s of imagination have seldom resorted to the vague and
the unreal as sources of effect. They have not used dread and horror
alone, but only in combination with other qualities, as means of
subjugating the fancies of their readers. The loftiest muse has ever a
household and fireside charm about her. Mr. Poe's secret lies mainly in
the skill with which he has employed the strange fascination of mystery
and terror. In this his success is so great and striking as to deserve
the name of art, not artifice. We cannot call his materials the noblest
or purest, but we must concede to him the highest merit of construction.

As a critic, Mr. Poe was aesthetically deficient. Unerring in his
analysis of dictions, metres, and plots, he seemed wanting in the
faculty of perceiving the profounder ethics of art. His criticisms are,
however, distinguished for scientific precision and coherence of logic.
They have the exactness, and at the same time, the coldness of
mathematical demonstrations. Yet they stand in strikingly refreshing
contrast with the vague generalisms and sharp personalities of the day.
If deficient in warmth, they are also without the heat of partizanship.
They are especially valuable as illustrating the great truth, too
generally overlooked, that analytic power is a subordinate quality of
the critic.

On the whole, it may be considered certain that Mr. Poe has attained an
individual eminence in our literature, which he will keep. He has given
proof of power and originality. He has done that which could only be
done once with success or safety, and the imitation or repetition of
which would produce weariness.

THACKERAY

ROUNDABOUT PAPERS

The shock which was felt in this country at the sudden death of
Thackeray was a new proof, if any were wanting, that London is still our
social and literary capital. Not even the loss of Irving called forth so
universal and strong an expression of sorrow. And yet it had been the
fashion to call Thackeray a cynic. We must take leave to doubt whether
Diogenes himself, much less any of his disciples, would have been so
tenderly regretted. We think there was something more in all this than
mere sentiment at the startling extinction of a great genius. There was
a universal feeling that we had lost something even rarer and better,--a
true man.

Thackeray was not a cynic, for the simple reason that he was a humorist,
and could not have been one if he would. Your true cynic is a