even in the midst of his sorrows, he had the instincts and the constant manners of a gentleman. He was proud but genial, handsome but grave, courtly and courteous, eloquent and kindly.
In a word, there is a most beautiful and attractive side to Poe's life. I love to think that on his finer side, he was an embodiment of much of the genius of the South. He had the steadfast Southern devotion to ideals. He had no sordid love of money. He was never unfaithful to honor. He was always in pursuit of some noble quest. His whole ambition was literary achievement, and he never wavered, in spite of suffering, loss and defeat.
His poems show that he had the instinctive Southern chivalry for women. They are full of the mystery of beauty, of the idealization of women—of the eternal worship and longings of love. His poems show the stately and majestic sadness which, after all, is something of the background of our Southern life and nature—the feeling of an exquisite beauty too delicate for earth, the sense of present happiness that must presently end, an outward gayety that hides a secret sorrow—the persistent intimation of mystery, the sense of evanescence, the tender love for the past and of the glory that has vanished.
It is true there is no definite geography, only vague and mystical locations, in Poe's poems, yet there is certainly enough of local color and of pervasive atmosphere to identify his poems absolutely with the South. And I am quite sure that his music in verse, his pathetic sweetness of speech, his love of soft refrains were largely inspired by the soft croonings of some African mammy in childhood's days, by the gracious caressing voices of
