Text: Anonymous, [Review of The Works of the Late Edgar A. Poe], Albion, a Journal of Politics and Literature (New York. NY), vol. 9, no. 3, January 19, 1850, p. 33. top of col. 1

[page 33:]

Notices of New Works.

THE WORKS OF THE LATE EDGAR A. POE. New York. 1850. J S. Redfield. — There is a melancholy satisfaction in handling and reading these two neat duodecimo volumes, which contain all that remains to the public of a man of genius, hurried prematurely to his grave. It is melancholy to think that he can interest, charm, or even startle us with no more novelties; it is a satisfaction that at least he has left so much behind him. In this collected form we would fain hope that a liberal patronage will be bestowed upon his works — for the reason that they are full of originality and merit, and present therefore a strong clim [[claim]] upon all lovers of literary excellence; and further, because they are published for the benefit of one of his few surviving relatives, the mother of his deceased wife, and his own guardian angel through scenes of physical suffering and mental anguish, from which one can scarcely regret that he is freed. For this mention of the lady in question, Mrs. Clemm, we have the authority of Mr. N. P. Willis, who in the Home Journal, immediately after Mr. Poe's death, made a most touching appeal to the public on her behalf, an appeal to which we are glad to hear that some response was made. Prefixed to the book before us are critical and biographical notices of Mr. Poe and his writings, from the pens Of Mr. Lowell, Mr. Willis, and Mr. Griswold, who have deservedly Awarded him a high rank amongst the distinguished authors of his Country. It is probable, indeed, that Mr. Poe's highly imaginative qualifies arc more readily appreciated by cultivated minds, than by those of the great mass of readers. In his writings he was apt to be inconveniently subtle in his logic, and to pass into that region of the mystical and supernatural whither the indolent and short-sighted could not fol- [[follow]]. We wish he had poured out more of his soul in verse, for it was eminently cast in a poetical mould.