For this reason Mr. Poe has no sympathy with
_Mysticism_. The Mystic dwells _in_ the mystery, is enveloped with it;
it colors all his thoughts; it affects his optic nerve especially, and
the commonest things get a rainbow edging from it. Mr. Poe, on the other
hand, is a spectator _ab extra_. He analyzes, he dissects, he watches
----with an eye serene,
The very pulse of the machine,
for such it practically is to him, with wheels and cogs and piston-rods,
all working to produce a certain end.
This analyzing tendency of his mind balances the poetical, and, by
giving him the patience to be minute, enables him to throw a wonderful
reality into his most unreal fancies. A monomania he paints with great
power. He loves to dissect one of these cancers of the mind, and to
trace all the subtle ramifications of its roots. In raising images of
horror, also, he has a strange success; conveying to us sometimes by a
dusky hint some terrible _doubt_ which is the secret of all horror. He
leaves to imagination the task of finishing the picture, a task to which
only she is competent.
For much imaginary work was there;
Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,
That for Achilles' image stood his spear
Grasped in an armed hand; himself behind
Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind.
Beside the merit of conception, Mr. Poe's writings have also that of
form.
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