1. 1 O Í O / J l U l i A K AL.L.A1N TOt
',
ous vibration of the chain. The noíse lasted for several minutes, during which,
that I rnight hearkcn to it with the rnore satisfaction, I ceased my labours and
sat down upon the bonés. Wheri at last the cianking subsideni, I resurned the
trowel, and finished without int«;rriiption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh
tier, The wall was now nearly uptm a leveí with my breast. I agai n paused, íiind
holding the flambeaux over the niason-work, threw a few feehle rays upon t'tie
figurewithin.
A succession of loutl and shrill screams, bursting suddenfy. fi-om the throaí
of the chained fonn, seemed to thrust me violendy back. For a brief moment
I hfcsiitated, I tretnbled. Unsheanhing my rapier, I began to gropc with it about
the. itecess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placcd my hímnd
upem the solid fabric of the catsucombs and fdt satisfied. l reapproached the
wáll.. I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I re-echoed, I aided, I sur-
passed them in volume and in Sitrength. I díd this, and the clamourer gn;w
still.
It was now midnight, and my ilask was drawíing to a cílose. l had cotnpleted
the eighth, the ninth and the tuailh tier. I ha,d finished a porfiou of the líisl
and lhe elevonth; there remaineiil bui a single iitone to be fitted and plaslered
in. I slruggled with its weighl; I [ilaced i( partially in its destined posilion. Bui
now (here cume froni oul the niclie a low Iniigh that erectwl lhe hairs upon
iny licnd. It was smcoecded by a sa<l voice, which I had dilfitully in recogniz-
ing ns tltiii of lho iiobh- 1'orliiiioio. 'lhe voice said—
"Ha! ha! ha! - he! he! hf! a very goodjoke, indeed—an excellent jest. We
will linve niimy a rich laugh alioul il at lhe palazzo—he! he! he!—over our
viiio -lií1! h*'! IKÍÍ'*
" Ilhe Amoiililludo!" I said.
"He! he! lu-!-- he! he! ht;!—yes, the Arnonlillaclo. But is it not gettíng laite?
Will not lliey be awaiting us at the palazzo-—th* Lady Portunato and the rest?
l,el us !><• gone."
jfe*» ( said, "lei us be gone."
"For the lave of Goa, Múntresor!"
"Vês," l said, "for the love of God!"
But to these words I hearkened in vain for-í» reply. I grew irnpatient. I caUed
aloiid—
"Foirtunato!"
No answer. I caJletl agaín—
"Fortunato!"
Mo answer still, l thrust: a torch through the remaining apeiture and Ict it
fali within.There carne forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart
gre*v sick; it was the dampness of the catacombs that made it só. I hastened
to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plas-
tered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bonés.
For the half of a century no mortal hás distuitbed them. In pact: requiescní!f
4. May he rest in pea«! (Ulin),
,• 'l
• .!
The Philosophy of Coimposition'
Charles Dickens, in a.note2 now lying before me, alluding l<> an examina
tiois I once made of the mechanism of "Barnaby Rudge," s a y s " H y lhe wsiy,
are you awate that Goclwin wrtite his 'Culeb Williams' baclcwflraf? lie lir^l
involved his hero in a web of diíficulties, forming the secotld volume, and
then, for the first, cast about hlm for some mode of account.ing for what íiad
beeu done."3
l cannot tíiink this the precise mode of procedure on the purt of Godwiri—
and indeed what lie himself acknowledges, is not altúgether in accordance
with Mr. Dickens' idea—but the author of "Caleb Williams" was too good an
artisit not to perceive the advaníage derivable frotn at least ti somewhat stwi-
lar process. Nothing is more clemr than that ewery plot, wotth lhe narne, mus!
be elaborated to íts â&runtémertf before âny thing be atiempted with the pen.
It is only with the dénouement constantly in view that we can give a plot its
indispensable airof consequente, or causation, by tiialdngthe incidents, íinc
especially the tone at ali pointíi, tend to the developtnent of the intentinn
There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of cnnstructing a story
Eithet- history affords a thesis—or one is suggested by an incident of l:h(
day—-or, at best» the author setí; himself to work in the comhinaiion of strik
ingevents to fonn rnerely the basis of his narrativa—designingj generally,(<
fill in with descrijption, dialogue, or autoria! eomment, whatever crevices o
faet:, or action, may, from page to page, render themselves uppareni.
Í prefer commencíng with tine consideration of an effect. Keeping original
ity uhvays in view—for he is false to himself who ventures to dispense withs<
obvtous and só esisily attainable a source of intercst—I ssiy to rnystflf, in thi
firsl place, "Of the innumerable effects, or impressions, ofwhieh the heart
the intellect, or (more generally) the soul is stisceptible, what one shall I, 01
the present occusJon, select?" Havíng chosen a novel, first, and secondly :
vivid effect, l consícler whether ít can best be wrought by incidentor torve—
whether by ordin ary incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse, or by pecu
liarity both of incident and tone—afterwaird looking ahout me (or ralhe
wíthin) for such combinatiom of event, or tone, as shall best aid me in th
corislruction of the effect.
I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper iriighl he writtein b
any author who would—that is to say, who could—detail,, step by step, th
processes by whích any one of Siis composití<:ms attained its uitimate point c
completíon. Whji such a paper hás never becrx given to th<; world, I am rime
at íi loss to say—-but, perhaps, lhe autorialvanity hás had more to dó vithi th
l. 'lrti« title ineans sosiiieíKing like 'The Theory of
WHiiling." l*oe wrotc lhe work 115 a I^cturt: iint hopes
í'iMipítalixing cih the KIJCCCSS of'The Ravi:n." For
yus ia Kis reviews Poc ha.íl campaígned ITcar delíb-
rtile artístry r«ther tknn uncontrolled c:ntusíons,
nd "I"hír I'hik)soph)' of Composítion" nausit be
ias part of íhitl rarnpaígn ruther thíin a fac-
iiccoiinl of how l"Vie ivrote 'The Raven." In a
<:r of AugUlH ('t 18-46, Pí>e collcd the eisay his
-!il s|)t;cli]i<;n of ;inuljsis."The text hertí h thutof
IWst printing, in (7mJiíii«'i Magazmit (April
2. Dsíed March 6, 1842, and prinlíd in llve I'
grim iitiítion of Dickens't Letters 3. HJíi- 07.
3. Wíjliam Godwin mul«s Ithls clalm in Mi 18;
prefltíre to Calei WMianu (lir«< puhliíhed in 1.7!)'
As £lú<mnt»y Hmlge was heting neriulived iin 58-4
Põe piiblistiecl an analyiiiij of the novel lllat tdiMi
, fied the murdetcr uníl ClOTGCtty preJU:ted tlnr eu
ing,
4. riu,1 fingi revtílatioil iiliowlng tli-' outcomie,
untyitoig, of the ploí. f'ri:*m âénoiter (I7reiuti),
untie.."

2. 618 / EDGAR AL.LAN PÕE
rnission than any one other cause. Most writers—poets in especial—prefer
taving it understood that they còmposc by a species of Une frenzy5—an
cstatic intuition—and would positively shudder at letting the public take a
ieep behind the ' scenes, at lhe elabora te and vacillating crudities of
hought— at the tiruc purposes scizcd only ut libe last moment—«t the innu-
nerablc iUmpMI of idea lliat arrivcd not ai the maturity of Full víew—at lhe
ully matured funcics discarded in despair as uininanagcablc-—at the cautious
electioni and rAJOCtlotlt—at lhe painiul crasurcs and intwpolations—-in a
vonl, ai the wliccls and pinions—the lackli; for scene-shifting—the step-
addcrs anil demcm-lraps—-the t-ock's fcathers, the red paint and the blaclc
IBtctwi) wliicli, in nincly-ninc cases out of the hundred, constitutc the prop-
rrtics «l lhe lilcniry histrio,1'
l -nu avvare, on lhe othcr harid, that the case is by no tneans common, in
vhk:h an atithoriis at ali in contlition to retracc the steps by whích bis con-
Imioiis liave bccn iillained. In general, suggestions, having nriscn pell-mell,
n•<• |tursncd aiul íorgoHcn in a similar manner. " .
Por niy own pari, l havc neitber sympathy with the rcpugnance alludcd to,
ior, nl any time, tlic least difficulty in recalling to mind the progressivo steps
>f niiy of iny compositíons; and, since the interest of an analysis, or recon-
>l.iia<:li»ii, such as I havc corisidered a desíderatutn,'' is quite independem oi
my real or fancícd interest in tfrie thing analyzed, it wili not be regarded i;is a
lirnich of decorum on my part to show the modus operandi8 by which some
mu* <it iny own works was put together. I select "The Raven," as the most gen-
ciallly known. It iismy desigti to render it rnunife$t that no one point in its
i;inuposi(ion is referrible either to accident oir intuition—that the work pro-
ri'txk'd, (ilep by íitep, >to its completion with the precisioti and rigid conse-
qiKMice of a rnatliicmatical problem. • . • ' • •
l,et us disrníss, as irrclevant to the põem per se, the circumstance—or say
l lie neccssity—which, in the first place, gave rise to the íntention of ooní-
poiing a põem tliat should suit at once the popular and the criticai taste. >
Wc commencc, then, with tljis intentíon, '
'l!lie iniiial consideration wai> that of extent, If any liteirary work is too long
to be read at one sitting, wc rmist be content to dispense with the immenseiy
íinportant effect derivable froin unity of impression—for, if two sittings be
ri'(|uii'cd, the iiffnirs of lho worid inlerfcre, and cvcry thing like totality is at
oncc dciilroyed. Hul since, ceiem paribus,'1 no poet can íifford to dispense,
with any ihing «l>at inay adviince bis design, it but remains to be seen'
whethcr thcrc is, ín exlenl, any advanlage to c:ount:erbalani:.e the loss of tiutity^
which allcnds ít. l lere l say no, at once. What we term a long põem is, in IFacty
rnurely a SUCCeifion of brief omes—tlial is Io say, of brief poetical effects. 'It
is needlcss to dcmonsl rate that u poern is su<:h, only inasmuch as it intensely
excites, by elevating, lhe soul; cind ali intensc cxcitements u;re, thrpugh ãpsyy.
chal necessity, brief. For ihis n:ason, at least one half of the "Paradise "
m rM
•m®
?i, í*il!iake$p>eare's Mídsumrnfr Ntglu's Dream
3.1.Í2, in Theseuss dksicription of thc; poítf.: "Thcs
poct*s eye, in a fine íWnzy rolling, / Doth glancç
íroTiii íieaven to earth, ifvnm earth to heciviin /And
BS ínrtaginalion botíies Iwrth / lliie forms oí thíngs
iiiikmown, |.he poet's pen / Tucns them to *hapest
nnd (íivcs to airy nothÍTi^ /A local habíUtion and %
^ijiimn."
6. Anliist (Latin).' . .
7. Stimething to bc desiãtiwi (Latín).
8^ Mtthod of proce<lvjre ÍLaUn),-'
9. Odier things bemgcqual (Latin). r.
1. Tlm; twelve-book blattik-verse epic by John Mitjl
ton, wliich contains some 3 0.500 lincs, more tha|t;l
a Ruiiulred times as ttiany lincs tis Põe consiciéredf
dcsiniíjle in 9 põem.
Tllli l ' l l l l . O S O I M I Y orCOMPOSilTION / 1619
is essentíally prose—r-a succéssion of poetical exciternents interspersed,
inevitably, wfth corresponding dépressions—the whole being d<íprived,
through the'extremeness ofits lengthj ofthe vastly important artistíc elcinent,
totalíty, or unity, ofeffect:.r ; , . ; • ' • ......
';>It appearsi ewdentj then, that there is a distinct limit,, as regards length, to
ali works of liiterary art—tliè limit of a:single sitting—and that, aUhough in
certain classes of prose composition, sucJi as "Robinson Crusoe,"2 (dernand-
ing no unity,-) this limit may be advantageously overpassed, it can ncver prop-
erly be overpassed in a põem. Within this fimit, the ext<.-nt of a põem rnay be
rnade to beat mathematical relatíon to its merit—in other words, to thc
ííxcitement or elevation—again in other wwds, to the degree of the true poet-
ical effect which ít is capable of inducing; for it is clear that the brevity mujit
IIKB in dírèct ratio of the intensity of the intended effectc-—thi$, with one pro-
visò—that a certairi degree éf duration is absolutely pequisite for the pro-
duction'of any effect at ali. •>/''•..> •: ••. . " i• • '. • : ; • ••
Holding in view these coinsíderations, a;s well as that degree of excitéinent
which I deemed not above the popular, while not below the criticai, laste, I
ireached at on<:c what I conc:ei%d the proper length for my intendeJ põem—
a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in fact, a hundred ahd eíght.
My'ne thaught conce;rncdrthe choíce-uf an>impressiona or effect, to be
eonveyed: arid here I may as well' observe tfiat, throughout the construction,
l: kept steadíly in view the design of rendering the work Mmvehally apprçcia-
ble. l should be carried. too Far out of rriy immediate topic were I to dernon-
jtrate a point upon which I have repeatedly insisted, and which, wilth the
pfletical, stands not in the slightest need of demonstratíon—the point, l imean,
tíkat-Beauty is the sole legitíniiate province of the poern, Afew words, hoirvever,
;ín elucidátion of my real meaníng, which some of my friends have evinced a
diísposition to ínisrepresent.-That pleasuré which is:at once the most intense,
thè'mqist elevalingv and the most puré, is,-1 belíeve, found in the conternpla-
tiion of the beautiful. When, índeed^men speak of Beauty, they mean, pre-
icísely, not a quality, as is sup|>osed, but an «ffect^-they reler, in short, just to
that;intense and puré elevation 'of-.sorti—«t *of íntellect, or-of heart—upon
,w3iich J have commented, and which is'experienced in consequence olr con-
.teimplatíng "the beautiful.'' Now >I desigiiaJte Beauty as the province of the
» POEMTI, merely bccause it is an obvious rule <>f Art that effects should be^rnade
f i ito spring from cl:irect'causes~-líhat objects' sltould1 be attained itlirough means
jítost adaptedifor their attainment—^no one as yet having b<:en weak enough to
!!;ftny that the peculiar elevation alluded to, is •most rawfiíj"attained ín the
:: p>ern; Now the object, Trutli, or the satisfaction of the íntellect, and the
ífebject; Passion, orthe excitement of the hèart, are, althoiiigh attainable, to a
': ;c(Mtain' extent, itijpoetry, far.iiriore readíly attainable in prose. Truth, .in fact,
l dí;mands a precision, and Passion, a homeliness (the tnily pussionate will com-
!''^rehend me) which are absolutely antagonistic to that Beauty which, I raain-
^tain, is the exciletnent, or pleasurable eleVaitíon, of the souí. It by no means
follpws fròm any thing here said, that passion, or even truth, may not be íntro-
jaiiced, and even profitably introduced, into-a põem—-for they may serve ín elu-
feiiiátion, or aíd the general effect, as do díscords jn music, by contrast—but
|ÍrÉt true artist will always contríve, first, to tone them into proper subservicnce
fetóy. !-• - - . .,••..;.-, ...
-s novel of shipwreck in thc Caribbcan (1719).'-•'• .-' i- ' • -
.
,
•
.
.

3. to the predominamt aitn, and, secondly, to enveil them, as far as possible, in
thal Beauty which is the atmospherc and the essence of the põem.
Regarding, them, Beauty as niy province, my next question referred to the
tone of its highest manifestatiori—and ali experience hás shown that this tone
is one of sadness. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme developmeint,
invaríably excites the sensitivo soul to tears. Melancholy is thus the rnost
legitímate of ali the poetical tones.
The length, the province, and the tone, beiing thus determined, I betook
myself to ordinaty induction, with the víew of obtaining some artísllíc
piquaricy which naight serve me as a key-note in the construction of the
poern—some pivoll upon which the whole structure might turn. In carefully
thirilking over ali the usual artistic effects—o:r more propeiiy poiwts, in the
theatrical sense—II did"not fail to perceive immediately that no one had been
só Htniversally employed as thal:eif the refrain. The universality of its employ-
ihertt sufficesl to assim; me of its irstrinsic value, and spared me the necessiity
of submittinjj; it to analysis. I consíderedl it, however, with regard to its suis-
ceptibility of improvement, and :çoon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As
com:monly used, the refrain, or tiurden, not omily is limited Io lyric verse, I>ut
depends for its impression upon the force of nnonotone—bota in sound and
thought. The pleasure is deduccd solely from líhe sensti of icllentity—of repe-
tition. I resolved to diversify, and só vastly heighten, the effect, hy adhering,
in general, to the monotone of sound, whlfe I continuai!)/ varied that of
thought: that is to say, I deterrmned to produee continuously novel effects,
by the variation of the applicatioii of the refrain—the refrain iitself remaining,
for filie most part, unvaried. l
These points being settled, I next bethought me of the nature of my refrain,
Since its appiicatikm was to be «ipeatedly varied, it was clear that tht! refrain
itsdl: must be brief, for there would have been an insurmountable difficulty
in frequent variations of application in any sentence of length. In proportion
to the brevity of the sentence, would, of course, be the facility of the varía^
tion. This led me at once to a sirigle word as the best refrain. .•; i
The question now arose as to the character of the word. Having made np
rny rnind to a refrain, the divisioln of the poçjri into stanzas was, of course, a
coroHary: the refrain forming the dose to each stanza. That such a close, Io
have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of protracted emphasis, admiit-
ted no doubt; and «hese considerations inevitably led me to the long o as the
mosl sonorous vowel, in connectiion with r as the most produeible consonanti
The sound of the refrain beiiiig thus deterniined, it became riecessary to
select a word embodying this sound, and at the same time ir»the fullest pos-
slble keeping with ilhat melancholy which I hacl predetermintid as the toneof
the põem. In such a search it woiuld have been absolutely impossible to overv
look llu; word "Nevermore." In fact, it was the very first which presented itself.
Tkf next desideratum was a pretext for the continuous use of the one word
"nevermore." In observing the diffículty which I at once fouriid in inventing a
sufficienlly plausible reason for il:s continuous irepetition, I díd not fail to per-
ceive that this difficulty arose solely from the pre-assumption. that the woid
was to be só Contirtuously or monotonouiily spoken by a huntan being—^1 íJíkl •
not fail to perceive, in short, that the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this j
monotony with the exercise of reason on the part of the crcature repeating :
the word. Here, then, irnmediatelly arose thejiJ<!a of a H0n-reasoning creattue
capable of speech; and, very naturally, a parrot, in the íírst instance, snggeslei
it&elf, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven, as equally capable of speech
and infínitely more in kecping with the intended tone.
'>! l! had nowgone só farás the conception of a Raven-—the birdof ill omen—
monotonously repeating the txne word, "Neveraaore," at lhe conclusion o
eat:h stanza, in a põem of melancholy tone, and in length about one huridrei
lines. Now, neveir losing sight of the object swpremettess, or perfection, at u!
pâints, I asked myself—"Of ali melancholy topícs, what, according to the uni
versai understanding of mankind, is the most melancholy?" Death—was t!i>
obvious reply. "And when," I siaicl, "is this rmost melancholy of topics rnos
poetical?" From what I have already explained at some length, the answei
bete also, ia obviou»—"When it most closely allíes itself to Reauty: the deatb
then, of a beautillul womsln is, unquestionably, the inost poética) topic in th<
world—and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suíited for such topl
aré<those of a beireuved lover."
f': I had now to combine the two ideas, of a Icwer lamenting hís deceased jnis
trass and a Raven continuously repeating the word "Nevermore"—I had ti
combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying, at every turn, the írppli
cation of the word repeated; bmt the only int:c:lligible model of such combina
tioin is that of itnagining the Raven employíng the word in answer to th
queries of the lover. And here il was that l savu ai once lhe opportunity affortlei
foir lhe effect on which I had been depesding—lhat is to say, the effect of íln
variation ofapplicatMn. I saw that I could maIcethe first query propouníled b
lhe. lover—the first query to which the Raven should reply "Nevermore"—lha
I could make this first query a commonplaee one—che second less só—th
third still less, and só on—until at length the: lover, startled from his origina
nottchalance by the melancholy character of the word itsslf—-by its frequeri
repetition—-and by a considerailion of the oininous repntalion of th« fowl lha
uttered it—is at length excited to superstition, and wildly propounds qu<;rte
of a far different character—queríes whosc solution he bas passionately a
heart-—propounds them half in superstition and. half in that. species of des;pai
which delights in self-torture—propounds them not altògethflr becaiisr h
bcJieves in the jsrophetic or demoniac character of tht: bird (which, rcusoi
assures him, is merely repeating a lesson learned by rote) but because he ejqie
riisnces a phrenziied pleasure in só modeling his questiona as to receivc fron
the: expected "Nevermore" the most delicious because the most íntolerable o
senrow, Perceiving the opportunity thus affordecl me-—or, more strictly, ihn
forced upon me in the progress of the construction—I first establíshed in wiini
the clímax, or concluding querjf~that to which "Nevermore" should be in th
lusl: place an answer—that in reply to which this word "Nevermore" shoul
im/olve the utmost conceivable amount of sorrow and despair.
.: ''Here then the põem may be said to have its beginning—at the end, whci
! ali works of art should beigin—-for it was here, at this point o( my preconsid
l erations, that I first put pen to paper irl the composition of the stan/n:
l. "Prophet," said I, "thing of evill prophet still il bird nr dcvil!
By that henvcn that bendls above us—I»y that God vv<: both adore,
|i j- .'' Tell this souil with sorrow laden, if within. the distanl Aidenn,
It shall clasip a sainted uiaiden whom tlie angell nume Lenore—
5;"' Clasp a rare and radiant míiideii wliom the ungels nininc Lenore."
m^- Quoth the rãvên "Nevermore."

4. 1 6 2 2 / lilJC.AK Al.l.AN V U f.
í l
I CQmposed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing tlie climax,
I mighl tln.vbel.ler vary..and graduâtc, as regards serk»usness:and {rnportance,'
the prcccdinlg qúcrics of lhe iover-—and, secondly, that l might dèlinitely set-,
tlc the rhylihm, the metre, ártd the lengthrand general arrangerriunt of the
stanza—as well as gradunte the stánzaíi which were to precedesse that none
of lhem might sin-pass iJhis iri rhythmkaleffect. Had I been ablé, intthe sub-
soijucnt coniposition, to construct mdirc vigorous stanzas, I should, tvvithout
scruple, have purposely enfeebled them, só as not to interfere withlthe cli~,
macteric effect.í ' • • . • • . . " , . . , • • > • • ' „ j ...,!• ' • . . . .
And hcre I may as-well say a few words of the versífication. My first object
(as usual)was originality, The exterit to which this hás been neglécted, ín ver-
sification, És! one of the móst únaccoujltable things in the world. Admítting
lliat there isilittle possibjlity of variety in rnere rhythm, ít is stíll clcar that the
possible varieties of metre and stanza are absolutely infinite—and yetf/or cen-
turies, no man, in verse, hás cverdone, araversecmed to ihink'Ofdonig, an orig-
inal ihing, The fact is, originality (unless in minds cif ver)' unusual torce) is
by no mesms a tnatter, as; some suppose, of:impulse orirituitiort. In general,1
to be foúridj it fnust be elaborately spught, and although a positive meritoE
the highesl: class, demands in its attainimerit less of invention than negatioru
Of coursuj, I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or Itietre of the
"Raven." Tljc fórmer ís lírochaic—the latter is octainetèr^acatalectic, alter-
nating withjheptameter catalectic repeated in the refrain of the fifth versej
and íerminatirig vrith tetrameter calalectíc. Les;> pedantically-—the feet
employed l;Hrou'ghout (trochees) eonsiht of a long syllable followedí by a short;
the fifst líne of the stanja consisti of eight of these feet—the secbnd of severi
and a haif (in effect two-thirds)—the thírd of eight—-lhe fouith bfsdven and
a half—^thç' fifth the sanie—the sixth íhree and a híilf. Nove, ekc.li of .these
lines, takenliriclividually, hás been empJoyedíbefore, and what originality the
"Raven" hás, is in thcit comlrínaticm. into stanza; nothing even remotely
approaching this comhmation hás evi;r been attempted. The effect of this
originality of combination ís aided by other unusual, and some altogethet
novel effects, arising from an extension of the application of.the principiesof
rhyme and alliteration. : . . | l . ,: •)(!;
The ncxt poínt to be considered was the mode. of bringíngítogether the|
Iover anti the Raven—and the first branch of this consideration was thia
locale. For tinis the mos(.natural suggestion mightseem to be a foirest, .or the
Fields—bui: it hás always appearetl to me that a close circumscriptitm oj space.
is absolutely neccssary to the effect of insulated inc:ident:^-it hás the force;
of a frame to a picture, 11 hás an indisputable moral power-in keeping1 corí-í
centrated l:he attention, and, of course, mu,st not be confoundéd wíth mere;
unity of píace. .. • i/lííj-
I determíned, then, toplace the Iover in his chamber—in a chamber .réri-|
clered sacre^d to him by nncmories of her who had frequented itj Tlhe roomM
represented as richly fuinished—^thís in m.ere pursuance of the id.easi! havftji
already ex]>lained on the subject of Bieauty, as the sole true pdeltícal thesiá'
The locale being tnus deterniined, il had now to introduce the bird—and;
the thoughç of introducing htm through the window, was inevitabk.The idèaj
of maldng ihe Jovcr suppose, in the íirst instance, that the flappáng of thjjj,
wings of tlic bird againsil: the shutter, is a "tappiiig" at the door,'originated ín.i
a wish to increase, by prolonging, the reader's curíosity, and in n desire W;|
THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION /,: 1623
admit the incidental effect arising from the lovefs throwing open the. door,
findíng ali dark, and tlhence adoptirng the half-fancy that it was the spirit of
his mistress that knoeked. : '• . . • - . • •
l made the night ternpéstuous,; first, to account fortlie Raven's seeking
adinissittn, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the (physical) seren-
ity withín the chamber. i < ;
I made the bird alight on the buSt: of Palias,3 also for the effect of contrast
between the marble and the plumage;—it being understood that the bust was
absolutely suggested by the biid—fthe bust of Palias being chosien, first, as
most iri keeping with the scholaíship of the Iover, and, secondly, for the
sonorousness of the word, Palias, itself. ;
About the middle of fhe põem, also, I havê availed myself of the force of con-
trast, with a view of deepeníng the «Itirnate impression. For example, an air of
the fantastic—approadiíng as neaf-ly to the ludicrous.as was aclmissíble—is
given to the Raveft's entrance. He comes ín "with marjy a flirt and flutter." >'•
Not the least obeisance made he—-not a momenu stopped or stayed he,
But with mien oflord or íají^perchedabove my charnbérdoor.
In the two stanstas which follow, íhe design is more obviously carried our.?— i
•' Then this ebony bird béguiling niy sad fancy into smilíng
By the grave and stern decarutn <y the countenance Uivore,
| ;"Though thycrest be tliam andshaven thou," Issiid, "art sure no craven,
II: '' Ghastlygrim and ancíerit Raven vvsindering fronj the nightly shore-^
|: :Tell me what thy lordly name is ojn the. Nights Plutonian shore!" !
| -; " . . • Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." '• | -l •! 1 "' •;' •
^j ^ r , ( . .»^ ™ . . , . : ,
| - Much I marvelled thi$ ungainly fcnvl-to hear discourse só plaínly, i •
;! tiThough its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; . i.. • ' '
!' (For we cannot help agreíeing that;rio living humau being :| . s
Everyet, was bleased with seeing bird above his chatnher door—•... .-••,.. '• '•-••'<•••;
Bird or fcosf upon the sculptured ínat above his dutmber.âoor, ; . .í "
With such name as "Neverrriure." . ,,í
The effect of the dénttuemerit being thus provided for, I immediately drop
the'fantastic for a tone of the most profound seriousness:;-^thís tone cotn-
ínehcing in the-stanza directly follówing the one last quoted, with the lirie,
í But the Raven, sitting lonely ón that placid bust, spoke only; etc.
From tfuis epoch the Iover no longer jests—no longer sees any thing'even
i of the fantastic ín the Raven's demeanor. He speaks of him as a "grim,
i ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore," and feels the "fier)' eyes"
burning into his "bosoni's core." This revolution of thought, or fancy, on the
! lover's part, is íntended to inducé a similar one on the part of the ireader—to
;: bring the mind into a proper frame for the dénouement—whkh is "now
|j brought.about as rapidly and as directly as possible,
íl nWíth the dénouemenl proper-—with the Raven's reply, "Nevermore," to
ji lhe lovers final demand if he shall meet his mistres:s íri another world—the
jlpoeni, in iits obvious phuse, that of ia simple narrative, may be said to have
l< "' ;
f3. Bailas Atiien i, the Greekgod4<:ss of wisdorn and ííie arís.

5. its Completion. Só far, every thing is within the lirnits of the accountablé—v*£ ••'
lhe real, A raven, baving learned by rote the single word "Nevermore," and j
haviing escaped frum tlie custody of its ovvner, is driven, at miidníght, throughl
the violence of a storm, to seek acitmission at a window from whlch a light still !
gleains—the chamber-window oí a student, occupied half :in poring over a J
volume, half in dreaming «f a beloved mistress deceased. The casernent beiug
throfyn open at the fluttering of the bird's wings, the bird itself perches on
the most convenient seat out of the immedi,ai;e reach of the student, wlioj
amuseci by the incident and the oddity of the visher's deme.mor, demands of
it, in jest and without looking Cora reply, its name. The raven addresscd',
answers with its cnistomary woird, "Nevermore"—a word wliich funis irnme-
diate echo in the melancholy heart of the student, who, içivíng utterumrc
aloiul to certain tluoughts suggested by the occasion, is again startled hy llie
fowls repetition of "Nevermore," The studeril: now guesses the stale of lhe
case, bui is impelled, as I have brfore explained, by tlie himi;i n thirst foi sdf-
torture, and in part by superslitiion, to propound such queries to thi! bird ;r>
will liring him, tlie lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow, through the anliic-
ipaled íinswer "Nevermore." Willh (the indulgence, to tbe utmosl extreme,of
lliis sdf-torture, lhe narration, in what l have terméd its first or obvious
plniso, híis n natural lermination, and só far lhere hás been no oversteppiaj»
<il 11 u' limils of the real.
Itui in snhjccts só handléd, however skilfully; orvvith however vivid ananay
ol iriicidi-iit, tbcrc is alvvays a certain hardness or nakedness, which repels the
artís.tica! eye. Two lliings are invariably requínid—first, some amount of coitn-
plexity, or more properly, adaptation; and, seeondly, some atnount of sugges-
tiveaCM—tome under current, however índeíinite of meaning. It is this lalter,
in earpecUl, which, impai is to a work of art só much of that rickness (to bor-
row (rom COJloquy a lorcible termn) which we are too fond of confounding with
thtf ideal. It is thtí excess of the suggested meaning—it is the rendering this
the upper ihsteail ol the under current of the theme—which turns intoprose
(and that of the very Ilattest kind) the só called poetry of the só called tríin-
scendcritalists.
í Holding these opinions, I added the two cdncluding stanzas of the poenu—
their suggestiveiii£:ss being thus made to pervude ali the narrative which hás
precedeu them. 'lhe under-curtent of meaning is rendered íirst apparent in
the lines—
"Ifake thy beak from ouCmy heart, and take thy forrn from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven "Nevermore!"
It: will be observed that the words, "from out rny heart," involve the first
metaphorical expressíon in the põem. They, with the answer, "Nevermore/'
dispose the mino* to seek a moral in ali that hás been previously narrated. THe
reader begins now to regard thie Raven as emblemática!—but it is not iintil
the very last line of the very last stanza, that the intention of making liini
ernblematical ofMournftd and Never-ending Remembrance is pennitted «lis-
tinctly to be seeru:: ,!
1 > i
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, ,. , |
On the pallicl bust of Palias just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have ali the seeming of a dennon's that is drcaming, '•?
l II:E fOBTIC rit)N<nri..i!
•.yM.And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the flooir;
|}i'i And my soulfrom out that shadow that lies íloating on lhe floor
Shall be lifted—-nevermore.
t
l
184
From 'The Poetic Principie1
i' In spealdng of tlie Poetic Principie, I have nodesígn to b« either thorough <
'profound. While discussing, very much at nindom, the MUMltiality «l what v
'cii.ll Poetry, my principalpurpose will be to eiite for considcraiion, some lew i
tliose niinor Gnglish or American pocms which best suíil my own tastc, i
wliích, upon my own fancy, hwve left the most delinile improssion. I5y "min'
pofcms" l mean, of course, poems oflittle leingth. And he«-ir, in tlie beginnin
pcrmil me to sny n fc-w words in n-gard to a soiinewhat peculiar principie, whic
whcllicr rightfully or wrongfnlly, lias àlways; had its iiilhit-ncc in my own cri
oleslimiiteof lhe põem, l ImM llnil a longpoem does not rxisl. I inaintainth
lhe phrasr, "a Umg põem," is simplv •' Uai CflntndlCtion in lerins.
I ii<-c<l srairHy nbscivc llml u pociti dfii-rvc'. lis lillc imly inasliuicli ns
escilos, by eU-vnlinu li»' soul. Tlie valiif ol lhe põem is in lb<" ralio ol lliiís i'l
víiling,cxcitcincnl. Hul nll cxrilenii-iiH aif, ilirmigh a psycbnl necossity, Ira
'jjent. That de((«fe of rxrili-mrnl vvhli:h wmilil cnlilli- a poetn Io bc' só cilll
ai íhll, cannot lie suslaiiu-d lliioiiglionl a (Dinposition <il any great li-ngt
Afterthe lapse ofhalfan liour, ai lhe very »umost, it (lags—lails—a revulsí
«nsucs—and ihcn lhe põem is, in eflV< l, uiiid in facl, no longer such.
Tbcre are, no douhl, maity who hiivi- IViiiiid dilTic-ull;/ in rcconciling t
criticai dicluiti that lhe "1'arinlise l ,ost" is Ui lie dcvimlly íidniircd ihrougho
vvith the absolulc impossihilily ol inainlmining foi il, iluring MruSfll, l
amount of eiilliiisiasin wliifh lluil crilical dicluni WOIlId ilemand. 'l his gn
vcork, infacl, istobe rcgardcd ;is pocliral, nilly when, lo*tngflghl ol ll>.'il vi
requisite in ali works of An, Unily, we vícw il merely as a sciics ol nth
poems. If, to piresci-ve its Untty ils titlalilv o('cflV<'l or iuipicssion wi- n
it (as would be necessary) ai u s,iiigl<- :iilliii)j;, lb<- resull is l)iil a consta»! ali
nation ol excilemenl and dcptcssion. Allcr <i passage i»J wbal we Í66I to
Irue poetry, therc follows, irn-vilalily, a paxia^c of plaliliule which no crili
pre-judgment u-an force os M) mliniir; bui if, upon complcling the work,
. i-ead il again, ornilling l lie lirit booli lluil is to say, COmnwncilig with
íiecond—wc shiill hr. sniprisnl ai now liiuling llial admiiablc which wc bcl
condemned llhiit (lauinablc whicli wc hud [ircviously só much a(linii<'<l
follows from ali ihis ihal llir ultimalc, ajURrcgalc, or abisolulc effccl <if «•
the best epic imdcr lho sim, is a nullity: anil this is prccisely lhe lavl.
In rcgaril to lhe Iliad, wc have, if not positive proof, ai Icasl very good i
•son for helicvingit intonded as a series of llyrics; bui, graniing lhe epic inl
lion, l can say only that the work is based in an imperlccl scnsc ol arl.
rnodern e])ic Is, of the stipposititious ancient model, bui. 1111 inconsicleralc
l . PCH! iliíliV(;n;tI lliiíi «:s u Icclure spvei'iil cirnas in lhe liisl two ycnrs ofliis lifc/IHif Irxl is l rom Silrtimú
uúnel (Oclober 1850).