The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 1

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 152

perusal of
my notes, "that this is a far more intricate case than that of the
Rue Morgue; from which it differs in one important respect. This is
an ordinary, although an atrocious instance of crime. There is nothing
peculiarly outré about it. You will observe that, for this reason, the
mystery has been considered easy, when, for this reason, it should have
been considered difficult, of solution. Thus; at first, it was thought
unnecessary to offer a reward. The myrmidons of G---- were able at once
to comprehend how and why such an atrocity might have been committed.
They could picture to their imaginations a mode--many modes--and a
motive--many motives; and because it was not impossible that either of
these numerous modes and motives could have been the actual one, they
have taken it for granted that one of them must. But the case with which
these variable fancies were entertained, and the very plausibility which
each assumed, should have been understood as indicative rather of the
difficulties than of the facilities which must attend elucidation. I
have before observed that it is by prominences above the plane of the
ordinary, that reason feels her way, if at all, in her search for the
true, and that the proper question in cases such as this, is not so
much 'what has occurred?' as 'what has occurred that has never occurred
before?' In the investigations at the house of Madame L'Espanaye,
(*14) the agents of G---- were discouraged and confounded by that
very unusualness which, to a properly regulated intellect, would have
afforded the surest omen of success; while this same intellect might
have been plunged in despair at the ordinary character of all that met
the eye in the case of the perfumery-girl, and yet told of nothing but
easy triumph to the functionaries of the Prefecture.

"In the case of Madame L'Espanaye and her daughter there was, even
at the beginning of our investigation, no doubt that murder had been
committed. The idea of suicide was excluded at once. Here, too, we are
freed, at the commencement, from all supposition of self-murder. The
body found at the Barrière du Roule, was found under such circumstances
as to leave us no room for embarrassment upon this important point. But
it has been suggested that the corpse discovered, is not that of the
Marie Rogêt for the conviction of whose assassin, or assassins, the
reward is offered, and respecting whom, solely, our agreement has been
arranged with the Prefect. We both know this gentleman well. It will not
do to trust him too far. If, dating our

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Text Comparison with The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 5

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' The fact is, he required something in the way of folly--if only to counterbalance the heavy wisdom of the seven wise men who were his ministers--not to mention himself.
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On one side of the volume was painted a bottle; on the reverse a pate.
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With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee, I can not write-I can not speak or think-- Alas, I can not feel; for 'tis not feeling, This standing motionless upon the golden Threshold of the wide-open gate.
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Lo! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city lying alone Far down within the dim West, Wherethe good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest.
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confidence--his vows--my ruin--think--think Of my unspeakable misery!--begone! Yet stay! yet stay!--what was it thou saidst of prayer And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith And vows before the throne? Monk.
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So late from Heaven--that dew--it fell (Mid dreams of an unholy night) Upon me--with the touch of Hell, While the red flashing of the light From clouds that hung, like banners, o'er, Appeared to my half-closing eye The pageantry of monarchy, And the deep trumpet-thunder's roar Came hurriedly upon me, telling Of human battle, where my voice, My own voice, silly child!--was swelling (O! how my spirit would rejoice, And leap within me at the cry) The battle-cry of Victory! The rain came down upon my head Unshelter'd--and the heavy wind Was giantlike--so thou, my mind!-- It was but man, I thought, who shed Laurels upon me: and the rush-- The torrent of the chilly air Gurgled within my ear the crush Of empires--with the captive's prayer-- The hum of suiters--and the tone Of flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.
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Far down within some shadowy lake, To me a painted paroquet Hath been--a most familiar bird-- Taught me my alphabet to say-- To lisp my very earliest word While in the wild wood I did lie, A child--with a most knowing eye.
Page 223
This section includes the pieces printed for first volume of 1827 (which was subsequently suppressed), such poems from the first and second published volumes of 1829 and 1831 as have not already been given in their revised versions, and a few others collected from various sources.
Page 229
Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper Mad, discordant melodies, And keen melodies like shadows Haunt the moaning willow trees, And the sycamores with laughter Mock me in the nightly breeze.