MEMOIR OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. It would be well for all poets, perhaps, if noth. ing more were known of their lives than what they infuse into their poetry. Too close a knowledge of the weaknesses and errors of the inspired children of Parnassus cannot but impair, in some degree, the delicate aroma of their songs. The inner life of the poet-the secrets of his inspiration, the mysterious processes by which his pearls of thought are pro duced-can never be made known; and the accidents of his daily life have but little more interest than those which fall to common men. Under all circumstances the poet is a mystery, and the utterances of his fancy are but the drapery of the veiled statue, which still leaves the figure itself unknown. A dissection of the song-bird gives us no insight into the secret of his melodious notes. Some of the great modern poets have had their whole lives exposed with minute accuracy; but in what are we the wiser for the knowledge we have obtained of them? We only know they lived and suffered like other men; and their inspirations are still a cause of wonder and delight. The subtle secret of their power is still hidden from our search; and though we know more of the daily habits of the men, we know no more of the hidden power of the poet. But there is still a yearning to know how the men lived, whose genius has charmed and instructed us; and a vague feeling exists that, in probing the lives of poets, we may learn something of the art by which they produced their works. But it is like the useless labor of Reynolds, who scraped a painting by Titian, to learn the secret of his coloring. Of all the poets whose lives have been a puzzle and a mystery to the world, there is no one more difficult to be understood than EDGAR ALLAN POE. It is impossible to carry in the mind a double idea of a man, and to believe him to be both a saint and a fiend; yet such is the embarrassment felt by those |