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Sit down beside me, Isabel,
Here, dearest, where the moonbeam fell
Just now so fairy-like and well.
Now thou art dress’d for paradise!
I am star-stricken with thine eyes!
My soul is lolling on thy sighs!
Thy hair is lifted by the moon
Like flowers by the low breath of June!
Sit down, sit down — how came we here?
Or is it all but a dream, my dear?
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Twice-Told Tales. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Two Volumes. Boston: James Munroe and Co:

We said a few hurried words about Mr. Hawthorne in our last number, with the design of speaking more fully in the present. We are still, however, pressed for room, and must necessarily discuss his volumes more briefly and more at random than their high merits deserve.

The book professes to be a collection of tales, yet is, in two respects, misnamed. These pieces are now in their third ret publication, and, of course, are thrice-told. Moreover, they are by no means all tales, either in the ordinary or in the legitimate understanding of the term. Many of them are pure essays, for example, „Sights from a Steeple,“ „Sunday; Home,“ „Little Annie’s Ramble,“ „A Rill from the Town. Pump,“ „The Toll-Gatherer’s Day,“ „The Haunted Mind,“ „The Sister Years,“ „Snow-Flakes,“ „Night Sketches,“ and „Foot-Prints on the Sea-Shore.“ We mention these matters chiefly on account of their discrepancy with that marked precision and finish by which the body of the work is distinguished.
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Barnaby Rudge. By „Boz. Author of „Nicholas Nickleby, „Oliver Twist, &c. With Illustrations by G. Cattermole and H. K. Browne. Nos. 1, 2 and 3. Philadelphia: Lea & Blanchard.

We presume our readers all know that „Barnaby Rudge,“ now „in course of publication“ periodically, is a story supposed to be narrated by one of the members of Master Humphrey’s society; and is in fact a continuation of the „Clock,“ although complete within itself. From the concluding words of „The Curiosity Shop“ — or rather of the volume which contained that tale — we gather that the present narrative will be occupied with matters tending to develope the spirit, or, in the language of Mr. Dickens himself, the „heart“ of the mighty London, toward the conclusion of the eighteenth century. This thesis affords the most ample scope for the great powers of the writer. His opening chapters assure us that he has at length discovered the secret of his true strength, and that „Barnaby Rudge“ will appeal principally to the imagination. Of this faculty we have many striking instances in the few numbers already issued. We see it where the belfry man in the lonely church at midnight, about to toll the „passing-bell,“ is struck with horror at hearing the solitary note of another, and awaits, aghast, a repetition of the sound. We recognise it more fully where this single note is discovered, in the morning, to have been that of an alarm pulled by the hand of one in the death-struggle with a murderer: — also in the expression of countenance which is so strikingly attributed to Mrs. Rudge — „the capacity for expressing terror“something only dimly seen, but never absent for a moment“the shadow of some look to which an instant of intense and most unutterable horror only could have given rise.“ This is a conception admirably adapted to whet curiosity in respect to the character of that event which is hinted at as forming the ground-work of the novel; and so far is well suited to the purposes of a periodical story. But this observation should not fail to be made — that the anticipation must surpass the reality; that no matter how terrific be the circumstances which, in the dénouement, shall appear to have occasioned the expression of countenance worn habitually by Mrs. Rudge, still they will not be able to satisfy the mind of the reader. He will surely be disappointed. The skilful intimation of horror held out by the artist produces an effect which will deprive his conclusion, of all. These intimations — these dark hints of some uncertain evil — are often rhetorically praised as effective — but are only justly so praised where there is no dénouement whatever — where the reader’s imagination is left to clear up the mystery for itself — and this, we suppose, is not the design of Mr. Dickens.
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Art is long and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
Longfellow.

TRUE! — nervous — very, very dreadfully nervous I had been, and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses — not destroyed — not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Harken! and observe how healthily — how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
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Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir être seul.
La Bruyère.

It was well said of a certain German book that „er lasst sich nicht lesen“ — it does not permit itself to be read. There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them piteously in the eyes — die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed. Now and then, alas, the conscience of man takes up a burthen so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only into the grave. And thus the essence of all crime is undivulged.
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Zweites Intermezzo: Der Spielfilm „Poe – Last Days of The Raven“, der sich mit dem Leben von Edgar Allan Poe beschäftigt, kann heute (und nur heute!) kostenlos im Internet angesehen werden.
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Kurzes Intermezzo: Da feiert man den ganzen Tag den 200. Geburtstag von Edgar Allan Poe und vergisst darüber den Geburtstag von Patrica Highsmith. Gut, dass es die → Alligatorpapiere gibt, die einen darauf dezent hinweisen. Und natürlich haben sie dort auch eine sehr schöne, sehr ausführliche Liste mit all den Artikeln, die sich mit Edgar Allan Poe heute beschäftigen.
So, und nun übernimmt das Geburtstagskind hier wieder…

For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad indeed would I be to expect it, in a case where my very senses reject their own evidence. Yet, mad am I not — and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow I die, and to-day I would unburthen my soul. My immediate purpose is to place before the world, plainly, succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere household events. In their consequences, these events have terrified — have tortured — have destroyed me. Yet I will not attempt to expound them. To me, they have presented little but Horror — to many they will seem less terrible than barroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm to the common-place — some intellect more calm, more logical, and far less excitable than my own, which will perceive, in the circumstances I detail with awe, nothing more than an ordinary succession of very natural causes and effects.
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And the will therein lieth, which dieth not. Who knoweth the mysteries of the will, with its vigor? For God is but a great will pervading all things by nature of its intentness. Man doth not yield himself to the angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will.
JOSEPH GLANVILL.

I cannot, for my soul, remember how, when, or even precisely where, I first became acquainted with the Lady Ligeia. Long years have since elapsed, and my memory is feeble through much suffering. Or, perhaps, I cannot now bring these points to mind, because, in truth, the character of my beloved, her rare learning, her singular yet placid cast of beauty, and the thrilling and enthralling eloquence of her low, musical language, made their way into my heart by paces so steadily and stealthily progressive, that they have been unnoticed and unknown. Yet I believe that I met her most frequently in some large, old, decaying city near the Rhine. Of her family — I have surely heard her speak — that they are of a remotely ancient date cannot be doubted. Ligeia! Buried in studies of a nature more than all else adapted to [page 172:] deaden impressions of the outward world, it is by that sweet word alone — by Ligeia — that I bring before mine eyes in fancy the image of her who is no more. And now, while I write, a recollection flashes upon me that I have never known the paternal name of her who was my friend and my betrothed, and who became the partner of my studies, and eventually the wife of my bosom. Was it a playful charge on the part of my Ligeia? or was it a test of my strength of affection that I should institute no inquiries upon this point? or was it rather a caprice of my own — a wildly romantic offering on the shrine of the most passionate devotion? I but indistinctly recall the fact itself — what wonder that I have utterly forgotten the circumstances which originated or attended it? And, indeed, if ever that spirit which is entitled Romance — if ever she, the wan, and the misty-winged Ashtophet of idolatrous Egypt, presided, as they tell, over marriages ill-omened, then most surely she presided over mine.
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By Mrs. M. L. Shew.
[[and Edgar A. Poe]]

The bells! — ah, the bells!
The little silver bells!
How fairy-like a melody there floats
From their throats. —
From their merry little throats —
From the silver, tinkling throats
Of the bells, bells, bells —
Of the bells!

The bells! — ah, the bells!
The heavy iron bells!
How horrible a monody there floats
From their throats —
From their deep-toned throats —
From their melancholy throats!
How I shudder at the notes
Of the bells, bells, bells —
Of the bells!

Quelle: The Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore