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what it is aware of or invents may be only an phantasm, a fascinating masquerade which, for the second, the creativeness has been capable of fashion from that reality which is ever various and separate from the figuring out self. Some poets are apparently conscious that they are the “voices” of their age, and, like Tennyson and Longfellow of Poe’s own time, are deeply acutely aware of their poetic place and destiny of their age. To concentrate on such distinction is, nonetheless, not to have it. In order to discover the intellectual and philosophic poetic temper of the nineteenth century in America, one should not go to Longfellow, Lowell, or Bryant. He ought to go to Poe, Whitman, and Emily Dickinson, not one of whom was a “thinker” , but all of whom kind the record of the American poetic sensibility in the nineteenth century. From his habits of life and of composing, we come to talk of the elements of his “Poetic Principle.” These elements, as may be ascertained from numerous portions of his writings, comprised not magnificence alone, and at all times Beauty Uranian, by no means Dionæn, but also Melancholy, Strangeness, Indefiniteness and Originality. Such a concept of poetic artwork as he accepted would of itself have led him irresistibly to write of those hours that alone convey the human thoughts underneath the Supreme influence of the ideas elementary to the theory itself. It is simply at night time, when the veil is thrown over the senses, and is lifted from the soul, that Beauty turns into most elevating and Melancholy most intense; that the Commonplace is supplanted by the Strange; that the Definite, abruptly overleaping its bounds, becomes the obscure and huge; and that the poetic soul, rightly attuned to such influences, shall be likeliest to realize Originality of the very best order. It is scarcely a fantastic phrase to say, that the weather of Poe’s “Poetic Principle” had been native to the Night, and lurked in its recesses, throwing darkish traces upon the brilliant spectrum of his creative consciousness, and pervading his creations themselves because the gloom, the chill, the thriller, the dread, the disturbing strangeness, the unexplored recesses of sorrow, that constitute one other group of his poetic attributes. All these facts show how inexcusable is the ignorance of a few of Poe’s biographers in stating that he was afraid of the darkness, and was not often out in it alone. On the contrary, they reveal him as a voluntary student and loving companion of the night time, either because it was most soothing to his irritated sensibility or extra pleasing to his creativeness, or ablest and aptest to excite in him desired or unhoped for trains of thought. The proof that they furnish relative to his hours and habits of composing seems to throw a welcome light upon the attribute of his poetry that is into consideration; and this can be supplemented by sure exceptional statements of his own on the topic—statements that have been completely overlooked by those who ought to have had the keenest

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