第 二十六 章 · THE VILLAGE STREET（4）

Affections are as thoughts to her,

The measures of her hours;

Her feelings have the fragrancy,

The freshness of young flowers;

And lovely passions, changing oft,

So fill her, she appears

The image of themselves by turns,--

The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace

A picture on the brain,

And of her voice in echoing hearts

A sound must long remain;

But memory, such as mine of her,

So very much endears,

When death is nigh my latest sigh

Will not be life's, but hers.

I fill'd this cup to one made up

Of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex

The seeming paragon--

Her health! and would on earth there stood,

Some more of such a frame,

That life might be all poetry,

And weariness a name.

It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinkney to have been born too far south.

Had he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been

ranked as the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which

has so long controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting

the thing called 'The North American Review'. The poem just cited is

especially beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we must

refer chiefly to our sympathy in the poet's enthusiasm. We pardon his

hyperboles for the evident earnestness with which they are uttered.

It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the _merits_

of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for themselves.

Boccalina, in his 'Advertisements from Parnassus', tells us that Zoilus

once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very admirable

book:--whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the work. He

replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing this,

Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out _all

the chaff_ for his reward.

Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics--but I am by no

means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain that

the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood.

Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an

axiom, which need only be properly _put_, to become self-evident. It is

_not_ excellence if it require to be demonstrated its such:--and thus to

point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to admit that

they are _not_ merits altogether.

Among the "Melodies" of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished

character as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of

view. I allude to his lines beginning--"Come, rest in this bosom." The

intense energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in

Byron. There are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that

embodies the _all in all_ of the divine passion of Love--a sentiment

which, perhaps, has found its echo in more, and in more passionate,

human hearts that any other single sentiment ever embodied in words:

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,

Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;

Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,

And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same

Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?

I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,

I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss,

And thy Angel I'll be,'mid the horrors of this,--

Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,

And shield thee, and save thee,--or perish there too!

It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, while

granting him Fancy--a distinction originating with Coleridge--than whom

no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact is,

that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other

faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very

naturally, the idea that he is fanciful _only._ But never was there a

greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet.

In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more

profoundly--more weirdly _imaginative,_ in the best sense, than the

lines commencing--"I would I were by that dim lake"--which are the

composition of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to remember them.

One of the noblest--and, speaking of Fancy--one of the most singularly

fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His "Fair Ines" had always

for me an inexpressible charm:

O saw ye not fair Ines?

She's gone into the West,

To dazzle when the sun is down

And rob the world of rest

She took our daylight with her,

The smiles that we love best,

With morning blushes on her cheek,

And pearls upon her breast.

O turn again, fair Ines,

Before the fall of night,

For fear the moon should shine alone,

And stars unrivall'd bright;

And blessed will the lover be

That walks beneath their light,

And breathes the love against thy cheek

I dare not even write!

Would I had been, fair Ines,

That gallant cavalier,

Who rode so gaily by thy side,

And whisper'd thee so near!

Were there no bonny dames at home,

Or no true lovers here,

That he should cross the seas to win

The dearest of the dear?

I saw thee, lovely Ines,

Descend along the shore,

With bands of noble gentlemen,

And banners-waved before;

And gentle youth and maidens gay,

And snowy plumes they wore;

It would have been a beauteous dream,

If it had been no more!

Alas, alas, fair Ines,

She went away with song,

With Music waiting on her steps,

And shoutings of the throng;

But some were sad and felt no mirth,

But only Music's wrong,

In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,

To her you've loved so long.

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,

That vessel never bore

So fair a lady on its deck,

Nor danced so light before,--

Alas for pleasure on the sea,

And sorrow on the shore!

The smile that blest one lover's heart

Has broken many more!

"The Haunted House," by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever

written,--one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of the

most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It is,

moreover, powerfully ideal--imaginative. I regret that its length

renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it

permit me to offer the universally appreciated "Bridge of Sighs:"

One more Unfortunate,

Weary of breath,

Rashly importunate

Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care;--

Fashion'd so slenderly,

Young and so fair!

Look at her garments

Clinging like cerements;

Whilst the wave constantly

Drips from her clothing;

Take her up instantly,

Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully

Think of her mournfully,

Gently and humanly;

Not of the stains of her,

All that remains of her

Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny

Into her mutiny

Rash and undutiful;

Past all dishonor,

Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

Where the lamps quiver

So far in the river,

With many a light

From window and casement,

From garret to basement,

She stood, with amazement,

Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March

Made her tremble and shiver;

But not the dark arch,

Or the black flowing river:

Mad from life's history,

Glad to death's mystery,

Swift to be hurl'd--

Anywhere, anywhere

Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly,

No matter how coldly

The rough river ran,--

Over the brink of it,

Picture it,--think of it,

Dissolute Man!

Lave in it, drink of it

Then, if you can!

Still, for all slips of hers,

One of Eve's family--

Wipe those poor lips of hers

Oozing so clammily,

Loop up her tresses

Escaped from the comb,

Her fair auburn tresses;

Whilst wonderment guesses

Where was her home?

Who was her father?

Who was her mother!

Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one

Still, and a nearer one

Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity

Of Christian charity

Under the sun!

Oh! it was pitiful!

Near a whole city full,

Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,

Fatherly, motherly,

Feelings had changed:

Love, by harsh evidence,

Thrown from its eminence;

Even God's providence

Seeming estranged.

Take her up tenderly;

Lift her with care;

Fashion'd so slenderly,

Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidly

Stiffen too rigidly,

Decently,--kindly,--

Smooth and compose them;

And her eyes, close them,

Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring

Through muddy impurity,

As when with the daring

Last look of despairing

Fixed on futurity.

Perishing gloomily,

Spurred by contumely,

Cold inhumanity,

Burning insanity,

Into her rest,--

Cross her hands humbly,

As if praying dumbly,

Over her breast!

Owning her weakness,

Her evil behavior,

And leaving, with meekness,

Her sins to her Saviour!

The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. The

versification, although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the

fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which

is the thesis of the poem.

Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received from

the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:

Though the day of my destiny's over,

And the star of my fate hath declined,

Thy soft heart refused to discover

The faults which so many could find;

Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,

It shrunk not to share it with me,

And the love which my spirit hath painted

It never hath found but in _thee._

Then when nature around me is smiling,

The last smile which answers to mine,

I do not believe it beguiling,

Because it reminds me of thine;

And when winds are at war with the ocean,

As the breasts I believed in with me,

If their billows excite an emotion,

It is that they bear me from _thee._

Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,

And its fragments are sunk in the wave,

Though I feel that my soul is delivered

To pain--it shall not be its slave.

There is many a pang to pursue me:

They may crush, but they shall not contemn--

They may torture, but shall not subdue me--

'Tis of _thee_ that I think--not of them.

Though human, thou didst not deceive me,

Though woman, thou didst not forsake,

Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,

Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,--

Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,

Though parted, it was not to fly,

Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,

Nor mute, that the world might belie.

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,

Nor the war of the many with one--

If my soul was not fitted to prize it,

'Twas folly not sooner to shun:

And if dearly that error hath cost me,

And more than I once could foresee,

I have found that whatever it lost me,

It could not deprive me of _thee_.

From the wreck of the past, which hath perished,

Thus much I at least may recall,

It hath taught me that which I most cherished

Deserved to be dearest of all:

In the desert a fountain is springing,

In the wide waste there still is a tree,

And a bird in the solitude singing,

Which speaks to my spirit of _thee_.

Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the versification

could scarcely be improved. No nobler theme ever engaged the pen of

poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himself

entitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity he still retains the

unwavering love of woman.

From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the

noblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite only a

very brief specimen. I call him, and _think_ him the noblest of poets,

_not_ because the impressions he produces are at _all_ times the most

profound--_not_ because the poetical excitement which he induces is at

_all_ times the most intense--but because it is at all times the most

ethereal--in other words, the most elevating and most pure. No poet is

so little of the earth, earthy. What I am about to read is from his last

long poem, "The Princess:"

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,

Tears from the depth of some divine despair

Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,

In looking on the happy Autumn fields,

And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,

That brings our friends up from the underworld,

Sad as the last which reddens over one

That sinks with all we love below the verge;

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns

The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;

So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remember'd kisses after death,

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd

On lips that are for others; deep as love,

Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;

O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have endeavored

to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been my

purpose to suggest that, while this Principle itself is strictly and

simply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of

the Principle is always found in _an elevating excitement of the soul_,

quite independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the

Heart, or of that truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For in

regard to passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than to

elevate the Soul. Love, on the contrary--Love--the true, the divine

Eros--the Uranian as distinguished from the Dionasan Venus--is

unquestionably the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And in

regard to Truth, if, to be sure, through the attainment of a truth we

are led to perceive a harmony where none was apparent before, we

experience at once the true poetical effect; but this effect is

referable to the harmony alone, and not in the least degree to the truth

which merely served to render the harmony manifest.

We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what

true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements which

induce in the Poet himself the true poetical effect. He recognizes the

ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine in

Heaven, in the volutes of the flower, in the clustering of low

shrubberies, in the waving of the grain-fields, in the slanting of tall

eastern trees, in the blue distance of mountains, in the grouping of

clouds, in the twinkling of half-hidden brooks, in the gleaming of

silver rivers, in the repose of sequestered lakes, in the star-mirroring

depths of lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds, in the

harp of Æolus, in the sighing of the night-wind, in the repining voice

of the forest, in the surf that complains to the shore, in the fresh

breath of the woods, in the scent of the violet, in the voluptuous

perfume of the hyacinth, in the suggestive odor that comes to him at

eventide from far-distant undiscovered islands, over dim oceans,

illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts, in all

unworldly motives, in all holy impulses, in all chivalrous, generous,

and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman, in the

grace of her step, in the lustre of her eye, in the melody of her voice,

in her soft laughter, in her sigh, in the harmony of the rustling of her

robes. He deeply feels it in her winning endearments, in her burning

enthusiasms, in her gentle charities, in her meek and devotional

endurance, but above all, ah, far above all, he kneels to it, he

worships it in the faith, in the purity, in the strength, in the

altogether divine majesty of her _love._

Let me conclude by the recitation of yet another brief poem, one very

different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by

Motherwell, and is called "The Song of the Cavalier." With our modern

and altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare,

we are not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize

with the sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the

poem. To do this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul

of the old cavalier:

A steed! a steed! of matchless speede!

A sword of metal keene!

Al else to noble heartes is drosse--

Al else on earth is meane.

The neighynge of the war-horse prowde.

The rowleing of the drum,

The clangor of the trumpet lowde--

Be soundes from heaven that come.

And oh! the thundering presse of knightes,

When as their war-cryes welle,

May tole from heaven an angel bright,

And rowse a fiend from hell,

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,

And don your helmes amaine,

Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call

Us to the field againe.

No shrewish teares shall fill your eye

When the sword-hilt's in our hand,--

Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe

For the fayrest of the land;

Let piping swaine, and craven wight,

Thus weepe and puling crye,

Our business is like men to fight,

And hero-like to die!

* * * * *

THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION.

Charles Dickens, in a note now lying before me, alluding to an

examination I once made of the mechanism of _Barnaby Rudge_, says--"By

the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote his _Caleb Williams_ backwards?

He first involved his hero in a web of difficulties, forming the second

volume, and then, for the first, cast about him for some mode of

accounting for what had been done."

I cannot think this the _precise_ mode of procedure on the part of

Godwin--and indeed what he himself acknowledges is not altogether in

accordance with Mr. Dickens's idea--but the author of _Caleb Williams_

was too good an artist not to perceive the advantage derivable from at

least a somewhat similar process. Nothing is more clear than that every

plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its _dénouement_ before

anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the _dénouement_

constantly in view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of

consequence, or causation, by making the incidents, and especially the

tone at all points, tend to the development of the intention.

There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing a

story. Either history affords a thesis--or one is suggested by an

incident of the day--or, at best, the author sets himself to work in the

combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his

narrative---designing, generally, to fill in with description, dialogue,

or autorial comment, whatever crevices of fact or action may, from page

to page, render themselves apparent.

I prefer commencing with the consideration of an _effect._ Keeping

originality _always_ in view--for he is false to himself who ventures to

dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of

interest--I say to myself, in the first place, "Of the innumerable

effects or impressions of which the heart, the intellect, or (more

generally) the soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present

occasion, select?" Having chosen a novel first, and secondly, a vivid

effect, I consider whether it can be best wrought by incident or

tone--whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse,

or by peculiarity both of incident and tone--afterwards looking about me

(or rather within) for such combinations of events or tone as shall best

aid me in the construction of the effect.

I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written

by any author who would--that is to say, who could--detail, step by

step, the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its

ultimate point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to

the world, I am much at a loss to say--but perhaps the autorial vanity

has had more to do with the omission than any one other cause. Most

writers--poets in especial--prefer having it understood that they

compose by a species of fine frenzy--an ecstatic intuition--and would

positively shudder at letting the public take a peep behind the scenes,

at the elaborate and vacillating crudities of thought--at the true

purposes seized only at the last moment--at the innumerable glimpses of

idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view--at the fully-matured

fancies discarded in despair as unmanageable--at the cautious selections

and rejections--at the painful erasures and interpolations,--in a word,

at the wheels and pinions, the tackle for scene-shifting, the

step-ladders and demon-traps, the cock's feathers, the red paint, and

the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred,

constitute the properties of the literary _histrio._

I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in

which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his

conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen

pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner.

For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to,

nor, at any time, the least difficulty in recalling to mind the

progressive steps of any of my compositions; and, since the interest of

an analysis, or reconstruction, such as I have considered a

_desideratum_, is quite independent of any real or fancied interest in

the thing analyzed, it will not be regarded as a breach of decorum on my

part to show the _modus operandi_ by which some one of my own works was

put together. I select "The Raven" as most generally known. It is my

design to render it manifest that no one point in its composition is

referrible either to accident or intuition--that the work proceeded,

step by step, to its completion with the precision and rigid consequence

of a mathematical problem.

Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, _per se_, the

circumstance--or say the necessity--which, in the first place, gave rise

to the intention of composing _a_ poem that should suit at once the

popular and the critical taste.

We commence, then, with this intention.

The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is

too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to dispense with

the immensely important effect derivable from unity of impression--for,

if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and

everything like totality is at once destroyed. But since, _ceteris

paribus_, no poet can afford to dispense with _anything_ that may

advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in

extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends

it. Here I say no, at once. What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely

a succession of brief ones--that is to say, of brief poetical effects.

It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such only inasmuch as it

intensely excites, by elevating the soul; and all intense excitements

are, through a psychal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least

one-half of the "Paradise Lost" is essentially prose--a succession of

poetical excitements interspersed, _inevitably_, with corresponding

depressions--the whole being deprived, through the extremeness of its

length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity of

effect.

It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards

length, to all works of literary art--the limit of a single sitting--and

that, although in certain classes of prose composition, such as

_Robinson Crusoe_ (demanding no unity), this limit may be advantageously

overpassed, it can never properly be overpassed in a poem. Within this

limit, the extent of a poem may be made to bear mathematical relation to

its merit--in other words, to the excitement or elevation--again, in

other words, to the degree of the true poetical effect which it is

capable of inducing; for it is clear that the brevity must be in direct

ratio of the intensity of the intended effect--this, with one

proviso--that a certain degree of duration is absolutely requisite for

the production of any effect at all.

Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of

excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while not below the

critical taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper _length_

for my intended poem--a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in

fact, a hundred and eight.

My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be

conveyed: and here I may as well observe that, throughout the

construction, I kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work

_universally_ appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my

immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have

repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the

slightest need of demonstration--the point, I mean, that Beauty is the

sole legitimate province of the poem. A few words, however, in

elucidation of my real meaning, which some of my friends have evinced a

disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at once the most

intense, the most elevating, and the most pure, is, I believe, found in

the contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty,

they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect--they

refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of _soul_

--_not_ of intellect, or of heart--upon which I have commented, and

which is experienced in consequence of contemplating "the beautiful."

Now I designate Beauty as the province of the poem, merely because it is

an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring from direct

causes--that objects should be attained through means best adapted for

their attainment--no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the

peculiar elevation alluded to is _most readily_ attained in the poem.

Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the

object Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable

to a certain extent in poetry, far more readily attainable in prose.

Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion a _homeliness_ (the

truly passionate will comprehend me) which are absolutely antagonistic

to that Beauty which, I maintain, is the excitement, or pleasurable

elevation, of the soul. It by no means follows from anything here said

that passion, or even truth, may not be introduced, and even profitably

introduced, into a poem--for they may serve in elucidation, or aid the

general effect, as do discords in music, by contrast--but the true

artist will always contrive, first, to tone them into proper

subservience to the predominant aim, and secondly, to enveil them, as

far as possible, in that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the essence

of the poem.

Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the

_tone_ of its highest manifestation--and all experience has shown that

this tone is one of _sadness_. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme

development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy

is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.

The length, the province, and the tone being thus determined, I betook

myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic

piquancy which might serve me as a key-note in the construction of the

poem--some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. In carefully

thinking over all the usual artistic effects--or more properly _points_,

in the theatrical sense--I did not fail to perceive immediately that no

one had been so universally employed as that of the _refrain_. The

universality of its employment sufficed to assure me of its intrinsic

value, and spared me the necessity of submitting it to analysis. I

considered it, however, with regard to its susceptibility of

improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly

used, the _refrain_, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but

depends for its impression upon the force of monotone--both in sound and

thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of identity--of

repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten the effect, by

adhering in general to the monotone of sound, while I continually varied

that of thought: that is to say, I determined to produce continuously

novel effects, by the variation _of the application_ of the

_refrain_--the _refrain_ itself remaining, for the most part, unvaried.

These points being settled, I next bethought me of the _nature_ of my

_refrain_. Since its application was to be repeatedly varied, it was

clear that the _refrain_ itself 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 variation. This led me at once to

a single word as the best _refrain_.

The question now arose as to the _character_ of the word. Having made up

my mind to a _refrain_, the division of the poem into stanzas was of

course a corollary, the _refrain_ forming the close to each stanza. That

such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of

protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt, and these considerations

inevitably led me to the long _o_ as the most sonorous vowel in

connection with _r_ as the most producible consonant.

The sound of the _refrain_ being thus determined, it became necessary to

select a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in the fullest

possible keeping with that melancholy which I had predetermined as the

tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely

impossible to overlook the word "Nevermore." In fact, it was the very

first which presented itself.

The next _desideratum_ was a pretext for the continuous use of the one

word "nevermore." In observing the difficulty which I at once found in

inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous repetition,

I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the

pre-assumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously

spoken by a _human_ being--I did not fail to perceive, in short, that

the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony with the

exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here,

then, immediately arose the idea of a _non_-reasoning creature capable

of speech; and very naturally, a parrot, in the first instance,

suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven as equally

capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended

_tone_.