ho seemed to be without any nobility in his own nature, in his
writings appeared to be moved only by the finest and highest impulses.
Poe exhibits scarcely any virtue in either his life or his writings.
Probably there is not another instance in the literature of our language
in which so much has been accomplished without a recognition or a
manifestation of conscience. Seated behind the intelligence, and
directing it, according to its capacities, Conscience is the parent of
whatever is absolutely and unquestionably beautiful in art as well as in
conduct. It touches the creations of the mind and they have life; without
it they have never, in the range of its just action, the truth and
naturalness which are approved by universal taste or in enduring
reputation. In Poe's works there is constantly displayed the most
touching melancholy, the most extreme and terrible despair, but never
reverence or remorse.

His genius was peculiar, and not, as he himself thought, various. He
remarks in one of his letters:

"There is one particular in which I have had wrong done me, and it may
not be indecorous in me to call your attention to it. The last selection
of my tales was made from about seventy by one of our great little
cliquists and claquers, Wiley Putnam's reader, Duyckinck. He has what he
thinks a taste for ratiocination, and has accordingly made up the book
mostly of analytic stories. But this is not _representing_ my mind in its
various phases--it is not giving me fair play. In writing these tales one
by one, at long intervals. I have kept the book unity always in
mind--that is, each has been composed with reference to its effect as
part of a _whole_. In this view, one of my chief aims has been the widest
diversity of subject, thought, and especially _tone_ and manner of
handling. Were _all_ my tales now before me in a large volume, and as the
composition of another, the merit which would principally arrest my
attention would be their wide _diversity and variety_. You will be
surprised to hear me say that, (omitting one or two of my first efforts,)
I do not consider any one of my stories _better_ than another. There is a
vast variety of kinds, and, in degree of value, these kinds vary-but
each tale is equally good of _its kind_. The loftiest kind is that of the
highest imagination--and for this reason only 'Ligeia' may be called my
best tale."

But it seems to me that this selection of his tales was altogether
judicious. Ha