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I am going to set it down here as an example of what poetry can be, and I want you to compare your favorite poems, whatever they may be, with it. It is by Edgar Allan Poe and is called Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicæan barks of yore; That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore.
Sullivan's Island is at the entrance of Charleston harbor, just east of Charleston, South Carolina. It is the site of Fort Moultrie, where Poe served as a private soldier in Battery H of the First Artillery, United States Army, from November, 1827, to November, 1828. The atmosphere of the place in Poe's time is well preserved, but no such beetle as the gold-bug has been discovered.
"But that is but a tent wherein may rest A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest; The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash Strikes, and prepares it for another guest." Most akin to Poe is the "Hymn to Orion," "Dost thou, in thy vigil, hail Arcturus on his chariot pale, Leading him with a fiery flight Over the hollow hill of night?"
But Stevenson tells us they were noted for their prayers, and at least one of them wrote poetry, and declaimed it, drunk, to Walter Scott, who retaliated in kind. But the present John Elliott, artist, though he is of the kin of Stevenson, and bears the dark hair and rather prominent, melancholy eyes of the traditional Elliott stock, yet physically much more closely resembles Edgar Allan Poe.
Now Poe was closely connected with Graham's Magazine, and after "Arthur Gordon Pym," "Louis Fitzgerald Tasistro" does suggest Edgar Allen Poe. But Poe was not Tasistro. So much for the literary history of the Lunacy. The poem begins Chimera I. begins: "An anthem of a sister choristry! And, like a windward murmur of the sea, O'er silver shells, so solemnly it falls!"
After a man begins to attack the State-House, when he gets bitter about the Frog-Pond, you may be sure there is not much left of him. Poor Edgar Poe died in the hospital soon after he got into this way of talking; and so sure as you find an unfortunate fellow reduced to this pass, you had better begin praying for him, and stop lending him money, for he is on his last legs. Remember poor Edgar!
As for M. Charcot, who is said to be a remarkable man of science, he produces on me the effect of those story-tellers of the school of Edgar Poe, who end by going mad through constantly reflecting on queer cases of insanity.
They are especially valuable as illustrating the great truth, too generally overlooked, that analytic power is a subordinate quality of the critic. On the whole, it may be considered certain that Mr. Poe has attained an individual eminence in our literature, which he will keep. He has given proof of power and originality.
It is true that these men were not as famous in those days as they have since become; still, their names were known and their reputations were rapidly growing. The best known were Poe, Hawthorne, Longfellow, Whittier and Emerson; but there were not a few others whose names are well known to-day.
The first thing I thought of was a quotation from Edgar Allan Poe. "I pacified Psyche and kissed her," I murmured, "and tempted her out of the gloom." I said the lines in what I am convinced is the proper way, as if they were forced from me, as if I spoke them to myself and did not mean them to be heard. I do not think Mrs. Ascher knew them. I fear she suspected me of making some sort of joke.
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