who knows how?--

To thy chamber-window, sweet!