Year: 1875

The Poe Monument.


Twenty-six years have passed since the
death OF Edgar A. Poe, and yesterday, for the
nrst time, his grave was marked with stone.
1nere was no real ingratitude in this long
neglect OF the great poets resting place.
Before printing was invented monuments Of
stone or brass were necessary to commem-
orate events ior the information Of men. But
now funeral urns, obelisks and statues have
ceased to embody history they have become
curiositiss upon which the antiquarian NAV
ponder or the poet muse, but of which the
world can take little note All that was vital
and valuable in these mute records long ago
passed into books. Books are the true mon
uments of illustrious men, and Pharaoh's
earthly Immortality will exist in the Bible
long after his pyramid is levelled with the
desert sands. No marble was hitherto placed
above the grave of Poe because that tribute
was not needed to preserve his fame His
memory lives in the music of his verse, in
the fascination of his mystical dreams, in
that vast world of imagination which he
swung into the heavens and which dazzles
with its cireiing flame long after the brain
that made it sleeps in the dark and quiet
tomb


This monument is not raised so much to
the memory Of the man as to that of the
poet. Poe seems to have had one nature for
the world, another for his friends and to
have been pursued by hate and consoled by
love to the end Of his stormy life. All his
biographers have admitted his great faults,
but some of them have been careful to con-
ceal his merits. The discussion Of his per-
sonal character, however, very properly was
not part Of the ceremonies at his grave. 1t
was his genius that was thus honored For
tunately any comparison Of his works with
those Of other poets of this age is unneces-
sary in determining his place in our litera-
ture, for he stands alone and unapproachable.
Most of our American poets reflect English
poetry, but Poe formed his own style, and
all his inspiration came from within. His
individuality was intense, and he seemed to
move within magic circle which no other
foot than his could cross His imitators are
many, but they are all below contempt 1t
is impossible to initiate poetry which is so
profoundly original, though it is easy to
parody his verse. No doubt Poe spoke truth
when he said that poetry to him had not been
a purpose but passion, and that the pas
sions must not be trifed with. Had it been
purpose he would have written volumes,
but as it was passion held sacred by him,
and welded with sorrow and conflict and
remorse, he produced very little in quantity.
But how great this little is There is 'sThe
Raven" ''To One in Heaven" 'Israfel, !"
"Annabel Lee, For Annie" ''Ulalume,"
'"The Conqueror Worm, each separate star
in a strange and vividly burning constella-
ton. His poetry also found expression in his
tales, and the finest Of these have no paral-
lels in fiction Thus it may be said that he
is greater or less than such or such a poet,
according to the critics taste, but it cannot
be truly said that he is like any other poet
1t is in his utter unlikeness to others that
much Of his singular fascination exists


Much Of Poe's labor was given to criticism,
and he is not forgiven even now for his Sc
verify. 1t is the custom to sneer at him as
critic who concerned himself only with the
mechanism of art, and not with its higher
elements. But we believe that he rendered
great service to American literature by his
analysis Of forms, his direct censure of in
competent writers and the war he ever waged
against mediocrity and pretence. He was
the Pythian Of the age, and his arrows always
hit the mark. In many respects we regard
him as the ablest Of American critics, and it
is a misfortune for the literature Of the
present day that he is without a successor.