Mr. Howells, of all men, does not need to be
told that, as wine of the highest flavor and most delicate _bouquet_ is
made from juice pressed out by the unaided weight of the grapes, so in
expression we are in danger of getting something like acridness if we
crush in with the first sprightly runnings the skins and kernels of
words in our vain hope to win more than we ought of their color and
meaning. But, as we have said, this is rather a temptation to which he
now and then shows himself liable, than a fault for which he can often
be blamed. If a mind open to all poetic impressions, a sensibility too
sincere ever to fall into maudlin sentimentality, a style flexible and
sweet without weakness, and a humor which, like the bed of a stream, is
the support of deep feeling, and shows waveringly through it in spots of
full sunshine,--if such qualities can make a truly delightful book, then
Mr. Howells has made one in the volume before us. And we give him
warning that much will be expected of one who at his years has already
shown himself capable of so much.
EDGAR A. POE[1]
[Footnote 1: The following notice of Mr. Poe's life and works was
written at his own request, and accompanied a portrait of him published
in _Graham's Magazine_ for February, 1845. It is here [in R.W.
Griswold's edition of Poe's Works (1850)] given with a few alterations
and omissions.
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