might the better vary and graduate, as
regards seriousness and importance, the
preceding queries of the lover; and sec-
ondly, that I might definitely settle the
rhythm, the metre, and the length and
general arrangement of the stanza,-
as well as graduate the stanzas which
were to precede, so that none of them
might surpass this in rhythmical ef-
fect. Had I been able, in the subse- 10
quent composition, to construct more
vigorous stanzas, I should, without
scruple, have purposely enfeebled
them, so as not to interfere with the
climacteric effect.

And here I may as well say a few
words of the versification. My first
object (as usual) was originality. The
extent to which this has been neglected,
in versification, is one of the most un- 20
accountable things in the world. Ad-
mitting that there is little possibility
of variety in mere rhythm, it is still
clear that the possible varieties of
metre and stanza are absolutely infi-
nite-and yet, for centuries, no man, in
verse, has ever done, or ever seemed to
think of doing, an original thing. The
fact is, that originality (unless in
minds of very unusual force) is by
no means a matter, as some suppose,
of impulse or intuition. In general,
to be found, it must be elaborately
sought, and although a positive merit
of the highest class, demands in its
attainment less of invention than nega-
tion.

ually, has been employed before; and what originality The Raven has, is in their combination into stanza; nothing even remotely approaching this combination has ever been attempted. The effect of this originality of combination is aided by other unusual, and some altogether novel effects, arising from an extension of the application of the principles of rhyme and alliteration.

The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing together the lover and the Raven-and the first branch of this consideration was the locale. For this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a forest, or the fields -but it has always appeared to me that a close circumscription of space is absolutely necessary to the effect of insulated incident:-it has the force of a frame to a picture. It has an indisputable moral power in keeping concentrated the attention, and, of course, must not be confounded with mere unity of place.

I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber-in a chamber rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it. The room is rep30 resented as richly furnished-this in mere pursuance of the ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the sole true poetical thesis.

Of course, I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre of The Raven. The former is trochaic-the 40 latter is octameter acatalectic, alternating with heptameter catalectic repeated in the refrain of the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrameter catalectic. Less pedantically-the feet employed throughout (trochees) consist of a long syllable followed by a short: the first line of the stanza consists of eight of these feet-the second of seven and a half (in effect two- 50 thirds)—the third of eight-the fourth of seven and a half-the fifth the same the sixth three and a half. Now, each of these lines, taken individ

The locale being thus determined, I had now to introduce the bird-and the thought of introducing him through the window, was inevitable. The idea of making the lover suppose, in the first instance, that the flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a "tapping" at the door, originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging, the reader's curiosity, and in a desire to admit the incidental effect arising from the lover's throwing open the door, finding all dark, and thence adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress that knocked.

I made the night tempestuous, first, to account for the Raven's seeking admission, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the (physical) serenity within the chamber.

I made the bird alight on the bust

of Pallas, also for the effect of contrast between the marble and the plumage-it being understood that the bust was absolutely suggested by the bird-the bust of Pallas being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the scholarship of the lover, and secondly, for the sonorousness of the word, Pallas, itself.

profound seriousness-this tone commencing in the stanza directly following the one last quoted, with the line,

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only, etc.

From this epoch the lover no longer jests no longer sees any thing even of

About the middle of the poem, also, 10 the fantastic in the Raven's demeanor.

I have availed myself of the force of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression. For example, an air of the fantastic-approaching as nearly to the ludicrous as was admissible is given to the Raven's entrance. He comes in "with many a flirt and flutter."

He speaks of him as a "grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore," and feels the "fiery eyes" burning into his "bosom's core." This revolution of thought, or fancy, on the lover's part, is intended to induce a similar one on the part of the reader -to bring the mind into a proper frame for the dénouement-which is

Not the least obeisance made he-not 20 now brought about as rapidly and as

a moment stopped or stayed he, But with mien of lord or lady, perched

above my chamber door.

In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously carried out:

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad

fancy into smiling

By the grave and stern decorum of

the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven

thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wan

dering from the nightly shoreTell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore?"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl

to hear discourse so plainly Though its answer little meaning-little relevancy bore;

30

directly as possible.

With the dénouement proper-with the Raven's reply, "Nevermore," to the lover's final demand if he shall meet his mistress in another worldthe poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple narrative, may be said to have its completion. So far, every thing is within the limits of the accountableof the real. A raven, having learned by rote the single word "Nevermore," and having escaped from the custody of its owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek admission at a window from which a light still gleams-the chamber-window of a student, occupied half in poring over a volume, half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The 40 casement being thrown open at the fluttering of the bird's wings, the bird itself perches on the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the student, who, amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor's demeanor, demands of it, in jest and without looking for a reply, its name. The raven addressed, answers with its customary word, "Nevermore"-a word

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber doorBird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore." 50 which finds immediate echo in the

The effect of the dénouement being thus provided for, I immediately drop the fantastic for a tone of the most

melancholy heart of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts suggested by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl's repetition

of "Nevermore.” The student now
guesses the state of the case, but is im-
pelled, as I have before explained, by
the human thirst for self-torture, and
in part by superstition, to propound
such queries to the bird as will bring
him, the lover, the most of the luxury
of sorrow, through the anticipated an-
swer "Nevermore." With the indul-
gence, to the extreme, of this self-tor-10
ture, the narration, in what I have
termed its first or obvious phase, has a
natural termination, and so far there
has been no overstepping of the limits
of the real.

But in subjects so handled, however
skilfully, or with however vivid an ar-
ray of incident, there is always a cer-
tain hardness or nakedness, which re-
pels the artistical eye. Two things are 20
invariably required-first, some amount
of complexity, or more properly, adap-
tation; and, secondly, some amount of
suggestiveness - some under-current,
however indefinite, of meaning. It is
this latter, in especial, which imparts
to a work of art so much of that rich-
ness (to borrow from colloquy a for-
cible term) which we are too fond of
confounding with the ideal. It is the 30
excess of the suggested meaning-it is
the rendering this the upper instead of
the under current of the theme-which
turns into prose (and that of the very
flattest kind) the so-called poetry of
the so-called transcendentalists.

Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the poemtheir suggestiveness being thus made to pervade all the narrative which has 40 preceded them. The undercurrent of meaning is rendered first apparent in the lines

"Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the Raven "Nevermore!"

It will be observed that the words, "from out my heart," involve the first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the answer, "Nevermore," dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been previously narrated.

50

The reader begins now to regard the Raven as emblematical-but it is not until the very last line of the very last stanza, that the intention of making him emblematical of Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance is permitted distinctly to be seen:

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,

On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above
my chamber door:

And his eyes have all the seeming of
a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming
throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow
that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted-nevermore.

From THE POETIC PRINCIPLE

To recapitulate, then:-I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words as The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the Intellect or with the Conscience, it has only collateral relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with Duty or with Truth.

A few words, however, in explanation. That pleasure which is at once the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurable elevation, or excitement, of the soul, which we recognize as the Poetic Sentiment, and which is so easily distinguished from Truth, which is the satisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of the Heart. I make

Beauty, therefore,-using the word as inclusive of the sublime,-I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as directly as possible from their causes-no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least most readily attainable in the poem. It by

no means follows, however, that the incitements of Passion, or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons of Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage; for they may subserve, incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the work; but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in proper

been most effervescent, the public owe it (and it is certainly an effect not to be regretted on either part) that the Author can show nothing for the thought and industry of that portion of his life, save the forty sketches, or thereabouts, included in these volumes. Much more, indeed, he wrote; and some very small part of it might yet

subjection to that Beauty which is 10 be rummaged out (but it would not be the atmosphere and the real essence of the poem.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

(1804-1864)

PREFACE TO TWICE-TOLD
TALES

The Author of Twice-Told Tales has a claim to one distinction, which, as none of his literary brethren will care about disputing it with him, he need not be afraid to mention. He was, for a good many years, the obscurest man of letters in America.

worth the trouble) among the dingy pages of fifteen-or-twenty-year-old periodicals, or within the shabby morocco covers of faded souvenirs. The remainder of the works alluded to had a very brief existence, but, on the score of brilliancy, enjoyed a fate vastly superior to that of their brotherhood, which succeeded in get20 ting through the press. In a word, the Author burned them without mercy or remorse, and, moreover, without any subsequent regret, and had more than one occasion to marvel that such very dull stuff, as he knew his condemned manuscripts to be, should yet have possessed inflammability enough to set the chimney on fire!

30

After a long while the first collected volume of the Tales was published. By this time, if the Author had ever been greatly tormented by literary ambition (which he does not remember or believe to have been the case), it must have perished, beyond resuscitation, in the dearth of nutriment. This was fortunate; for the success of the volume was not such as would have gratified a craving desire for notoriety. A moderate edition was "got rid of" (to use the publisher's very significant phrase) within a reasonable time, but apparently without rendering the writer or his productions much more generally known than before. The great bulk of the reading public probably ignored the book altogether. A few persons read it, and liked it better than it deserved. At an interval

These stories were published in magazines and annuals, extending over a period of ten or twelve years, and comprising the whole of the writer's young manhood, without making (so far as he has ever been aware) the slightest impression on the public. One or two among them, the "Rill from the Town Pump," in perhaps a greater degree than any other, had a pretty wide newspaper circulation; as for the rest, he had no grounds for supposing that, on their first appearance, they 40 met with the good or evil fortune to be read by anybody. Throughout the time-above specified, he had no incitement to literary effort in a reasonable prospect of reputation or profit, nothing but the pleasure itself of composition-an enjoyment not at all amiss in its way, and perhaps essential to the merit of the work in hand, but which, in the long run, will hardly keep the 50 of three or four years, the second volchill out of a writer's heart, or the numbness out of his fingers. To this total lack of sympathy, at the age when his mind would naturally have

ume was published, and encountered much the same sort of kindly, but calm, and very limited reception. The circulation of the two volumes was chiefly

confined to New England; nor was it until long after this period, if it even yet be the case, that the Author could regard himself as addressing the American public, or indeed, any public at all. He was merely writing to his known or unknown friends.

As he glances over these long-forgotten pages, and considers his way of life while composing them, the Author can very clearly discern why all this was so. After so many sober years, he would have reason to be ashamed if he could not criticise his own work as fairly as another man's; and, though it is little his business, and perhaps still less his interest, he can hardly resist a temptation to achieve something of the sort. If writers were allowed to do so, and would perform the task with perfect sincerity and unreserve, their opinions of their own productions would often be more valuable and instructive than the works themselves.

With the foregoing characteristics, proper to the production of a person in retirement (which happened to be the Author's category at the time), the book is devoid of others that we should quite as naturally look for. The sketches are not, it is hardly necessary to say, profound; but it is rather more remarkable that they so seldom, if 10 ever, show any design on the writer's part to make them so. They have none of the abstruseness of idea, or obscurity of expression, which mark the written communications of a solitary mind. with itself. They never need translation. It is, in fact, the style of a man of society. Every sentence, so far as it embodies thought or sensibility, may be understood and felt by anybody 20 who will give himself the trouble to read it, and will take up the book in a proper mood.

At all events, there can be no harm in the Author's remarking that he rather wonders how the Twice-Told Tales should have gained what vogue they did than that it was so little and so gradual. They have the pale tint 30 of flowers that blossomed in too retired a shade, the coolness of a meditative habit, which diffuses itself through the feeling and observation of every sketch. Instead of passion there is sentiment; and, even in what purport to be pictures of actual life, we have allegory, not always so warmly dressed in its habiliments of flesh and blood as to be taken into the reader's mind 40 without a shiver. Whether from lack of power, or an unconquerable reserve, the Author's touches have often an effect of tameness; the merriest man can hardly contrive to laugh at his broadest humor; the tenderest woman, one would suppose, will hardly shed warm tears at his deepest pathos. The book, if you would see anything in it, requires to be read in the clear, brown, twilight atmosphere in which it was written; if opened in the sunshine, it is apt to look exceedingly like a volume of blank pages.

This statement of apparently opposite peculiarities leads us to a perception of what the sketches truly are. They are not the talk, of a secluded man with his own mind and heart (had it been so, they could hardly have failed to be more deeply and permanently valuable), but his attempts, and very imperfectly successful ones, to open an intercourse with the world.

The Author would regret to be understood as speaking sourly or querulously of the slight mark made by his earlier literary efforts on the Public at large. It is so far the contrary, that he has been moved to write this Preface chiefly as affording him an opportunity to express how much enjoyment he has owed to these volumes, both before and since their publication. They are the memorials of very tranquil and not unhappy years. They failed, it is true,-nor could it have been otherwise,-in winning an extensive popularity. Occasionally, however, when he deemed them entirely forgotten, a paragraph or an article, 50 from a native or foreign critic, would gratify his instincts of authorship with unexpected praise,-too generous praise, indeed, and too little alloyed with censure, which, therefore, he learned the