far as there is true inspiration to be gained from the contemplation of a life so steadily devoted, amid drawbacks and vicissitudes, to the unflinching pursuit of clearly recognized artistic ideals. But, granted that on the side of moral conduct Poe's life is sadly lacking in inspiration, are we such children that we cannot face the unpleasant, the uncanny side of life? Can we afford to confine our sympathies to orthodox and exemplary subjects and occasions? Have we so little motive power in ourselves that we must ever be seeking inspiration from without—especially inspiration of the smug, successful, well-to-do variety? Let us have the exemplary and the inspiring by all means, but let us remember that man does not live by approbation and aspiration alone. On that sort of emotional diet he might soon become cowardly and selfish. Man lives by interest and curiosity, or he grows dull and commonplace; he lives by alert comprehension, or he soon falls a victim to the malevolent forces of life; and, if he does not often, in the words of Gray,
Ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears,
he speedily becomes an arid and unlovely creature. I repeat that we all need to be brought in contact with the interesting, the pathetic, the warningly instructive, and that I know of no better way to secure this desirable contact than by studying with intelligent sympathy the life of Poe.
But is it necessary to yield to the unfavorable biographers of Poe all the points they make? "Of course not," replies the partisan biographer, who immediately proceeds to yield as little as he can. This is an entirely
