Where an Eidolon, named Night,
On a black throne reigns upright,
and we can well believe that it comes
From an ultimate dim Thule,—
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of Space—out of Time.
Wholly out of space and time was he who wrote ‘Dreamland,’ ‘The City in the Sea,’ ‘The Haunted Palace,’ ‘Israfel,’ ‘The Sleeper,’ and ‘Ulalume.’ It is idle to ask of these poems something they do not pretend to give, and it can hardly be other than uncritical to describe them as ‘very superficial.’ They are strange exotic flowers blooming under conditions the most adverse, a fresh proof that genius is independent of place and time.
* * * * *
In Poe’s work as a whole there is unquestionably too much of brooding over death, the grave, mere physical horrors. Since his genius lay that way, he must be accepted as he was. But it is permitted to regret, if not the thing in itself (the domain of art being wide), at least the excess. Poe speaks of certain themes which are ‘too entirely horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction. These the mere romanticist must eschew, if he do not wish to offend or to disgust.’ And having laid down this doctrine, Poe goes on to relate the story of ‘The Premature Burial.’ It turns out a vision. But the narrator affirms that he was cured by the experience, that he read no more ‘bugaboo tales—such as this. In short I became a new man and lived a man’s life.’ Without assuming that Poe spoke wholly from the autobiographical point of view, we may believe the passage to contain a measure of his actual thought.
We may claim for him a more important place in our literature than do his radical admirers whose fervent eulogy too often takes the form of the contention that Poe was greater than this or that American man of letters. His strong, sombre genius saved the literature from any danger of uniformity, relieved it at once and forever from the possible charge of colorlessness. That strangeness of flavor which a late distinguished critic notes as a mark of genius is imparted by Poe’s work to our literary product as a whole. Here indeed was ‘the blossoming of the aloe.’