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 sa